I Masturbate at the Office and I Don’t Plan to Stop

I’ll start by confessing something I’ve never told anyone, not even the friends I tell everything else to. For weeks, I’d been desperately horny, that dull, persistent heat nothing can get rid of, the kind that appears when it’s been far too long since anyone fucked you the way you need. I’m twenty-nine, with dark honey-colored skin, long, curly hair, and curves that stopped going unnoticed around the time I turned fifteen. I’m neither thin nor fat: I’m at that in-between point I like, and apparently more than one man likes too. Big tits, a pert ass, a defined waist. And I’ve been horny for as long as I can remember: the kind of woman who comes thinking about the guy in the elevator, the kind who fingers herself in the shower almost every day.

I work as a secretary at an insurance agency downtown, one of those places where the phone rings three times a day and I spend the rest of the time pretending to be busy. My boss goes out to lunch at one and doesn’t come back until after four. The two salesmen leave for appointments in the morning and almost never return. So for hours, the office is mine: mine and a silence that invites me to do anything but work.

That Tuesday afternoon was worse than usual. I’d finished the little work I had and started watching shows on the computer with the volume turned low. From there I moved on to reading stories, the kind told in the first person that you swear are real. Stories about women letting two men fuck them at once, secretaries their bosses fucked on desks, soaking pussies, and cocks that wouldn’t fit. And while I read, I was texting a guy I’d met recently, a flirtation that hadn’t gone anywhere yet but showed promise.

At first we sent each other silly things, stickers, memes. But the funny stuff ran out quickly, and almost without realizing it, the messages began heating up. A picture of him coming out of the shower, his towel loose around his hips and the bulge showing beneath the fabric. A question I shouldn’t have typed: Is it big? His answer was much more direct than I expected: a picture of his hard cock in his hand, thick, the tip glistening, and a brief message: Look at it. It gets like this thinking of you on your knees.

I stared at the screen with my mouth hanging open. I felt my nipples tighten inside my bra and my panties start getting wet on their own. I answered without thinking: You’re making my mouth water. I want to suck the whole thing.

If we keep this up, I’m not going to make it until it’s time to leave, he wrote. I’m about to lock myself in the office bathroom and jerk off thinking about your mouth.

And that was it. I could feel the throbbing between my legs, that stubborn pulse I knew by heart, the one that warned me my concentration was over for the day. My pussy was screaming for something inside it, anything. I closed the conversation, opened another tab with a video—a woman on all fours while a man pounded her from behind, gripping her by the hair—and let the image speak for me. The office was still empty. The street door was locked. The clock read ten past two.

Then I remembered what I had in my purse.

***

A few days earlier, I’d bought myself a little treat: a small vibrator made of soft silicone, shaped to rest right over the clitoris and connect to my phone by Bluetooth. I’d put it in my purse as a precaution, because my nieces had come to spend the weekend at my house and I didn’t even want to imagine one of them finding it in my nightstand drawer. It had been there since Sunday, forgotten between my toiletry 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 would 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 with my pussy open and the toy buzzing between my thighs. That last part was what finally pushed me over the edge. The idea of the risk, the real possibility that the door might open and someone might catch me masturbating during office hours, turned me on more than the toy itself.

I got up and went to the bathroom at the back, the one almost nobody used. I pulled my pants and panties down to my knees and stood there for a moment, looking at myself in the mirror: my shaved pussy, already glistening from how wet I was, my swollen lips showing between my thighs. I ran a finger along my slit and pulled it out soaked, a string of discharge stretching before it broke. I sucked it without thinking. I tasted like a horny woman, like all those accumulated weeks without getting fucked.

I positioned the vibrator carefully, pressing it firmly against my clitoris so it would stay exactly where it belonged, then pulled my panties and pants back up to hold it in place. I walked a couple of steps to make sure it would stay. It did. And just from that, just from feeling its shape pressed against my clitoris as I walked back down the hall, I was already dripping. I hadn’t even turned it on and my panties were soaked.

