The Confession in the Office Bathroom

We crossed paths in front of reception, each of us heading in a different direction. He was coming from the elevator area, wearing that light-colored shirt he always left far too open at the collar, while I was walking toward the desk, checking an email on my phone. I didn’t even look up until his hand caught mine with a certainty that made me stop dead.

“You owe me something,” he said, quietly this time, as if he had finally learned not to fill the air with his noise.

I looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. I had spent months putting up with him in meetings, hallways, and the cafeteria, with his obvious jokes and that exaggerated laugh that always made me put on my headphones so I wouldn’t have to hear it. I found him unbearable. Or that’s what I kept telling myself whenever I caught myself watching him roll up his sleeves or seeing the way his mouth curved before he let out another stupid remark.

“I don’t owe you anything,” I replied curtly.

He didn’t let go of my hand. He only squeezed a little harder, not violently, but with a decisiveness that tightened my body. Around us, people were coming in and out of the building, the security guard was glancing at the monitors, and a coworker was walking past with a folder under her arm. Everything was far too ordinary for the dirty current that rose from my stomach to my throat.

“Yes, you do owe me something,” he repeated. “That kiss you’ve been promising me with your eyes for weeks.”

I hated him for putting it that way. I hated him because he was right.

I took two steps toward him, grabbed him by the shirt, and kissed him before I could change my mind. It wasn’t a polite or brief kiss. I bit his lower lip, slipped my tongue into his mouth, and dug my fingers into the nape of his neck with an anger that was almost relief. I felt him go still for a second, surprised, and then answer with a clumsy, urgent force, as if he had been holding himself back for far too long.

When we pulled apart, we were both breathing faster. He turned his head from side to side, alert, and I did the same. The danger was there, pressed against our skin, and that was precisely why turning back became impossible.

“Now,” I murmured.

There was no need to explain anything. We hurried to the restrooms at the end of the hallway and went into the first vacant stall we found. He closed the door, slid the bolt, and the instant I heard that click, I threw myself at him again.

The space was small, cold, and far too brightly lit. The smell of cheap soap and disinfectant immediately mingled with the heat of our bodies. I shoved him against the door and kissed him again, deeper, dirtier, squeezing his chest with my hands while he hiked my skirt up over my thighs with an urgency that was no longer funny at all.

“So you couldn’t stand me, huh?” he whispered against my neck.

“I still can’t stand you,” I told him, biting his jaw.

He laughed softly, but this time it didn’t bother me. I yanked off my sweater and dropped it on the paper-towel dispenser. He undid more buttons on his shirt, slipped his hands beneath my skirt, and stroked my thighs with his hot palms. I turned around to press my ass against his crotch and immediately felt the hardness pushing from inside his trousers.

“Fuck,” he muttered, resting his forehead between my shoulder blades.

He was trembling. I didn’t know whether it was from desire or nerves, probably both. His fingers found the edge of my stockings and moved slowly upward, exploring, and when he discovered I wasn’t wearing panties underneath, he let out a short, almost incredulous moan. The sound shot through me like an electric charge.

“You came to work like this?” he asked, his voice broken.

“Not for you,” I lied.

He grabbed my hip with one hand and opened me between the legs with the other. His fingers touched my wet pussy, and he went still for just an instant, as if the heat and moisture had disarmed him. Then he stroked me from top to bottom, slipping his fingertips between my folds, and I arched against him before I could stop myself.

“You’re soaked,” he said.

“Shut up and keep going.”

He obeyed. He pushed in one finger, then two, slowly at first, testing my body’s resistance, and I had to grab the sink because my legs were already giving way. He pulled them out and rubbed my clitoris with short, precise movements, right where it burned the most. The wet sound of his fingers moving between my legs in that silent stall made me even hotter.

“I imagined you like this so many times,” he confessed against my ear. “With that serious face and your pussy dripping.”

The vulgarity turned me on more than I wanted to admit. I tipped my head back and offered him my neck while he licked my skin and kept pushing his fingers into me. He moved them hungrily, without tenderness, driving them inside and curling them to find me better. Every time he brushed that spot that made me writhe, a moan escaped me even when I tried to bite it back.

