What Nobody Knows I Wear Under My Uniform

My name at work is the one on the contract: Matías. I’m twenty-six years old, I work at a financial management company on the tenth floor of a building downtown, in settlements and documents. Weekly meetings with PowerPoint. Machine coffee with sugar. Coworkers between forty and sixty who talk about traffic and Sunday’s game. A place where nobody asks anything that doesn’t have to do with the month’s figures.

What isn’t on any contract, in any corporate email, in any team meeting, is what I wear under my dress pants.

Today, as I write this from my desk, I’m wearing a burgundy lace thong with satin appliqués that wedges between my ass cheeks and rubs against my anus with every movement of the chair. Black fishnet stockings that reach halfway up my thighs, held up by a garter belt with thin straps crossing my hips. Under my light blue button-down, fitted and formal, an ivory silk camisole that brushes my nipples with every breath and has had them hard since I got into the elevator. If someone were to look at me right now, they’d see exactly what they’re supposed to see: the neat employee in document handling, groomed, with polished shoes and a reasonably focused expression in front of the screen.

I see myself differently. My cock is pressed sideways inside the thong, pushing against the lace, and a drop of pre-cum has been staining the satin for half an hour.

It started a little over two years ago, on a Sunday night. I was picking out clothes for the following Monday and stopped for a moment, looking at the underwear drawer. Weeks earlier I had ordered a black lace thong from an online store at two in the morning. It wasn’t the first time I’d done that. It was the first time I put it on before going to work.

That Monday I couldn’t focus on anything all morning.

Not because I was uncomfortable. It was exactly the opposite. Every time I shifted in my chair, every time I crossed my legs under the desk or got up to look for a file in storage, I was aware of that lace against my skin, of the fine seam pressing against my perineum, of the elastic marking my waist beneath my belt. It was like having a secret inside another secret. Like a second skin nobody else could see. My cock got hard three times before noon and I had to press it against my groin with my palm, hiding it in my pocket. Tuesday I did it again. And Wednesday. And so on until I stopped keeping track.

Now it’s part of the morning routine. Before I choose my shirt or pants, I choose the lingerie. I have an entire drawer dedicated to it: stockings of all kinds—opaque, fishnet, shiny microfiber with a back seam—garter belts of different styles and colors, thongs in every possible variation, even a shaping corset with ribbons that cinch my hips in a way that makes everything else make sense.

Mondays are usually for black lace. Something serious, something that fits the start of the week. On Wednesdays I allow myself more: sometimes a short babydoll under the shirt, fitted to the torso, invisible from the outside but present with every inhale. On Fridays I wear the red silk garter belt, which is my favorite, even though it took me several weeks to work up the nerve to take it out of the drawer and wear it outside the house.

The difference I notice in myself when I go through the building’s entrance in the morning, with the garter belt snug under my pants, isn’t easy to explain. I walk differently. Not visibly, not in a way anyone could notice. But I feel it in the way I step onto the floor, in how I sit in the chair, in how I lift my chin slightly when the elevator opens on the tenth floor and I walk into the work area with polished shoes and my secret intact.

There are days when I wear toys too. A small silicone plug in my ass since morning, squeezing my anus every time I sit. A thin ring at the base of my cock that keeps it hard longer than it should be in an office.

My colleagues know nothing. Or almost nothing. I think.

Mr. Ferreyra is fifty-eight, has worked in accounting since before I was born, and wears the same brown leather watch every day without exception. When we cross paths in the hallway he nods hello and sometimes holds my gaze a second longer than necessary, and once I saw the bulge against his dress pants when I bent down to pick up a folder. Mr. Balbi, who supervises the document area and assigns me my weekly work, has a habit: when he calls me into his office to review something, he settles slowly into his chair, adjusts his dick inside his pants with barely any attempt to hide it, and looks me up and down before saying anything. Neither of them says anything out of line. Neither do I.

The exception is Luciana.

The first time she spoke to me was in the coffee area on the ground floor, three months after I started at the company. I asked if there was room at the table and she nodded without lifting her eyes from her phone, then suddenly looked up and studied me for a full three seconds without saying a word. She asked what department I worked in. I answered. She nodded again and went back to her coffee. But she kept looking at me while talking to someone else, and I noticed perfectly well.

Luciana is twenty-four and works in customer service, two floors below. She comes up to the tenth constantly because, she says, the printer on the eighth floor has chronic problems. I think the printer works perfectly. When she sees me she always finds something to say: that this shade of blue suits me really well, that the cut of my pants flatters me, that I have a posture uncommon among the men on the floor. Last week she came over while I was looking for something in the filing cabinet and spoke to me almost in my ear, her mouth so close I could feel her breath against my earlobe:

—For a man, you’ve got incredible hips, you know? —and she let her hand drop for a second, brushing my garter belt over the pants, right where the straps mark my hip, and smiled—. And you’re wearing something underneath. I felt it.

I didn’t answer. I smiled. I kept looking for the file with my cock suddenly hard, trapped against the thong, and my heart climbing all the way up to my mouth. Inside I felt something moving down from my shoulders to my feet, something that doesn’t have a clean name in any language.

I know she knows. Not everything. But she knows.

***

The bathrooms on the tenth floor are at the end of the hallway, past the small meeting room and the dead archive. Four stalls. At eleven in the morning and three-thirty in the afternoon, traffic is almost nonexistent. It took me a few weeks to learn that, but I learned it well.

At first I only went in to lock myself away for a moment. I looked at myself in my phone screen mirror, ran my hands over the fabric of the camisole under my shirt, breathed a little. I touched my cock over the lace, felt it grow against my palm, adjusted it again and went out. Nothing more. Five minutes and back to my desk.

Then I started bringing things.

