Workplace Erotica

Masturbating at your desk is not a good idea. That's what I tell myself as I sit at work in my comfy computer chair, and slip my hand underneath my skirt. The power is out in the office, so no one is working. The computers are all lifeless, and the light is dim, just a bit of sunlight filtering in from the small, shaded windows. My desk sits in a shadowy corner. Between the cubicle-style divider in front of me, and the large potted plant to one side of me, I am almost invisible. The CFO's office sits in the corner directly behind me, but in the few weeks I've been working at this company he's passed by my desk only a handful of times. I could probably have a whole string of orgasms back here, and no one would ever know.

Masturbating would be a really stupid thing to do though. I just got this job. I shouldn't do anything to jeopardize it. Just because the power is out, and I'm bored and horny, it doesn't mean I need to take the opportunity to rub one out right in the middle of the workplace. But it's been almost two months since I've had an orgasm, and I've been edging every single day. The desperate slut inside of me has become extremely insistent. She gives no fucks about potential consequences. The slut just wants action, wants to rub herself against every available stimulus like a cat in heat, and the idea of masturbating in a forbidden place really turns her on.

I look around the office, and verify that no one is anywhere nearby. Then I let my hand run up my thigh, parting the folds of my wrap-style skirt, exposing my favorite pair of panties, the white lace ones that somehow manage to look both sexy and demure. I rest the palm of my hand on my cloth-covered pussy, feeling its warmth. Then I close my eyes, and send my fingers to find the waistband of my panties. I take one more look around, and then I move my hand down, slipping it into my panties so that my fingers can find my clit.

I bite my lip to repress a moan as my fingers begin to rotate my clit in long, slow circles. I wriggle my hips, and spread my legs as wide as a I can in the high-backed desk chair. I try to position my body so that most of what I'm doing is hidden under my desk. I move my fingers faster, and my head lolls back. My eyes slip closed, and I bite my lip harder, reminding myself not to make any noise. A part of me is horrified that I am actually doing this, playing with myself at work, right at my desk, but my inner slut is firmly in control at this point. The slut thinks that this is one of the best ideas I've ever had, and urges me to keep going, to come hard, right in public, right where any of my co-workers could see.

I can't hold back a little groan as I raise my hips, right on the verge of orgasm. Now might not be the best time to put an end to my two-month streak of orgasm denial, but I no longer have a choice. The terrifying thrill of this blatant sluttery has pushed me over the edge. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the first spasms of orgasm, reminding myself over and over not to scream.

I hear the sound of a throat being cleared directly behind me. I didn't think there was anything that could stop the onrushing orgasm, but that sound does it. It's like someone just threw a bucket of ice water on me. The orgasm retreats, leaving my pussy wet and aching. My body then goes from feeling ice cold to way too hot. I wrench my hand out of my panties, readjust my skirt, and spin my chair around to face the unintentional voyeur. Of course, it's the CFO.

I try to think of something to say, but before I can even begin to form a coherent sentence, he says, "Step into my office, please." My body numb, I stand up and follow him into his office. He shuts the door behind us, and when I hear the soft click of the latch, I realize how much trouble I'm in. He's going to fire me. He might even decide to press charges against me for public indecency or something. I'm never going to be able to get another job again.

"Have a seat," he says, and I stumble over to the leather chair positioned in front of his desk, collapsing into it. He takes his own seat behind the desk, and looks at me across the shining expanse of wood. I can't meet his eyes. I stare down out my hands, which are clasped together in my lap. The silence stretches out, but I don't break it. I have no idea what I could possibly say in my defense. "What exactly were you doing out there?" he asks.

"What do you mean, Sir?" I say, trying to act confused. Maybe if I play the innocence card, I can get out of this. He couldn't have had a very clear view of what I was doing, and if I act shocked and indignant at the very idea that I was masturbating at my desk, he might back down, might decide that he didn't actually see what he thought he did.

"What exactly made you think it would be a good idea to masturbate at your desk?" he says. My face burns. He knows exactly what he saw. His tone is stern, but there is something else underneath of it. Could it be amusement? I scrutinize his face, my eyes meeting his for just a moment before flicking back down to my hands. He doesn't look amused, but there is something in his eyes that makes me feel hopeful, but also a little alarmed. Is it humor or lust?

The silence is stretching out. I realize that he's waiting for me to answer him. I gather myself, trying to look both hurt and indignant. "I don't know what it is that you thought you saw, Sir, but I most certainly was not-"

He cuts me off. "Spare me the dissembling" he says. "I saw exactly what you were doing. You had your legs spread, and your hand down your panties. You were moaning and biting your lip. Anyone who was walking by could have seen you. Do you think that is appropriate behavior for the workplace?"

I wonder if he can see how deep the color in my face has become. The power is still out, and the office is dim, but my cheeks feel like they are emitting their own glow. "No Sir," I say, staring hard at my hands. My eyes want to fill with tears, but I force them away. This situation was caused my my own stupidity. There will be no crying. At least, not in front of this man. "I wasn't thinking clearly," I say. It's all I can think of.

