I Locked Myself in the Office Bathroom Because of His Video

There are afternoons at the office when time stretches like chewing gum and nothing fills the hours. The calls end, the emails get answered, and the wall clock seems to mock me from up high. Some of those afternoons I use well: I take an online course, organize folders I’ve been ignoring for months, learn something new that might be useful. Other times, though, I open my phone under my desk and get lost on Tinder. Because, why not? If the day is dead, at least let something wake me up.

That’s how Damian showed up among the profiles. I saw him and knew, with that certainty that needs no explanation, that I wanted to fuck him. Tall, lean, with that body that was worked without being over the top. Dark skin and a couple of tattoos that climbed his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his T-shirt. Those arms were the first thing I imagined around my waist.

The problem was the distance. He lived a few hours from my city, so locking down a real-life meeting wasn’t something that could happen overnight. We had agreed to see each other one weekend, still far off on the calendar. In the meantime, we filled the wait with something else.

The conversations started that can’t be had out loud. Messages that heated up as night fell, photos we sent with our hearts racing, voice notes where his voice turned rough and low. I had played this game before, with others, but it had never been something that drove me crazy. With Damian, though, there was a different current. Every notification with his name on my screen tightened something inside me.

***

That afternoon was one of the dead ones. I was sitting in front of the computer pretending to review a document I had already read three times. My coworkers came and went down the hall, each busy with their own thing, and I let the screen give me an excuse to look nowhere at all.

Then the phone buzzed. It was him.

I hope you like it.

Under the message, a video. I opened it with my finger partly covering the screen, by instinct, even though no one could see me from where I was. What appeared made my breath catch.

It was Damian inside his car. The camera shook, propped up somewhere on the dashboard, framing him from the waist up and a little lower. The red light reflected in the windshield. And he, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other busy with something that wasn’t driving, was masturbating slowly, glancing sideways toward the street in case someone caught him.

I closed my eyes for a second and opened them again. There was no way I could get turned on that fast. But I did. Seeing him there, exposed, playing with the risk of being caught by the car next to him, hit exactly one of my oldest fantasies. The danger of doing it where you’re not supposed to. The adrenaline of the forbidden mixed with pleasure.

I felt the heat rise up my neck to my cheeks. A smile that had nothing innocent about it spread across my face on its own. I looked around. My desk was right in one of the throughways, where my colleagues crossed all the time on their way to the kitchen or the boardroom. I couldn’t do anything there of what I was thinking.

But the bathroom could.

***

I stood up with all the calm I could fake, as if I were just going to stretch my legs. On the way to the back of the hall I texted him, my pulse throbbing at my fingertips.

—You’ve got me so fucking hot.

—I’ve got a surprise for you.

I went into the small bathroom at the end of the corridor, the one with a single stall and a lock, and turned the latch. The click of the door shutting was the most exciting sound I had heard in weeks. Finally alone. Finally with no one able to see my face and guess what was boiling inside me.

I could already feel moisture working its way between my legs, desire concentrating in a warm spot that was begging for attention. I set the phone on the sink, against the mirror, and pulled my skirt down to my thighs. I pushed the fabric of my underwear aside with two fingers. I turned around, arched my waist a little, and spread my ass cheeks for the camera.

On the screen, what he had done to me was perfectly visible: the shine of wetness running between my lips, sliding down slowly. I took the photo without thinking too much and sent it to him.

—I can’t take it anymore. Look what you’re doing to me.

***

I left the phone propped up in front of me, as if his gaze were on the other side of the glass. I took off my blouse carefully so as not to make noise and hung it on the hook on the door. In front of the mirror I unclasped my bra and let my breasts out.

I looked at myself. My face flushed, my chest rising and falling faster than normal. I put my hands on my nipples, already hard, and started pinching them softly. I wanted them to be his lips. I wanted to imagine his mouth closing around them, biting just enough, sucking slowly while I tried not to moan.

With one hand I finished tugging my skirt down, and with the other I slid between my legs. I started over the underwear, pressing the already soaked fabric against me. The rough rub of wet cotton against my lips tore the first real sigh from me.

A sound escaped me, louder than I wanted, and I froze, listening. Footsteps in the hall. Someone walked to the kitchen, filled a glass, came back. The fear of being heard, far from stopping me, pushed me forward. Let them hear me, I thought. Let them know I’m in here doing this. The idea made me burn even hotter.

I yanked my panties aside. I slipped in one finger first, slowly, feeling how wet I was. Then a second. Then a third. By then there was no turning back: I was out of control, breathing in short gasps and my heart hammering against my ribs.

***

I arched my back and braced one hand on the cold edge of the sink to steady myself. With the other I started moving harder, faster, hunting that exact point I know by heart. My legs began to tremble. The tremor climbed through my thighs, my stomach, my whole body, and I clenched my teeth to swallow the moans trying to get out.

I glanced sideways at the phone on the sink and pictured him, still in the car, still with that hand busy, waiting for my next message. That image was the last drop.

I spun around abruptly and leaned my back against the wall. I brought my free hand to my mouth, pressed it hard against my lips, and let the orgasm explode inside me. It was long, thick, one of those that buckle your knees. My whole body shook against the tiles while I stifled a cry that, if it had escaped, would have made half the office look toward the bathroom.

I stayed there a moment, panting, my forehead against the wall and a stupid smile I couldn’t get rid of. The part of me that wanted to scream, that wanted everyone to know what I had just done between those four walls, was still vibrating under my skin.

***

I let out a couple of breaths and slowly came back to myself. I had taken too long; someone might start wondering where I was. I readjusted my bra, put my blouse back on, pulled up my skirt, and smoothed my clothes in front of the mirror. The girl staring back at me had red cheeks and shining eyes, but with a little luck, no one would notice.

I unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall with the utmost naturalness, nodding at a coworker passing by with her coffee mug. I went back to my desk, sat down as if nothing had happened, and grabbed my phone.

—Look what you did to me. I already want to see you soon —I wrote him.

The reply came right away, and I knew the weekend ahead was going to feel endless.

***

A postscript, to be honest. When we finally met in person, that long-awaited weekend, the sex was disappointing. Damian was much better through a screen than between the sheets: clumsy, rushed, far from the image I had built in my head for weeks. Sometimes desire lives better in anticipation than in what happens after.

But that office afternoon left me a gift. I discovered how much that game with risk turns me on, that edge between pleasure and the fear of being caught. Since then, whenever the clock drags and the hours have nothing to offer, I get up from my desk with that same fake calm and walk to the back of the hall. And just in case imagination isn’t enough, at the bottom of my bag I always carry a small vibrator. You never know when a dead afternoon is going to turn into the most interesting part of the week.