My Boss Summoned Me to the Office Bathroom

Sitting at my desk, with an open sheet I wasn’t reading and the cursor blinking on the screen, I wasn’t waiting for a meeting, a report, or the end of the workday. I was waiting for the phone’s short buzz. I was waiting for your name. It was always like that.

At the office, everyone pretended to work normally, but I had spent more than half the morning with my pussy wet and my legs tense beneath my skirt. Not out of love. Not exactly. What I had with you was something dirtier, sadder, and, for that very reason, more addictive.

I knew perfectly well what I was to you: an available hole, an obedient mouth, a woman you could use whenever you felt like it. You never promised me anything else. Never dinner, never a caress outside that twisted game, never a sweet word that didn’t sound borrowed or false.

And yet there I was, waiting for a message from you like an idiot.

It had only taken you looking at me twice in that hallway, the first week I started working there, for me to realize how easy it was going to be to break me. Not because you were kind, but because you were the opposite. Your coldness got under my skin. I became the kind of woman who humiliated herself and then trembled with desire to do it again.

I looked at the wall clock. Twenty minutes remained before the midday break. Beside me, one coworker cleared her throat while filing some papers, and another let out a low laugh that died the moment I turned my head. I already knew those looks. I didn’t need to hear the whole comments to understand them.

They knew things. Maybe not everything, but enough.

You could see it in the way they looked over my legs, in how they lowered their voices when I passed by, in the way the word “slut” seemed to float—never quite spoken and yet perfectly clear—in the department’s heavy air. At first my face burned. Then I started getting turned on.

Because yes, it got me hot to think they imagined what you did to me in that bathroom at the other end of the building. That one of them might go home and masturbate thinking about my mouth full of cock, my knees against the floor, my face wet with spit.

The phone finally vibrated.

I felt a lash of sensation between my legs even before looking at the screen. There was your message, dry as always.

—Fifteen minutes. You know where.

There was no greeting. No please. None was needed.

I swallowed. My pulse sped up so much that I had to set my phone down on the desk for a second so I wouldn’t look like a stupid, trembling mess. Then I stood, said I was going to the bathroom, and crossed the office with my head held high, though inside I already felt as if I were on my knees.

I noticed them watching me. One of the analysts barely raised his eyebrows when he saw me leave. Another woman avoided my gaze with a crooked half-smile. I didn’t care. Or worse: I liked it.

The women’s bathroom in the old wing was almost always empty at that hour. That was why you had chosen it the first time, and why it became our place. A ridiculous, dirty, humiliating place. Perfect for you. Perfect for the kind of thing you had turned me into.

I went in, checked that no one was there, and made my way to the last stall. I locked the door and sat on the toilet lid, breathing slowly. Waiting was a small, delicious torture. I imagined the sound of your belt, the hardness between your legs, the serious expression with which you would look at me as if I were just another task in your day.

You shouldn’t have been long, but I couldn’t help myself.

I hiked my skirt up to my waist and slipped my hand beneath my stockings. The fabric of my underwear was stuck to my pussy. Soaked. I slipped two fingers beneath the elastic and went straight to my clitoris, rubbing it in short, quick circles, with the desperation of someone who knew she would have to stop before coming.

I let the air out through my mouth. I spread my legs wider. With my other hand I gripped the edge of the seat while sinking two fingers into my hot, slippery vagina. They went in easily, coated in my own wetness. I moved them once, twice, three times, feeling my stomach clench.

Just a little more.

But no. I stopped. You hated finding me touching myself. You wanted to claim every last shudder of pleasure, every last drop. I withdrew my fingers slowly and brought them to my mouth. They tasted salty, thick, intimate. I sucked them one by one while my cheeks burned with arousal.

Then I heard the bathroom door.

Firm footsteps. Unhurried. I counted each one while my heart pounded in my throat. I recognized you before I saw you. The way you walked, the hard silence with which you occupied any space, the confidence of someone who never feared being caught.

You stopped in front of the stall. Two sharp knocks with your knuckles.

—Open up.

I obeyed at once. You entered and shut the door behind you. The stall became even smaller with your body inside it. You wore your shirtsleeves rolled up and your tie knot was barely loosened. You smelled of coffee, old office sweat, and worn cologne. It turned me on so much it hurt.

You didn’t kiss me. You never started there. You only looked me over once, from top to bottom, and then said:

—On your knees.

I felt a mixture of shame and relief. That was what I knew how to do with you. I dropped to my knees in front of you and arranged myself as best I could on the floor, which smelled of bleach and damp. You watched me go down without moving a muscle in your face. Then you unbuckled your belt.

The sound of the metal ran through me.