I have a small toiletry bag, the kind anyone would use for a business trip. Inside is what I need for those moments: a thin silicone vibrator that makes no noise, a plug with a flat base, a small bottle of lubricant, wet wipes, a small bottle of women’s perfume that I put on my wrists and neck before leaving the stall. Something discreet. Something that stays between the clothes and the skin and that nobody can smell unless they get too close.

I lock myself in the back stall. I take off my shirt and fold it over the hook. I stay in the camisole, the garter belt, the stockings, the thong. I look at myself on the phone screen because there’s no other mirror. I stand with my back to the toilet, legs slightly apart, and pull the thong down to mid-thigh. My cock springs out hard, the tip shiny, and I grab it with my right hand while with my left I suck two fingers so they go in wet. I take them back there, find my anus, and start opening it slowly with two fingers while I jerk off, looking at the red garter belt crossing my hips on the phone screen. The image I see is not that of a tenth-floor employee. It’s something else. It’s a woman with her cock out in the work bathroom, fucking herself with her fingers.

Sometimes I use the vibrator. I turn it on to the lowest setting, which hums barely at all, and press it against the frenulum, against the vein running beneath my dick, against my balls. Other times I coat the plug with lubricant and ease it in little by little, feeling the sphincter open, feeling the flat base settle between my ass cheeks over the burgundy thong. With the plug inside, I pull the thong back up, adjust it, and sit on the toilet for a moment with the stockings taut and my cock pressed against the lace while I breathe deeply.

And I take as much time as I take, which sometimes is little and sometimes isn’t.

What excites me most isn’t the moment itself. It’s the context. It’s knowing that three meters away someone is washing their hands or fixing their hair in the mirror without imagining absolutely anything. It’s knowing that when I come out I’ll adjust my tie in the sink mirror, next to Mr. Ferreyra or Mr. Balbi or anyone else, and I’ll say something about the heat or about the weekend game, and they’ll nod, and nobody will know anything about what just happened inside that stall: that I just shoved two fingers up my ass, that the semen from my last orgasm is drying on a wipe at the bottom of the toiletry bag, that I’m wearing a plug inside me that shifts a millimeter every time I take a step.

Or maybe they do.

There are days when I come out of the bathroom and Mr. Ferreyra is waiting his turn near the door. He looks at me. I look at him. There’s a second that lasts too long, a second in which I see his eyes drift to the bulge I’m barely hiding in my pants. He goes in. I wash my hands. I go back to my desk.

Those days I walk differently down the hall, with the plug buried inside me and warm semen sticking my thong to my skin.

***

The fantasy that accompanies me most, the one that appears almost every afternoon around four when the light turns orange through the windows and the office pace slows down, is simple: someone walks in at the moment they shouldn’t.

Or at exactly the right moment.

The stall door I thought I’d closed properly wasn’t quite shut. Or Mr. Ferreyra arrived earlier than I expected and the lock made a strange noise. Or Luciana, who knows the floor’s schedule better than she lets on, came up to the tenth at the exact moment I had my shirt hanging on the hook, the fishnet stockings taut, the red garter belt on, and my cock out with two fingers inside my ass.

In the fantasy there’s no scandal. There is silence. There is a look that processes everything in two seconds. And then someone pushes the door a little farther open instead of closing it.

In the fantasy it’s Luciana. She comes in, closes the bolt behind her, looks me up and down with the silk camisole clinging to my torso and tells me in my ear that she already knew, that she’s known for months. She kneels in front of me. She puts a hand on my neck and lowers me down to her skirt, and I lift the fabric and open her legs and put my tongue between the lips of her cunt with the fishnet stockings still on my legs. I lick her clit slowly, put two fingers inside her, hear her moan softly against the bathroom door while she pulls my hair and calls me by the name she chose, not the one on the contract. When she makes me stop she turns me around against the toilet, pulls my thong down to my knees, grabs the plug by its base and yanks it out in one motion. Then she spits into her hand, opens my ass with her thumbs and shoves something in— I don’t know what, it doesn’t matter, a dildo she brought hidden away, three fingers, whatever— all the way in, while with her other hand she grabs my cock and jerks me off in the exact rhythm she’s fucking me from behind. I cum against the wall of the stall in three long bursts, biting my shirt sleeve so I don’t scream, with my stockings fallen to mid-thigh and her still inside me.

In another version it’s Mr. Ferreyra. He comes in without saying anything, takes off his tie, opens his fly, and puts his cock in my mouth with the same calm he uses to adjust his leather watch every morning. I suck him on my knees over the cold tile, with the fishnet stockings and the garter belt, with the wrinkled camisole, until he spills it all onto my tongue without saying a word.

In another version it’s both of them. They have me against the sink, one in front and one behind. One pries my mouth open with two fingers and fills it. The other spits on my ass, forces his way in with his dick and shoves it in to the balls while yanking on my red garter belt. I look at myself in the mirror and see someone else: lips painted that I didn’t paint, mascara smudged, semen running down my mouth, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. They both fill me at the same time, one mouth, one ass, and when they’re done they leave me there, shirt unbuttoned and semen dripping down my legs to stain the stockings.

I don’t know if that will ever happen. I don’t know if I really want it, or if the distance between desire and possibility is exactly what keeps all of this working. While I write, sitting in the chair with the fishnet stockings pulled tight under my pants, the garter belt marking a thin line against my hip and the plug still inside me shifting a little every time I change position, I don’t have a clear answer for that.

What I do know is that tomorrow I’m choosing the lingerie before the work clothes. And Tuesday too. And every day that comes after.

***

Luciana is going to come up in a few minutes. She usually comes between five and five fifteen, always with some file as an excuse. She’s going to say something. She always says something.

Today, for the first time, I think I’m going to answer her.