I Imagined It So Hard I Almost Could Feel It

We work together. I came to the company to be his second-in-command and, by some twist of fate, we ended up getting along. Too well. We share the same acidic sense of humor, that kind of joke only two people in an entire room understand, and he doesn’t treat me “with tongs” just because I’m a woman the way the others do.

He expects me to perform as well as he does, except when it’s time to reach for something on the highest shelf, of course. He teaches me while making fun of me, and by now we communicate with looks. One raised eyebrow, the slightest gesture, and we both know exactly what the other thinks of the meeting we’ve just had to sit through.

We spend more hours together than with anyone else in our lives. We eat at the same table, fight over the last decent coffee from the machine, cover for each other when one of us runs late. There’s a strange intimacy in that, one that doesn’t feel like romance but isn’t entirely innocent either. It’s the kind of closeness that slips through the cracks when someone lets their guard down.

The only flaw, the unforgivable one, is that he’s married.

And I would never mix work with personal matters. I may be a lot of things, but professionally suicidal I am not. Besides, if I get picky, he isn’t even my type. Though I’d have to be blind not to notice he’s attractive: tall, quite a bit taller than me, with fair skin that turns pink when he laughs hard, honey-colored eyes, and long hands that he moves far too much when he explains something.

He has that little beer belly from Friday nights that men swear nobody notices, and hair so short it looks like he’s about to enlist in the navy. Sometimes I think the universe put him right in front of my desk just to laugh at me. Maybe my fate is to be happy at work and a disaster in love. Anyway.

I’m not going to pretend the chemistry hasn’t led me to fantasize.

Especially on ovulation days, when my brain turns into a teenager with hormones in overdrive and my cunt gets wet just from hearing him talk. Like today. After a slow day, too many conversations in the coffee hallway, and a walk together to the parking lot, I get home with my body buzzing and my panties already soaked through.

I fling my heels into the air, slide off the dress pants that have been pinching my waist since nine, and collapse onto the couch. I close my eyes. My hands start massaging my tits over my blouse, slowly, while I let the movie start up on its own in my head.

It’s not something I decide. The fantasy is just there, waiting, like a record that starts spinning as soon as I drop the needle. And the worst, or the best, part is that it gets more detailed every time. Today I even know what shirt he’s wearing: the blue plaid one he rolled up his sleeves in this afternoon while explaining a chart of numbers I wasn’t listening to.

***

For some reason that doesn’t matter, we’re in a bar. Whether we came alone or lagged behind the others is irrelevant too. We talk, we laugh, and that’s when the usual touches begin: his elbow against mine, his knee finding my leg beneath the bar. Until his hand rests on my hip and stays there, no pretense about it.

I look him in the eyes and he answers without saying a word, with that half smile I know by heart. Let’s find a room, his look says. I make a scared-virgin face, because that’s how the game works, but he bites his lip with all the shamelessness in the world.

—I know you want it —he murmurs—. It’s written all over your face. And I’d bet your panties are already soaked through.

On the couch, my hand has already gone down on its own. I unbutton my pants, slip my fingers under my panties, and confirm he’s right: I’m dripping, my lips swollen, my clit throbbing as if it has a life of its own. I slide two fingers between the folds, bring them up drenched to the hood, and start rubbing in slow circles, while with my other hand I pinch my nipple through my blouse. In the fantasy, he has me trapped between his body and a wall of cold brick, with the bulge of his cock pressing against my stomach through his pants.

—We shouldn’t —I whisper, just to stretch the tension a little longer.

—Would you rather be left wanting? —His mouth is so close to mine I can feel his breath—. Would you rather go home and shove your own fingers in while thinking about me, when you could have me buried to the hilt tonight?

—And after? —I ask, already completely surrendered but still playing at being good.

—After, nothing —he says—. It’s a one-night craving. I fuck you until you can’t walk, I come wherever you want, and tomorrow we go back to pretending it never happened.

His fingers travel up my hip like someone climbing stairs, one step at a time, unhurried, enjoying making me wait. He lifts one leg and devours my mouth with an impatient tongue that pushes in until I’m gasping, and suddenly he’s sat me on a dresser that conveniently appears in the middle of the scene, because in fantasies furniture never lets you down.

He yanks my blouse open; a couple of buttons fly. Of course, in this version of me I’m not wearing a bra. His mouth closes around my nipple, sucks hard, then lets go with a bite that makes me cry out, all while holding my gaze from below. That image, his honey eyes locked on mine with my breast between his teeth, is what rips the first real moan out of me.

He kisses his way down my belly with wet kisses, spreads my legs without asking, and buries his face in my cunt. His tongue finds my clit on the first try, like he’s been looking for it all his life, and starts licking with the same obsessive steadiness he brings to everything. He sucks, licks, fingers my entrance with his tongue and goes back up again, and I grab the back of his neck and shove his face against me with complete shamelessness. His fingers, those long fingers I envy so much in meetings, slip into me two at a time, curling until they hit the exact spot, and on the imaginary dresser I arch all the way back.

I open my eyes for a second. I’m alone, hair a mess on my own couch, with two fingers knuckle-deep in my cunt and my arm cramping. I laugh at myself, but I don’t stop. I pull my soaked fingers out, bring them to my mouth, and suck them to the hilt, tasting myself, so I won’t lose the thread of the illusion. I close my eyes again.

I imagine him touching me there, with those long fingers he moves so much when he talks, going in and out with a wet sound that fills the whole imaginary bar, and I bite my lip until it hurts. I can’t stay on the couch any longer. I get up, walk to the bedroom tripping over my own clothes, rip off my blouse along the way, and open the nightstand drawer.

The vibrator turns on with a near-heroic buzz.

