I Masturbated in the Office and I’m Not Going to Stop

I’m going to start by confessing something I’ve never told anyone, not even the friends I tell everything else to. I’d spent weeks with my body wound tight, that kind of dull, relentless heat that nothing can ease and that shows up when it’s been far too long since anyone touched you the way you need. I’m twenty-nine, with dark honey skin, long curly hair, and curves that stopped going unnoticed around the time I turned fifteen. I’m neither slim nor fat: I sit in that middle ground I like, and apparently plenty of others do too. And I’ve been horny for as long as I can remember.

I work as a secretary in an insurance agency downtown, one of those places where the phone rings three times a day and the rest of the time I spend pretending to be busy. My boss goes out to lunch at one o’clock and doesn’t come back until after four. The two sales reps head out on visits in the morning and hardly ever return. So for hours, the office is mine: mine and a silence that invites doing anything but work.

That Tuesday afternoon was worse than usual. I’d finished the little I had to do and had started watching series on the computer with the volume low. From there I moved on to reading stories, the kind told in the first person that you swear are real. And while I was reading, I was texting with a guy I’d met recently, a flirtation that hadn’t gone anywhere yet but promised to.

At first we sent each other stupid things, stickers, memes. But the jokes ran out quickly and, almost without noticing, the messages started heating up. A photo of him coming out of the shower, the towel slung loose around his hips. A question from me I shouldn’t have typed. His answer, much more direct than I’d expected.

If we keep this up, I’m not going to make it until I get off work.

And that was it. I could feel the pounding between my legs, that stubborn throb I know by heart, the one that tells me concentration is over for today. I closed the chat, opened another tab with a video, and let the image speak for me. The office was still empty. The front door was locked. The clock said 2:10.

Then I remembered what I had in my bag.

***

A few days earlier I’d bought myself a little treat: a small vibrator, made of soft silicone, shaped to rest exactly where you want it, and connected to the phone by bluetooth. I’d thrown it in my bag out of pure caution, because my nieces had come to stay at my house for the weekend and I didn’t even want to imagine the scene if one of them found it in the bedside table drawer. It had been there since Sunday, forgotten among my makeup bag and my keys. Until that Tuesday.

I took it out with my heart already racing. Not because I was afraid to use it, but for the exact opposite reason: because I knew how good it was going to feel and because of the added thrill of doing it there, at my desk, where anyone could come in with a key and find me. That last part was what really set me off. The idea of the risk, the real possibility of the door opening, turned me on more than the toy itself.

I got up and went to the restroom at the back, the one almost nobody uses. I pulled down my trousers and panties, carefully positioned the vibrator so it would press right where it should, and pulled everything back up. I walked a couple of steps to make sure it stayed in place. It did. And just from that, just from feeling its shape pressed against me as I walked back down the hall, I was already wet. I hadn’t even turned it on.

I sat back down at the computer, opened the app on my phone and laid it face down on the desk, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I took a deep breath. And I tapped the first level.

***

The vibration started softly, just a constant little tingle, and even so I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. I was alone, yes, but my hearing had sharpened all at once: any noise on the stairs, any creak of the blind, made me hold my breath. That tension, far from cutting me off, only made me boil.

I let the sensation wash through me slowly. I pretended to type something in case someone came in, my hands on the keyboard and my mind somewhere else. I went back to the video, turned the volume down even more, and bumped the intensity up a notch. The second level was something else: a firm pulse that made me clamp my thighs together under the desk and plant my feet hard on the floor.

I thought about the guy from the messages. About the loose towel, about what he’d written, about what he would do if he walked through that door right now and found me like this. I imagined his face when he realized what was happening under my immaculate desk, with the computer screen full of open spreadsheets to cover for me. The image drew out a long sigh I barely managed to swallow.

I started moving in the chair. Slowly at first, forward and back, searching for just the right friction, that angle where the toy pressed against me exactly where I needed it most. Forward, back. Each sway took me up another step. The chair creaked and I froze all at once, my heart in my throat, listening. Nothing. Only the hum of the air conditioner and my own ragged breathing.

I turned it up to the third level.

After that there was no turning back. I gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, knuckles white, while pleasure gathered in one point and began to spread. I closed my eyes for a second, then snapped them open, alert. My forehead was beaded with sweat and my blouse stuck to my back. I clenched my teeth. My legs were trembling uncontrollably and, no matter how hard I tried to keep still, my thighs kept closing on their own around the toy.

The orgasm hit me like that, in silence, my mouth clamped shut so I wouldn’t scream, my whole body rigid in the chair. It was intense, almost painful in how long I’d held it back, a jolt that left me breathless and my ears ringing. I had to turn the vibrator off immediately, with clumsy fingers, because I could feel that if it kept going one second longer I’d lose all control and soak the chair right there.

***

I stayed slumped there for a moment, catching my breath, with a stupid smile I couldn’t wipe off my face. I looked at the door. Still closed. Nobody had come in. Nobody knew a thing. And that, far from calming me down, left me wanting more.

I waited until my legs answered me and got up to go to the bathroom. There, with the door shut this time, I carefully took the toy out. It was soaked, shiny, with a smell I recognized as mine and liked more than I should admit. I cleaned it without rushing, looking at myself in the mirror, my cheeks still flushed and my eyes bright.

I should have put it away and gone back to work like a normal person. But the heat hadn’t gone away completely; on the contrary, the first orgasm had only awakened the hunger. So I turned it on again, right there, leaning against the bathroom wall with one leg up on the toilet, and positioned it directly where I wanted it.

This time I was faster. I didn’t have to hide anything, I didn’t have to pretend I was working, I didn’t have to watch the front door. I could focus only on the sensation, and I did. I cranked the intensity all the way up at once, with no patience at all, and let the pleasure drag me under. I bit the back of my hand to keep quiet and came a second time in less than five minutes, with a shudder that ran from my thighs to the nape of my neck and left my knees weak.

This time, yes: at last I felt the relief I’d been chasing for weeks. The stubborn throbbing between my legs eased. The pressure I’d been carrying for days came loose all at once. I stayed braced against the wall, panting, listening to my own breathing bounce off the tiles.

***

I cleaned myself up, straightened my clothes, touched up my face in the mirror until no one would have guessed what had just happened. I was back at my desk just in time: five minutes later I heard the key in the lock and one of the sales reps came in, arms full of folders, complaining about the traffic. I smiled at him, told him the afternoon had been quiet, and offered him coffee. He didn’t notice a thing. How could he?

But I knew. I knew what had happened in that chair where he sat to go through his papers, what had happened in that bathroom he’d walked into so calmly to wash his hands. And the mere thought of keeping that secret, of looking him in the face knowing what I knew, left a new tingling in my stomach.

Since that Tuesday, the vibrator hasn’t left my bag. I take it to the office every day, hidden among my keys and makeup bag, waiting. I don’t always use it. Sometimes it’s enough just to know it’s there, a move away, while I answer the phone and file policies with the face of an exemplary employee.

Because now I’ve discovered that the best part isn’t the toy, or even the orgasm. It’s the risk. It’s the possibility that someone will walk through that door at the worst possible moment and catch me. That fantasy turns me on more than any video, more than any message, more than anything I’ve ever tried before.

And that’s why, even though I know I should stop, I’m not going to stop touching myself in the office.