Someone entered the outer bathroom, and we both froze. We heard footsteps, a door, the sound of a faucet turning on. My heart began beating so hard I thought it would give us away. He left his hand still inside me and bit my shoulder to keep me quiet. I squeezed my thighs around his wrist and felt my orgasm building with that unbearable tension of being unable to make a sound.

When the footsteps faded and silence returned, he withdrew his fingers and crouched down without saying a word.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, though I already knew.

He lifted one of my legs, clumsily removed one of my ankle boots, and pulled my stocking down to my ankle, then did the same with the other. The tug made me let out a nervous giggle. Then he spread my legs with his hands and kissed the inside of my thigh before burying his face between my legs.

His first lick made me slap my palm against the door so I wouldn’t come right then and there. He wasn’t shy or delicate. He opened me with his tongue, sucked my clitoris, and pushed two fingers inside again while he ate my pussy with an almost obscene avidity. The sound of his mouth sucking, my ragged breathing, and his finger sliding in and out made me instantly lose the little composure I had left.

“Fuck… yes… don’t stop,” I told him, barely recognizing my own voice.

He answered by gripping my thighs more firmly and thrusting his tongue harder. He alternated between licking me in circles and sucking my clitoris with pressure, while his fingers fucked me at a steady, wet rhythm that grew faster and faster. The edge of the sink dug into my waist, but I didn’t even care. All I could feel was the tension growing, tightening, concentrating between my legs.

“You’re going to make me come,” I warned him, panting.

Far from slowing down, he doubled the pace. He sucked me harder, slipped in a third finger for a moment, and that was enough to break me. The orgasm rose from my belly like a blow. I shook all over, clamped my legs around his head, and had to bite my fist to keep from screaming while my pussy throbbed in spasms against his mouth. He kept licking through my climax, drawing out every contraction until he left me limp, sweaty, barely held up by my arms.

He stood slowly. His mouth was glistening and his eyes were dark, unfocused with arousal. I turned to face him and, for the first time in a long while, found myself without a sarcastic comeback.

“Your turn,” he said.

He undid his trousers with nervous fingers, lowered the zipper, and pulled his cock from his underwear. My surprise was so obvious that he gave a tired half-smile. It was thick and hard, much bigger than I had imagined beneath his office suits and slender body. The tip was wet and taut, shifting slightly when he took it in his hand.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, “because I’m not going to last long.”

I knelt in front of him on the cold floor without looking away. I ran my hand along his thigh, then wrapped my fingers around the base and began jerking him off slowly. I felt him harden even more beneath my palm. He let out a sharp breath and rested his head against the stall door.

I stuck out my tongue and licked the tip, gathering the salty fluid already beading there. Then I kissed him along his length, from the bottom to the top, and wrapped my lips around him. He entered my hot mouth, heavy and thick. I took him in little by little, setting the rhythm with my hand where my mouth couldn’t reach, enjoying the way his abdomen tightened every time I swallowed a little more.

“Shit,” he said through clenched teeth. “Shit, keep doing that.”

I sucked him eagerly, unhurried at first, savoring him, pressing him with my tongue against the roof of my mouth and alternating deep sucks with long licks along the side. My hand worked the base and his balls, barely massaging them. He began breathing as if he couldn’t get enough air. He lowered one hand to my hair and left it there, not pushing, simply gripping it as if he needed to hold on to something.

He looked down at me when I pulled his cock out for a moment to spit on the tip and take it back in. That gesture pushed him a little further over the edge. His hips gave a short, involuntary thrust, and I let him do it, taking the rhythm, sucking him faster. The wet noise of my mouth filled the stall.

“I’m going to come,” he warned, already at his limit.

I wanted to tease him, make him suffer a little the way he had made me suffer for weeks with his damn presence, so I pulled his cock out, kissed the tip, and whispered:

“Not yet.”

I stood up and kissed him so he could taste my flavor mixed with his. He seized my waist desperately. There was no room for long games anymore. Desire had changed shape and become something cruder, more direct—a need.

“I want to fuck you,” he said bluntly.

“Then fuck me.”