I sat back down in front of the computer, opened the app on my phone, and placed it facedown on the desk as though it were the most normal thing in the world. I took a deep breath. Then I pressed the first level.

***

The vibration started gently, barely more than a steady tickle over my clitoris, and even so I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning. I was alone, yes, but my hearing had suddenly sharpened: any noise on the stairs, any creak from the blinds, made me hold my breath. Far from killing the mood, that tension made me boil. My pussy opened on its own, pulsing around the emptiness, begging for something inside it.

I let the sensation move through me slowly. I pretended to type something in case anyone came in, my hands on the keyboard and my mind somewhere else. I went back to the video: now the woman had the cock in her mouth and was swallowing it down to her throat, strings of saliva running down her chin. I lowered the volume even more and raised the toy’s intensity by one level. The second level was something else entirely: a firm pulse that forced me to squeeze my thighs beneath the desk and plant my feet against the floor. I felt the wetness spreading through my panties, my clitoris hardening against the silicone, my nipples showing through my blouse until they pressed painfully into the fabric.

I slipped a hand into my cleavage almost without realizing it and pinched one nipple through my bra. I let out a soft gasp. I thought about the guy from the messages. About his hard cock in the photo, how thick his shaft looked, how he would fuck me if he walked through that door right now and found me like this. I imagined him yanking me out of the chair, laying me across the desk, ripping my pants down, and thrusting the whole thing into me in one stroke, without asking, without foreplay, just his hard cock driving all the way to the bottom. I imagined his face when he noticed the vibrator stuck to my clitoris, when he saw how wet I was, when he heard me beg him to fuck me harder. The image drew a long sigh from me that I had to swallow halfway through.

I unzipped my pants without thinking, slipped my hand inside, and found the toy buzzing amid a whole puddle of wetness. I slid two fingers underneath it toward the entrance of my pussy and pushed them in without resistance. I was so wet they went in to the knuckles with a wet sound that seemed far too loud in the office silence. I started pumping slowly, fucking myself with my fingers while the vibrator remained pressed against my clitoris. In and out. My pussy tightened around my fingers, sucking them, asking for more.

I started moving on the chair. Slowly at first, forward and back, searching for the exact friction, the angle where the toy pressed me where I needed it most and my fingers reached the spot inside that made me see stars. Forward, back. Each rocking motion took me one step higher. The chair creaked and I froze, my heart in my throat and my fingers buried to the hilt, listening. Nothing. Just the hum of the air conditioner, the murmur of the vibrator, and my own ragged breathing. I pulled out my fingers, shiny and sticky, and brought them to my mouth. I sucked my own juices while staring fixedly at the street door.

I turned it up to the third level.

There was no turning back now. I slipped my hand inside my pants again, this time with three fingers, and drove my whole fist down to the base against my pussy. With my free hand I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles white, while the pleasure gathered in one point and began to spread. I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them abruptly, keeping watch. My forehead was beaded with sweat and my blouse stuck to my back, my nipples so hard they hurt. I clenched my teeth. My legs trembled beyond my control and, no matter how hard I tried to control it, my thighs closed on their own around the toy and my hand, crushing everything against my pubic bone.

The orgasm hit me like that, silently, my mouth clenched to keep from screaming and my whole body rigid on the chair. I felt my pussy contracting in spasms around my fingers, squeezing them with brutal force, and a hot gush soaking the inside of my pants until it seeped through. It was intense, almost painful from how tightly contained it was, a release that left me breathless and my ears ringing. I had to switch off the vibrator immediately, my fingers clumsy and slippery, because I felt that if it continued for one more second I would lose control completely and piss my juices all over the chair right there.

***

I stayed collapsed for a moment, catching my breath, wearing a stupid smile I couldn’t wipe away, my fingers still inside my pussy. I pulled them out slowly, slick, and looked at my hand: it glistened with juices all the way to my wrist. I looked at the door. It was still closed. No one had come in. No one knew anything. And instead of calming me, that left me wanting more. My pussy was still pulsing, swollen, asking for another round.