You lowered your trousers and briefs just enough. Your cock emerged already hard, thick, heavy, pointing toward my face. I approached it first with my nose. I inhaled your intense smell of a sweaty man, not completely washed clean. You knew you gave yourself to me like that on purpose, so I would swallow the whole day from you, so I would lick even what other women would have rejected.

—Come on—you said. —I don’t have all morning.

I opened my mouth and kissed the tip. A couple of slow, almost reverent kisses before I stuck out my tongue and licked the entire head. It had that sour, salty taste that made me close my eyes for a second. Far from putting me off, it made me hotter. I ran my tongue underneath, over the frenulum, and felt you tense slightly.

That was the most you sometimes gave me: the faintest physical reaction. Not a caress. Not a “good.” Nothing.

I gripped your shaft with one hand and lowered my tongue to the base, slowly, laying it flat to feel every vein. Then I went back up and caught a transparent drop of precum that was already beading there with the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it while looking you in the face.

You remained serious. Master of yourself. Master of me.

I took you into my mouth all at once as far as I could. The head pushed my tongue down and your weight filled me completely. I pulled my head back a little to breathe, then began sucking you the way you liked best: lips tight, tongue wet, long, deep movements without tenderness.

Saliva immediately ran down my chin. My cheeks worked over your cock while one hand held the base and the other gripped your thigh to keep my balance. The sounds of my sucking filled the narrow stall, obscene, wet, inevitable.

—That’s it—you murmured at last. —Like the slut you are.

A violent shiver ran between my legs. My pussy throbbed. I squeezed my thighs together and kept sucking more hungrily, letting you go deeper and deeper. Every time your head struck the back of my throat, my eyes watered. I didn’t stop.

I pulled you out for a moment to run my tongue over your balls. I took them one at a time between my lips, sucking them slowly, tugging lightly at the skin before letting them go. Your hand fell onto my head and gripped my hair, firm, setting the pace even though you still hadn’t really begun to use force.

—Don’t linger.

You pulled me away a little and turned around. I already knew that silent command. I felt resistance and arousal knot together inside me. I spread your buttocks with my hands and brought my tongue to your ass. I licked it from bottom to top, slowly at first, then more insistently, pushing the tip into your anus, tasting the salt of your sweat and feeling humiliation rise into my face like a fever.

I hated it. And yet I kept doing it, soaked, submissive, sick with desire to please you even like this.

When you decided it was enough, you turned around again. You seized my jaw with two fingers.

—Open.

I obeyed. You spat into my mouth. The gesture was abrupt, degrading, and my pussy answered with such a sharp stab of pleasure that I had to clench my teeth after swallowing your saliva.

But you didn’t let me finish doing that. You shoved your cock into me again, hard and wet, and this time you didn’t let me control the rhythm. With your hands on either side of my head and your fingers buried in my hair, you began fucking my mouth with dry thrusts, each one deeper than the last.

The first blow made me cough. The second tore a gag from me. The third filled my throat.

—That’s it—you said in a low voice. —Take it.

I couldn’t answer. I could only grip your hips and let you use me. You went in and out forcefully, taking your cock to the limit of my throat, withdrawing just enough to bury it again. Saliva poured from me. Tears began to spill on their own from the effort and lack of air.

The sound in that bathroom was indecent: your restrained grunts, my gags, the wet slap of your pelvis against my chin, the thick slurping of my mouth taking you again and again. My nose was congested, my eyes burning, my jaw growing numb.

And still I was hornier than ever.

Between thrusts, I slipped one hand beneath my skirt and touched myself over my underwear. A quick, desperate rub. You noticed immediately. You pulled your cock from my mouth and yanked my hair so hard that you forced me to look at you.

—Who told you that you could come?

I shook my head as best I could, panting, saliva on my lips.

—No one.

—Then stay still.

You slapped my hand away. I was trembling. Not from fear. From hunger. From that disgusting need for you to keep using me until you emptied me, even if you gave me nothing.

You shoved your cock back into me and resumed the punishment more brutally. Now you weren’t only trying to come; you wanted to pierce my throat, make me swallow every gag, hear me choking on your flesh. You held my head still while you thrust. I felt your balls striking my chin, the sweat from your hips sticking to my fingers, the pressure of your head driving into the back of my mouth again and again.

I had to pull away for a second to breathe, but you wouldn’t let me. You pushed in again, and this time I vomited a little, barely more than a bitter mixture of coffee and bile that rose onto my tongue. You stopped then, not out of compassion but because that excited you too. You looked at me with a satisfied hardness that made me squeeze my legs together.

—Wipe yourself and keep going.