***

Now I’m on my knees in front of him. He gives me a slap on the cheek, not hard, not soft, just enough to make my heart jump and for some spit to slip out of my mouth.

—I knew you liked it rough —he says with a bad-boy smile he’d never allow himself in the office—. I knew that under the executive suit there was a slut waiting for someone to say it to her face.

He undoes his belt without taking his eyes off me, pulls his pants down to his knees, and takes out his hard, swollen cock, already shining at the tip. I imagine his dick: not grotesquely big, but with a slight curve that makes it more interesting than it should be, thick at the base, veins standing out as they run up the shaft. He grabs my hair, twists it around his fist, and forces me to look at him while he strokes himself slowly, dragging the foreskin back so I can see the head going purple.

I put two fingers in my mouth and play with them like they’re something else. I stick out my tongue and, with the sweetest look I can manage, ask him wordlessly to let me pleasure him to the hilt. He, obedient for once, leans in and runs the tip over my lips, smearing me with precum, before shoving his cock all the way into my mouth without a shred of mercy.

—Like that, all the way in —he growls, pushing my head against his pubis—. Swallow it for me like I know you want to.

My throat holds up like in the stories I invent, those where no real throat would survive anything. I suck him with my mouth open, letting drool run down my chin, working my tongue under the head, tugging on his balls with my free hand. He hammers it into me until I’m tearing up, pulls out only to give me a couple of smacks in the face with his wet cock, and shoves it back in while telling me filthy things we’d never allow ourselves in real life.

—Look at you, boss, all professional at the office and here on your knees gobbling me up like a bitch. You’re going to milk me dry, aren’t you?

On the bed, I’m so wet the vibrator slips in on its own, without asking permission or waiting for an invitation. It sinks all the way in on a single stroke, and I let out a whimper against the pillow as I arch my back. I pull it out, shove it back in, twist the tip against the front wall looking for that exact angle that makes me see stars. With my other hand I keep circling my clit, and I can feel the muscles inside me contracting, squeezing the vibrator every time he, in my head, calls me a slut.

I change positions almost without thinking, as if my body knows the script better than I do. Face down now, ass raised, the vibrator buried to the hilt and held in place between the sheets, rocking myself over it. In the fantasy he’s sprawled over me, one hand twisting my arm behind my back and the other flattening my cheek into the mattress. He drives into me from behind with a brutal thrust and doesn’t wait for me to adjust: he starts fucking me hard, with strokes that make his balls slap against my soaked cunt and echo through the whole imaginary room.

I feel his heavy breathing at my nape, his teeth in my shoulder, the sticky skin of both of us. I lift my hips as far as I can so he won’t stop, so he’ll shove it into my uterus, so he’ll break me tonight in a night that will never exist.

—Harder —I beg, my voice broken—. Tear my cunt apart, don’t be a coward.

—You’re mine tonight —he პასუხs, and gives me a tremendous spank that rings through the whole imaginary room and leaves the imprint of his hand burning—. Look at you taking my cock so well, look how slutty you are.

He slips a finger wet with saliva into my ass while he keeps fucking me from the front, and I almost fall right off the edge. I writhe, whimper, push back begging for more.

—I want to feel you fill me up —I plead, eyes closed and the vibrator buzzing against every last nerve ending—. Come inside, please, I want to feel it hot everywhere.

—Oh, now the tight-ass executive wants me to knock her up? —he laughs between gasps—. Look how well you ask when nobody at the office can hear you.

The sheet rubs my nipples every time I move, and that stupid friction, that detail no story would bother planning, is exactly what pushes me over the edge. The buzz of the vibrator pounding inside, my finger circling furiously over my swollen clit, his invented voice whispering in my ear the words he’d never say to me in daylight. It all comes together and explodes.

I come with an anthology-worthy orgasm, the kind that leaves you sprawled out and shaking, with my cunt clamping down on the vibrator in wave after wave that never end and my legs closing on their own over my own hand. I scream into the pillow the name I shouldn’t, two, three times, while the contractions shake me from the inside. The very second I imagine he comes too, he yanks his cock out, flips me over, and empties himself over my stomach in thick, hot spurts that splatter all the way up to my tits. He gasps over me, paints my nipples with the soaked tip, and I bring one semen-smeared finger to my mouth with a gesture of absolute triumph, as if I’d won something. I suck it clean while looking at him, and he laughs, exhausted, shaking his head.

***

Then comes the silence, that same one as always. The vibrator winding down, my breathing settling back into place, the white ceiling staring down at me and my thighs sticky with myself.

I always get the same thing at this point: a mix of satisfaction and something like shame, even though there’s no one there to judge me. I imagine what he’d think if he knew he stars in my nights like this, if he knew exactly how much detail I’ve invented about the shape of his cock, the taste of his cum, the way he’d yank my hair. The mere idea pulls another smile out of me. He’d probably make a joke. I’d probably laugh myself to death so I wouldn’t die of something else.

The truth is, the fantasy is perfect precisely because it will never leave my head. Inside it, he isn’t married, there are no ten o’clock meetings or unanswered emails, there’s no risk of ruining everything. Inside it, I can have him whole, with his cock hard and his mouth filthy, surrendered and mine, and send him back to the real world the next morning without a single piece missing.

I lie there on the bed for a few minutes, grinning like an idiot, catching my breath, with imaginary semen drying on real skin. For something that’s only a one-night craving that will never happen, it tastes like heaven.

Tomorrow I’ll get to the office, pour myself a coffee way too strong, and he’ll make some acidic comment about the ten o’clock meeting. I’ll laugh, I’ll raise one eyebrow, we’ll communicate with looks the way we always do.

And nobody, ever, will know that tonight I fucked him dry.