The Office

Friday afternoon, quarter to five. The office still hums softly: keyboards tapping, a printer sighing somewhere in the back, someone laughing at a joke you didn’t catch. The week has worn you down with deadlines and meetings that led nowhere, but the air already smells like the weekend.

You’re done. Every email sent, your screen empty, your bag half packed. An hour left to go, and most of your colleagues are quietly winding down already. So are you. Only you know you’re waiting for something other than the train.

You’ve been fantasising about it for weeks. Maybe months. What if, right here, in this place where you’re your buttoned-up self every single day, you just let that professional veneer slip for once? Only for yourself, only for a moment. The thought alone drives your blood faster through your veins than any deadline ever could.

You stay in your seat while the others leave. “Have a good weekend,” someone says, and you nod back, smile, act perfectly normal while your heart is already beating a little harder than it should. The door falls shut. Footsteps fade down the hallway. And then: silence.

It’s a strange kind of silence, this. No office noise, no humming fridge in the pantry, only you and the rows of empty desks. You get up and walk slowly through them, your fingers gliding over the back of a chair, over the cool surface of a desk that isn’t yours. This whole building is suddenly yours.

Your own spot is in the corner, half out of sight of the rest. Just enough privacy. You sink into your chair, feel the soft faux leather against your skin, and close your eyes for a moment.

In your mind he walks in. You picture the door opening, him seeing you sitting there, and the way his gaze changes at once. He’d turn the lock. No words needed. Just walk over to you, tilt your chin up with warm fingers, and kiss you as if he’d been waiting all week for this exact moment.

You imagine his hands at the buttons of your blouse, one by one, patient, while the chilly office air brushes past your skin and his breath stays warm. Your own hands do the real work. You unbutton your blouse with your eyes still closed, as if it’s him doing it and not you.

His imagined mouth follows his imagined hands. Your real fingers move on, along the straps of your bra, over skin that has gone to gooseflesh by now, from the air conditioning or from yourself, you can’t tell anymore. Somewhere between fantasy and reality the difference disappears entirely.

Your chair creaks softly beneath you as you shift. In your head he whispers something, low and slow, exactly the words you need to give yourself over further. Your breathing turns audible in the empty space, short bursts that sound louder than you’d expect from yourself.

Your hand finds its way down. Slowly, as if you still have time, as if no one is ever going to walk in, as if this moment could last forever as long as you don’t ruin it by rushing. Your hips move on their own, small waves, to the rhythm of a man who exists only inside your own head but is very convincingly present there.

The climax doesn’t hit like an explosion. It builds like a wave and then breaks, your body completely still for a moment and then completely undone. Your breath catches, your fingers grip the armrest of your chair, and for a few seconds you’re nowhere: no office, no deadlines, only this.

Afterwards: silence, again, but a different kind. Your breathing settles back to normal. A smile appears on your face that no one will see, and that you have no intention of explaining.

You button your blouse back up, smooth down your skirt, and glance at the clock as if nothing happened. But this office will never be quite the same office again. Every Friday afternoon you’ll now know what could happen, if you just dare to wait until everyone’s gone.

You grab your bag, turn off the light, and walk down the hallway to the lift. In the mirrored wall you see a woman who looks perfectly ordinary. Only you know better.

Fantasies like this one don’t have to stay in your head. If you’re curious how it feels to work out a scenario like this for real, safely and with someone who truly listens to you, feel free to send me a text. No pressure, no obligations, I’ll text you back at your pace. And if you’d rather lock in a moment right away: you can book me as a gigolo whenever it suits you.