What Bianca Left Between My Legs at the Office

The shriek of the alarm ripped me out of sleep like a knife. Seven o’clock. I opened my eyes, stared at the ceiling, and took three endless seconds to understand that I was terribly late. I jolted upright and the sheet fell to the floor. There was no time for anything.

The shower water came out icy and smacked my back like a slap. I didn’t wait for it to warm up. I washed my hair with hurried hands, came out dripping wet, and threw the wardrobe open wide. The first thing I grabbed was a wrinkled shirt and a pair of pleated trousers that smelled of being stored away. I put them on, looked at myself in the mirror, and was horrified. Impossible to show up in front of her like that.

Because the issue wasn’t the office. The issue was Bianca.

I backtracked, ripped the shirt off, and rummaged for something that made me feel less of a disaster. A floral top with a modest neckline, black leggings that clung to me like a second skin, and a pair of old white sneakers. I tied my damp hair into a loose ponytail. Much better. At least I looked like a person and not a shipwreck.

I grabbed my keys, ran downstairs two steps at a time, and drove to the company with my heart in my throat and the radio off, because I couldn’t even stand that. I parked crookedly. I got up to the third floor twenty minutes late and short of breath.

And there she was. Sitting in my chair, slowly spinning it from side to side with the tip of her foot, a mischievous smile hanging from her mouth as if she had been waiting for me all her life.

—Having fun? —I snapped, taking off my jacket and hanging it on the coat stand with more force than necessary.

—Not really —she replied, without getting up—. It’s hard to deal with incidents when the person who opens them is nowhere to be found.

She said it with that slow cadence of hers, as if every word had a double bottom. Bianca worked in support, two floors up, but she always found an excuse to come down to my desk. A cable, an update, a permission to check. We’d been at this for months, brushing against each other without touching, looking at each other a second too long every time we crossed paths in the elevator.

—Fine, fine, I’m getting to it —I said, dropping into the chair she had just warmed—. Hand over the seat, go on.

She stood up, but didn’t move aside. Quite the opposite. She leaned over my keyboard, so close that her hair brushed my cheek and I caught the scent of her perfume, something citrusy and warm at the same time. I felt her breath on my neck as she pretended to type in a password she already knew by heart.

—Look —she murmured, and her gaze slid over my neckline with shameless slowness—, next time you oversleep, try setting two alarms.

—Very funny.

—I’m serious. —She smiled—. Although, I’m not going to lie, I’ve enjoyed having your chair all to myself for a while.

Then her hand dropped. I felt it on my thigh, over the thin fabric of my leggings, stroking downward with a softness that left me breathless. A brief squeeze. A caress that descended. I gave an involuntary jolt and looked around, but the office was half-empty at that hour, the few heads there buried in their screens.

Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.

But she stopped. In one quick motion, she slid her other hand under the desk and left something between my legs, against the heat of my crotch, before I could react.

—Try it and tell me if it works, okay? —she whispered, winking at me.

She straightened and headed for the elevator with that way of walking that seemed designed to make me watch her. And I did. Her hips swayed hypnotically beneath her pencil skirt. Just before rounding the corner, she tilted her head slightly and her eyes settled for an instant on my chair, on me, before disappearing.

I looked down at my lap. Only then did I understand what she had left me: a small silicone vibrating egg, soft and warm from the contact with her hand. I fumbled for the remote underneath the desk, groping the seat, my pockets, the floor. Nothing.

A Teams notification flashed on the screen. It was her.

“Don’t look so hard. I’ve got the remote.”

I bit my lower lip and squeezed it between my fingers so I wouldn’t smile like an idiot in front of everyone. I rested my hands on the keyboard, pretending to concentrate, and typed back with a trembling pulse.

“That’s cheating.”

“Put it in — she replied instantly—. And I promise your workday is going to be very short today.”

***

I kept staring at those two lines longer than I should have. Her offer had left me breathless, my pulse pounding in places it had no business pounding. Bianca was going all in, no half measures, and if I was honest with myself, I’d spent months waiting for exactly that. Reviewing tickets until lunchtime suddenly felt like the most absurd task on the planet.

I got up with the egg hidden in my fist and walked to the bathrooms at the back with my chin high, praying nobody would stop me in the corridor. My heart hammered against my ribs. I pushed the door open, checked that no one was inside, and locked myself in the last stall, the one in the corner, farthest from the entrance.

I leaned against the cold wall and took a deep breath. I pulled my leggings down to my thighs and discovered, unsurprisingly, how wet I was. Bianca’s mere presence, her perfume, the weight of her hand on my leg, had been enough to leave me like this. I brought two fingers to my mouth, moistened them slowly, and lowered them between my legs.

I started rubbing my clit in slow circles, holding my breath. I closed my eyes and imagined her behind me, her mouth on my nape, her voice murmuring in my ear what I had to do. The desire grew with every touch, dense, urgent. I picked up the egg, rubbed it against my wetness so it would slide in better, and pushed it inside me with a sigh I had to swallow down.

I moved it slowly at first, in and out, while continuing to rub myself with the other hand. Pleasure rose through my belly in waves. I heard footsteps on the other side of the door, a toilet flush, a faucet, and far from stopping me, that only turned me on more. I pulled down my thong, rolled it up, and stuffed it into my mouth to muffle the moans I could no longer control.

I quickened. I shoved the egg as deep as I could and rubbed frantically, my legs tight, my forehead pressed to the wall. I thought of her fingers, her wicked smile, the fraction of a second in which her eyes had landed on me before she left. And then it hit. The orgasm shook me from head to toe, silent, savage, leaving me trembling and breathless, clinging to the latch so I wouldn’t collapse.

***

I stayed there a minute catching my breath, my back against the tiles, an idiotic smile on my face. I pulled my thong back up, fixed my leggings, and before leaving I paused for a second. I tugged the fabric upward so everything would be outlined, so she would understand, without needing words, that I’d done my part of the game.

I came out of the bathroom with flushed cheeks and the egg still inside me, every step a reminder of what I had just done. Instead of going back to my desk, I headed toward support. Bianca was alone, with her back turned, typing on her computer. I approached from behind with a confidence I didn’t know where I was getting from.

—Here —I told her in her ear, and slid the egg, warm and wet, into her open hand on the desk—. It’s all yours. I’ve done my part.

She turned slowly. Her lips were parted and her pupils were dilated, and for the first time since I’d known her, she couldn’t find anything clever to say. She looked at my neckline, my mouth, my eyes, and tucked the egg into her jacket pocket without taking her gaze off me.

—You’re incredible —she murmured at last.

—I know —I replied, and turned away before it showed that my legs were shaking.

I went back to my desk feeling a mix of pride and shame boiling beneath my skin. I sat down, turned on the screen, and tried to focus on the queue of incidents piling up since first thing. Impossible. Every time I blinked, I was back in the stall, to her fingers, to her stare. I went red as a tomato and covered half my face with my hand.

And then I felt it. A brief, teasing vibration in the pocket of my leggings, where I had put my phone. It wasn’t a message. It was her, reminding me from two floors up that the remote was still in her hands, that the game wasn’t over, that this was only just beginning.

I smiled to myself at the screen. The connection between us was already impossible to deny, palpable as the heat still running through my body. For months I had been fighting with myself, with what I felt every time I saw her appear in the corridor. That morning, at last, I had stopped fighting. And I felt ready, light, willing to let desire carry me exactly wherever it wanted to take me.