I wiped my mouth with my forearm. My eyes were red and my face soaked. I licked your cock again from base to tip, gathering even the acidic taste of that humiliating moment, and immediately resumed sucking you greedily. I sucked you as if my life depended on it, fast and deep, sealing my lips tightly with every upward stroke.

Your breathing began to change. You weren’t so cold anymore. Your chest rose faster. Tension showed in your abdomen. I knew how to read every signal from your body better than any word.

I slipped one hand between my legs again, this time inside my underwear. Not to seek a full orgasm, only to keep myself on the edge. My clitoris was swollen, hard, begging for more. I sank two fingers into my pussy and felt it swallow me with a wet smack. I kept sucking you while silently fucking myself with my fingers, my torso rocking to the rhythm of your cock.

You saw me. This time you didn’t stop me.

—If you come, I swear I’ll leave you lying here—you said.

I withdrew my hand at once, whimpering softly, frustrated and on the verge of spasming. That mixture of permission and threat left me trembling even more. I wanted to come with you in my mouth. I wanted to swallow you while my pussy clenched empty around nothing. I wanted what you weren’t going to give me.

You grabbed the nape of my neck and began pushing again, faster, harder. This time I understood the end was coming. Your thighs tensed. Your cock became even harder inside my mouth. I let you drive it to the back and forced myself to relax my throat. I wanted to take all of you. I wanted to be useful, even if it was only for this.

—Swallow it all—you ordered in a broken voice.

You came with a dry, animal violence. The first jet struck the back of my throat. The second pooled thickly over my tongue. Then the rest came, hot, salty, abundant, pulsing from your cock while you remained buried to the back of my mouth. I swallowed without pulling away, once, twice, again, feeling the semen descend my throat in dense waves.

I didn’t let you go. I kept sucking even after the first spasms, cleaning every pulse of your release, licking the sensitive tip, running my tongue over the urethra to gather the remnants. A little spilled from the corner of my mouth and ran down to my chin. I collected it with my fingers and brought it to my mouth.

Your breathing gradually calmed. Your cock began to soften between my lips. Even so, I continued sucking you gently, almost devotionally, until I left it clean. My jaw hurt. My legs trembled. My pussy was dripping so much that I could feel the wetness sliding along the insides of my thighs.

You adjusted your clothes without helping me to my feet.

I remained on my knees, my skirt raised and my underwear wet, breathing through my mouth. For a moment I thought you would simply leave, as you had other times. But before opening the door, you bent toward me. Not to kiss me on the lips. You never did that there. You only placed a brief, dry, almost absurd kiss on my forehead.

That crumb of tenderness hurt more than everything else.

—Behave yourself—you said.

And you left.

I remained alone in the stall, hearing the distant hum of the office again through the walls. I lowered my skirt slowly. I looked at my fingers, still stained with a little semen and my own wetness. I sucked them calmly, savoring the mixture.

Then I slipped my hand into my panties again. I was so aroused that I nearly became dizzy when I touched myself. My clitoris throbbed furiously. I began rubbing it with pent-up anger, remembering every thrust into my mouth, every insult, every command. I sank two fingers into my pussy and pumped them quickly, now sitting on the closed toilet lid, knees spread and breathing raggedly.

—Fuck...—I whispered, alone.

I came in less than a minute. A strong, clumsy, delayed orgasm that shook my belly and forced me to bite my wrist so I wouldn’t moan too loudly. I felt my pussy clench around my fingers again and again while I spilled hot into my underwear. It wasn’t the orgasm I wanted. I wanted yours over mine, your hand holding me, your voice ordering me to break apart. But it was all I was going to have.

When I finished, I stayed motionless for a while, panting, with a foolish tear running down my cheek. It wasn’t physical pain. Not exactly. It was something else. The humiliating awareness that, to you, it had been nothing more than a quick release in the middle of the workday, and that, even knowing it, I would keep waiting for the next time.

I cleaned myself as best I could. I fixed my makeup, though my red eyes gave me away. Before leaving, I checked my phone out of habit. There was nothing. No thank-you. No follow-up message. Nothing.

I returned to my desk with my legs still weak. A coworker glanced at me and then lowered his eyes to my swollen lips. I knew he had understood. I knew others would too. I felt the heat of shame rise again, mixed with a dirty, inexplicable satisfaction.

I sat down, crossed my legs, and opened the file I had left unfinished. Between my thighs I could still feel the slow pulse of my recent orgasm and, at the back of my throat, the memory of your release. I rested my fingertip against the dark screen of my phone.

I didn’t want a date. I wasn’t expecting affection. I didn’t even dream that you would stop treating me this way. The only thing I wanted, the only thing I always ended up wanting, was to feel that short buzz on the desk again.

For my phone to vibrate again.

For it to be you.