I waited for my legs to respond, then got up and went to the bathroom. I could feel my pants wet inside, sticky against my thighs with every step. There, with the door locked this time, I pulled my clothes down to my ankles and carefully removed the toy. It was drenched and shining, strings of juices hanging from it, with an intense smell I recognized as my own and liked more than I should admit. I cleaned it unhurriedly, sucking the silicone myself before rinsing it with water, watching myself in the mirror, my cheeks still flushed, my nipples outlined, my eyes bright with the look of a happy slut.

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 my hunger. So I turned it on again, right there, leaning against the bathroom wall with one leg over the toilet and my pussy spread wide open. Before putting it against myself, I pushed two fingers all the way in and pulled them out covered in juices. I sucked them slowly, savoring myself, then ran the tip of the vibrator along my entire slit, from bottom to top, pausing for a second at the entrance to my ass just to make myself shudder before moving back up to my clitoris.

This time I didn’t leave it outside. I pushed it into my pussy, just the tip at first, then all the way, thrusting until its base was pressed against my lips and the motor buzzed inside me. I let out a long moan that bounced off the tiles, and I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t have to hide, I didn’t have to pretend to work, I didn’t have to watch the street door. I could focus only on the feeling of having the toy inside me, vibrating against the walls of my pussy, and I did. I turned the intensity all the way up at once, without patience, and began fucking myself with it, pulling it out to the tip and driving it all the way back in, again and again, while my other hand squeezed my clitoris in fast circles with two fingers.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck—I whispered into the palm of the hand I had pressed over my mouth to keep quiet.

I yanked one tit free of my bra and pinched the nipple hard, twisting it until the pain mixed with the pleasure and sent a direct shock through my pussy. I felt the hot gush sliding down the insides of my thighs, dripping onto the bathroom floor. I sped up. My ass clenched on its own, my pussy sucked at the toy every time I tried to pull it out, and my thighs trembled.

I bit the back of my hand until I left a mark and came for the second time in less than five minutes, a tremor running from my thighs to the nape of my neck and leaving my knees weak. I felt my pussy contracting in brutal spasms around the vibrator, almost expelling it before swallowing it back in with another violent jerk. A gush of juices shot out and stained the inside of my thigh all the way to my knee.

That time, finally, I felt the relief I’d been chasing for weeks. The stubborn pulse between my legs calmed down. The pressure I’d been carrying for days released all at once. I stayed leaning against the wall, panting, the toy still showing between my legs, listening to my breathing echo off the tiles and the slow dripping of my juices onto the floor.

***

I cleaned myself with toilet paper, tending to my pussy carefully because it was still hypersensitive, pulled my clothes back up, and touched up my appearance in the mirror until no one would have guessed what had just happened. I returned to my desk just in time: five minutes later I heard the key in the lock and one of the salesmen came in, loaded down with folders and complaining about traffic. I smiled at him, told him the afternoon had been quiet, and offered him a coffee. He noticed nothing. How could he, when my panties were still damp and the scent of a freshly fucked pussy was hidden beneath the perfume I’d hurriedly sprayed on.

But I knew. I knew what had happened on that chair where he sat to go over his papers, how I’d driven my fingers to the knuckles right where he was now resting his elbows. I knew what had happened in that bathroom he entered so casually to wash his hands, how I’d fucked myself with the vibrator against the very tiles he was looking at. And the mere idea of keeping that secret, of looking him in the face while knowing what I knew, sent a new tickle between my legs and made my panties grow damp again.

Since that Tuesday, the vibrator hasn’t left my purse. I take it to the office every day, hidden between my keys and my toiletry bag, waiting. I don’t always use it. Sometimes it’s enough to know it’s there, just one movement away, while I answer the phone and file policies with the face of a model employee and my pussy wetting my panties beneath my skirt.

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 might walk through that door at the worst possible moment and catch me with my pussy open, my fingers inside, and the vibrator buzzing against my clitoris. That fantasy turns me on more than any video, more than any message, more than any cock I’ve ever tasted before.

And that’s why, even though I know I should stop, I don’t plan to stop fucking myself at the office.