Guilty Pleasure. Jane O'Reilly
rules and never wearing any colour except black. Sometimes, I think about sliding my hand inside my trousers and pleasuring myself as he watches me through the half-open door. I think about making him watch. I think about making him suffer. He’d have to stand there and watch as I broke about a million rules, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Obviously I don’t do it. But I think about it. And today, I’ve been thinking about it even more than usual. I had a meeting with Mr Donovan, the client from hell. He changes his mind at least once a fortnight, and today was no exception. I smiled and sucked it up, even as he leaned a little too close and asked me questions that were maybe a little too personal, and thought about referring him to one of the male architects. Maybe Cal Bailey, who is all smooth charm and easy patter. Or maybe to Ethan.
But as the sole female architect in a company of far too many men, I have to deal with clients like Michael Donovan. I have to show that I can. I have to pretend that I don’t think he’s a creep. I could complain. I could ask that he be given to one of the others, like Cal, or Ethan. And then Michael Donovan would say that I was difficult, that I didn’t listen. No-one would say the words hysterical female, but everyone would be thinking them. There is no room in my career for error, no room for PMT, no room for excuses.
I stare at the plans on the screen in front of me, try to make myself focus, but I can’t. My body feels tight, my skin too small, and the urge is growing. I sneak a glance around the office, even though I know I’m alone, and then I slide my hand over the front of my trousers. I let it sit there for a moment, feeling the weight of it. If I’m going to stop myself, this would be a good time.
Hell, who am I trying to kid? I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to. This is my guilty pleasure, and god knows I don’t have enough of those in my life. I move my hand up, over the front of my blouse, caress my breasts through the fabric, a gentle, naughty stroke. If someone walked in now, I could drop my hand, pretend I was adjusting my bra. It would all look completely innocent.
But no-one does. It’s just me and the office, me and the four walls. I can almost hear them whispering. Go on, they seem to be saying. Go on Tasha, you dirty bitch. Do it.
A moment of hesitation, then I’m unfastening my trousers, feeling my heart start to race. I swallow down my nerves, feeling the hot rush of excitement that I always experience when I surrender to the urge, when I decide yes, just once more. There is something so deliciously exciting about doing it here, somewhere I know I shouldn’t.
I glance up at the clock. The cleaners will be here soon. I’ll have to hurry. I position myself carefully on the edge of the chair, knees splayed wide. I shove my hand inside my underwear and find my clit. It throbs beneath my fingers, and I don’t waste any more time. I get straight to business, flicking my index finger over it in little circles. God, it feels good. I’ll be quick today, I can tell. I’m close already, my cunt wet, my breasts tingling, my skin hot. I’ve had an awful day, and I need this. I just need to get off, and then I’ll be able to concentrate.
But it’s not quite right. I get myself close, but not all the way there. I need to feel the chair beneath the bare skin of my arse. I need the air in this room to caress my throbbing pussy. I need Ethan Hall to walk in here tomorrow morning and stop as the male part of his brain switches on and says it smells like cunt in here. I can imagine him standing in the middle of the room, that thought bouncing round inside his head. He’d never let it show, but he’d be thinking it.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on my feet, shoving my trousers down to my ankles, my knickers too. I sit back in the chair, the leather cold against my naked backside, my knees spread wide. Dirty, dirty bitch, Tasha, the walls seem to say.
Yes, I think to myself. Yes I am. I close my eyes as I find my clit again. It’s so swollen and engorged that my body jerks when I touch it, and I bite down on my lip to try and keep myself quiet. Must be quiet. Must be quick. Don’t want to get caught.
Then don’t masturbate at work, the sensible part of my brain says.
Where’s the fun in that? the wicked part replies.
I squirm in the chair, angling my hips forward, my back arching as I continue to play with my clit. I shove a hand inside my bra and pinch my nipples, but that only makes the frustration worse. Hurry up, Tasha. Someone might catch you.
Yes. Yes they might. I lower my other hand between my legs and shove two fingers inside my pussy and fuck myself with my hand as I flick my clit. I wonder what someone would think if they walked in now, if they saw me in this chair, riding my hand like some sort of nympho, the kind of woman who is so horny she has to get herself off at work. Would they be disgusted? If Cal caught me, he’d have me bent over the desk with my legs spread in a heartbeat. He’d fuck me fast and hard. He’d probably slap my arse and stick a finger in a very naughty place and we’d be two dirty fuckers together. Oh yes, that works for me. I feel my climax edging closer, as I think about getting down and dirty with Cal Bailey. I bet he masturbates in his office. He probably has a porn stash in his desk drawer.
But Ethan wouldn’t. If Ethan caught me, he’d stand in the doorway in his black suit and stare at me with a disapproving look on his face and say something like When you’ve quite finished, Tasha, I need you check the extension plans I’ve drawn up for the Mackenzies.
And then I’d smile, and I’d say something like Is watching me making your cock hard? I’m fucking myself harder now, deeper, and I’m so wet that I swear I’m going to leave a puddle of pussy juice all over my chair. ‘Yeah, I bet it is,’ I say out loud. ‘I bet your dick is as stiff as a metal bar inside your trousers, Ethan Hall, you uptight bastard.’ My entire body has become my clit, my blood humming, sweat dampening my back as I dig my heels into the floor and bite down on my lip and feel my climax charging towards me. Hurry up, Tasha. Hurry up.
Fuck, it’s going to be a big one. I can feel it. ‘Fuck,’ I say, as it gets closer, as it starts to drown me. I’m going to come and I’m going to come now and oh god. It crashes through me, an explosion of pleasure that has me crying out, even though I know I have to be quiet, but the wrongness of what I’m doing is so delicious and nothing, nothing feels like this. I shudder, swearing, as another spasm grips me.
My eyes are still closed as I slump back in my chair, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. Shit, the cleaners will be here any minute. What was I thinking?
I blink fast as I force my spent, floppy body to co-operate, as I bend forwards and get hold of my trousers and pull them up. I stagger to my feet and get my trousers as far as my knees when my skin starts to prickle.
I lift my head.
Ethan Hall is stood just outside the door.
Fuck. Fucking fuck with bells on. I yank my trousers all the way up, race over to the door and kick it shut, which in hindsight is a really stupid move, because now I’m trapped inside my office.
I lean back against the door, my heart thumping its way up into my throat. What the hell is he doing here? Did he see? Of course he saw. How much did he see? Oh god, oh god. I’ve never been prone to panic attacks, but I think I might be about to have my first one. Fantasising about him catching me is one thing. Having it actually happen is something else entirely.
I let myself have a mini meltdown for a minute or so, and then I force myself to calm down. I force myself to think logically, to think it through. Denial is going to be key here. I straighten up, fasten my trousers, tuck my blouse back in place. My fingers are sticky, but I can’t do anything about that, so I ignore it. Why did it have to be Ethan? Why couldn’t it have been Cal?
I turn, press my ear against the door, but the pounding of my pulse is so loud that I can’t hear anything over it. Crap. I can’t stay in here all night, though I’m thinking about it. I press my hands to my face, my shame burning my palms. Why didn’t I resist? Why didn’t I go home and let my favourite