"That is obvious," he says. A few moments of tense silence pass, and then he speaks again. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

I raise my eyes from my hands long enough to take another look at his face. Is he fucking with me? Of course I recognize him. I've only run into him a few times since I started working here, but he's the CFO of the company. I gather my courage, and look into his eyes again, and this time I really do recognize him. My entire body tingles with the shock. It's Mr. Bowie Knife.

I think back to the play party I attended the previous weekend. I had spent almost an hour ogling this man from across the dungeon. I'd seen him at a few parties in the past, but had never spoken to him. He always wore an enormous Bowie knife in a sheath at his belt, and last weekend I had watched him use that knife on a bound, naked woman. He had teased her with it, running it up and down her skin, making her tremble and moan, but never once breaking the skin.

At one point he had made her hold a hitachi between her legs while he used the tip of the knife blade to torment her breasts and nipples. He had made the woman come over and over again as he teased her with his knife. She begged to be allowed to stop, but he was relentless, and didn't let her remove the vibrator until she was come-drunk and exhausted. That night, lying in bed after the party, I had edged myself while thinking about that scene. I had just never expected to run into Mr. Bowie Knife outside of a party. I had only been working at this company for a matter of weeks, and my brain had been too busy trying to get acclimated to my new job to make the necessary connections between the CFO and the man with the Bowie knife.

"Were you at the party last weekend?" I ask, hesitant to say anything more until he confirms that he's really who I think he is.

"Yes I was," he says calmly, "And I saw you watching me all night."

The heat in my cheeks intensifies. "I couldn't help myself," I say. "You were a lot of fun to watch."

"How long have you been with the company?" he asks.

"This is my fourth week," I say, dragging my eyes upward. I can't bring myself to meet his gaze though, so I focus them on the desk in front of him instead.

"What are we going to do with you?" he says, voice speculative. I think I can detect that undercurrent of amusement again. "You've only been here a month, and you're already playing with yourself at your desk."

My insides squirm with embarrassment. I think about begging him not to fire me, but I hold my tongue. I doubt that begging will do any good, and I have a prideful streak. I will not beg. I wait for him to drop the ax.

"I'm going to give you two choices," he says. "Option one: you make a solemn promise to behave yourself at work from now on, and then you return to your desk. Option two: I punish you for being a slut at work. You make a solemn promise to behave yourself from now on. Then you return to your desk." I raise my eyes to meet his, and force myself not to look away. I had been so sure that I was going to be fired, that I almost don't register what he said.

"You're not going to fire me?" I say.

"No, I'm not," he says, looking right back at me, totally calm. "Your job is safe, whichever option you choose."

"Why?"

He takes a moment to consider. "I'm a lot more liberal about this sort of thing than most people would be." He smiles a little. "Plus, it was really hot to walk out of my office and see you there with your hand down your panties." My flush deepens, feeling as if it has taken over my entire body. I squirm a little in my chair. His smile widens. "You might have suffered a lapse in judgment, but I don't think it's an offense worthy of firing." He becomes stern again. "If it had been anyone else passing by though, you would have been totally screwed."

"I know," I say quietly, looking away from him again. "I was being stupid."

"Yes," he says. "Hot, but stupid."

"What would you do to me if I chose option two?" I say.

"You'll just have to wait and find out," he says, and the smile reappears. "Dungeon rules still apply. You can safeword anytime you want, and I'll stop."

I can feel myself getting excited. My abdomen feels tight and heavy, and I become aware of how wet I still am. "But wouldn't being punished by you here just be another instance of inappropriate workplace behavior?" I say, all innocence.

He laughs, and leans back in his chair, looking at me from a slightly reclined position. "Yes," he says, "but I have a door that locks, and blinds on the windows."

I don't have to think about it for very long. "Option two, please, Sir."

He leans forward again and then gets up from behind the desk. "Go lock the door," he says. I obey. He takes the opportunity to make sure that the blinds on his office windows are all closed. I stand by the door, my body trembling, heart pounding, wondering what he is going to do to me.

He stands across the room and looks at me, his eyes traveling slowly up and down my body, taking me in. Slowly, he removes the tailored suit jacket he is wearing, and hangs it on the coat rack against the back wall. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, and rolls them up to the elbows, revealing the elaborate sleeve tattoos I had enjoyed ogling at play parties. Then he crosses the room in a few rapid strides, and grabs me by the hair. I give a startled cry which he immediately muffles by putting his other hand over my mouth. "Quiet," he says.

He pulls me by the hair to his desk and then pushes me down so that my cheek is pressed against the smooth wood, and my ass is stuck up in the air. He lets go of my hair and pulls my skirt up around my waist, exposing my demure white panties. He grabs the waistband and pulls hard, crushing the fabric against my wet cunt, making me groan.

"I think we're going to need a gag for you," he says. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small folding knife. It's nowhere near the size of the Bowie I have seen him carrying at parties, but when he flicks the blade open, I can tell that it's extremely sharp. He positions the blade against the back seam of my panties, and cuts. The lace parts easily beneath the blade, and he makes another few judicious cuts in the thin fabric. Then he takes hold of the waistband and wrenches the panties off of me. He brings them to his face and sniffs them, and I feel the blood surging to my face. Then he grabs me by the hair again and says, "Open your mouth."