He turned me around again and bent me over the sink. The mirror showed me the absurd image of my disheveled hair, my skirt hiked up to my waist, and him behind me, shirt open and cock hard in his hand. He spread my buttocks, stroked my entrance with the tip, and moaned when he felt how wet I still was. I pushed back impatiently.

“Put it in already.”

He entered slowly for the first few inches, and I had to close my eyes. He really was thick. My body gradually accepted him with a mixture of burn and pleasure that made me gasp against the mirror. He stayed still for a second, breathing hard, his hands gripping my hips.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he said.

“Don’t stop.”

He pushed deeper. I felt him open me, fill me, advancing all the way in with torturous slowness. When he was finally fully inside me, I let out a hoarse moan I could no longer contain. He began moving with short thrusts at first, as if he were trying not to lose control too soon, but every withdrawal and every returning blow turned me on more.

“Harder,” I begged him.

He obeyed. His hands held me by the waist, and he began fucking me for real, hard, with a dirtier, faster rhythm that made the sink tremble. Every thrust sounded wet, scandalous in a place where anyone could walk in at any moment. I opened myself wider to take him better, and he used the angle, hitting me exactly where it made me see stars.

“This is how I wanted you,” he panted. “Bent over for me, shutting you up with my cock.”

I let out a muffled laugh that ended in a moan when he drove deeper. I reached one hand between my legs and began rubbing my clitoris while he kept fucking me without mercy. Pleasure rose quickly again, more intensely after the first orgasm, mixed with the delicious fear of hearing any noise outside.

Someone entered the bathroom again. This time they didn’t stop. We heard footsteps, the hand dryer, and a brief cough. He didn’t slow down. He merely covered my mouth with one hand and continued thrusting into me through clenched teeth, breathing against my nape. I came against his palm, silencing the moan, my legs trembling while his cock continued driving in and out at a brutal rhythm.

I felt my contractions squeeze him, and that was what finally pushed him over the edge. He turned my face just enough for me to see him in the mirror. His eyes were unfocused, his jaw tense, his expression almost disbelieving that he was doing this with me, right there.

“I’m not going to last,” he told me.

“Then come.”

He gave me three more thrusts, deep and disorderly, then stayed buried to the hilt while he came with a low, drawn-out moan, releasing inside the condom he had put on halfway through, caught between one urgency and the next, without me barely noticing. His thighs, chest, and hands trembled. He lowered his forehead to my shoulder and stayed there for a few seconds, breathing as if he had run an absurd distance.

When he pulled out of me, I felt an immediate, hot emptiness, almost disappointing. He carefully removed the condom and wrapped it in paper, still shaken.

“I came this close to making a mess everywhere,” he said, with a clumsiness that made me smile for the first time during the whole encounter.

“Very professional of you.”

We cleaned ourselves in silence, still nervous. I straightened my stockings, boots, and skirt; he buttoned his shirt with trembling fingers and tried to recover some semblance of composure. In the mirror, neither of us looked exactly like the same person who had entered a few minutes earlier.

“I’ll go out first,” he said.

I nodded. He gave me one last look, a mixture of hunger and caution, and opened the door after making sure no one was there. He left without saying goodbye. I waited a little longer, washed my hands out of sheer habit, and returned to the hallway with my pulse still racing.

No one saw us. Or at least, no one said anything.

***

Since then, we’ve greeted each other with impeccable courtesy. He asks me about reports, I answer him in brief sentences, and if we happen to be in the same meeting, we pretend at a normality that sometimes borders on ridiculous. We never mentioned the bathroom again—the skirt hiked up, my pussy in his mouth, or the way he fucked me against the sink while the office continued operating outside as if nothing were happening.

But there are things that don’t disappear simply because you decide to keep quiet about them.

Sometimes I catch him looking at my legs when he thinks I’m not noticing. Other times, I’m the one staring at his hands and remembering exactly how they felt inside me. Then I look away, put on my headphones, and keep working as if I didn’t know what those tiny gestures concealed.

I don’t know whether it was one bout of madness or the beginning of something worse. I only know that every time we cross paths going in opposite directions, part of me hears that phrase again and feels the same tug in my belly.

And if one night he takes my hand again to tell me I owe him something, I’m no longer so sure I’ll want to refuse him.