I hesitate for a moment, and he gives my head a shake. I open my mouth, and he stuffs in my panties. He releases my hair. "I know that a spanking would be traditional at this point," he says, running his hands up and down my back, then cupping the cheeks of my ass in his palms. "But I want to do something a little different." I hear a click as he folds his knife back up. Then I feel the blunt end of the folded knife pressing hard against a pressure point on my upper left thigh. I cry out, the sound muffled by my panties. He presses harder, and I squirm, trying to lessen the excruciating pressure.

"Hold still," he says.

"Yes Sir," I say through the panties. He finds another pressure point, this one nestled between thigh and crotch. He presses hard with the knife handle, and I give another muffled cry. No one has ever taken advantage of these particular pressure points on me before, and I am amazed by how much pain he is able to extract from them. He gives my other thigh the same brutal treatment, and I struggle to hold myself still, to keep my cries from turning into screams.

Then his hand grabs my ankle and props it up on his knee. He digs the knife handle into a pressure point on my calf that I didn't even know was there. This time I do scream. He shushes me, and I press my hand over my mouth, further muffling my cries as he finishes with my calf and moves on to my foot. Apparently there are lots and lots of pressure points in the foot. I writhe and moan, tears starting to leak from the corners of my eyes.

"Are you going to stop being a dumb slut at work?" he says, digging the knife handle hard into the sensitive flesh between my first two toes.

"Yes Sir," I moan through my panty gag.

"Are you going to be a smart slut from now on?"

He grinds the knife handle into a pressure point on the bottom of my foot, and I scream, clapping another hand over the one already against my mouth to further muffle the sound. My "Yes Sir," is barely audible, but he must hear it, because he releases my leg. I let out a long, relieved breath.

"Good girl," he says. He puts the knife back into his pocket. "I want to see how wet you are."

That sends a jolt through me. I look at him for a few moments, gauging him. He still seems perfectly calm, but he is breathing more heavily, and his voice has taken on a deeper, more commanding timbre. He reaches out and pulls my sodden panties from my mouth. He drops them on the desk and says "Sit on the desk and spread yourself for me."

I hesitate for a moment, my cheeks burning, and then I get to my feet. My legs are shaking, so he helps me hop up on the desk. I sit there with my knees pressed together, feeling shy about exposing myself to him. He puts his hands on my knees and begins to push them gently apart, giving me ample opportunity to resist. I don't resist. I allow him to spread my legs wide. He reaches down and runs his fingers up and down my slit. He finds my clit and pinches it softly. I moan.

"You're soaked," he says, and he pushes his wet fingers into my mouth. I lick them clean. "You like it when I hurt you, don't you?" I nod as I suck on his fingers. He takes his fingers from my mouth, and rests his palms on either side of my face. At first I think he's going to kiss me, but his mouth moves lower. He fastens his teeth on the patch of skin where my neck meets my shoulder, and bites down hard, slipping one of is hands over my mouth as he does so. I cry out into his palm, fresh tears spilling from my eyes.

He pulls away from me, and then strokes his fingers up and down my cheeks, collecting my tears. He pushes his fingers into my mouth again, and I lick the tears from them. "I think you've had enough punishment for now," he says, and he reaches up to stroke my disheveled hair out of my eyes.

"May I please suck your cock, Sir?" I ask, and my cheeks immediately burn red. I drop my gaze to the floor, a little shocked by my own boldness. That must be the slut talking. I wait for him to reject the suggestion, certain that I've been far too forward.

He puts his fingers underneath my chin and raises my head so that I'm looking into his eyes. "Do you really want to, or do you just want to thank me for not firing you?" That's a fair question, and I take a few moments to consider it.

"I would really like to suck your cock, Sir," I say, and it's the truth. Part of it is that I want to say thank you, but most of it is him. There is something about him, some chemistry between us that fascinates me. I felt it a little when I had watched him at play parties, but the way he just hurt me, the way he had so effortlessly taken control of me, both of those things make me yearn to bring him pleasure.

He looks into my eyes for another few moments, and I start to tremble, waiting for his response. "You can suck my cock," he says. "Get under the desk." He goes to his luxurious leather desk chair and sits down in it. I get down on my hands and knees and crawl beneath the desk, positioning myself so that I'm kneeling between his spread legs. He unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, and pulls down his boxers. I gasp when his cock, already half-hard, springs out. It is a very substantial cock.

I lick my lips. Then I go to work. Placing my hands on his thighs, I use my tongue to explore him. I lap at his balls, then work my way up his length, licking up from the base until I can swirl my tongue around the head of his cock. Then I purse my lips and suck gently at the very tip of him, tasting salt and musk. I open my mouth wider, and fold my lips around the first few inches of him. I start to suck, moving my head up and down, concentrating on the first few inches. Then I start trying to take more of him. I struggle to take as much of him as I can into my mouth and down my throat.

He tangles his hands in my hair and helps me along, forcing my head down so that his entire length disappears down my throat. I gag, my throat contracting around him, my body protesting at the sudden invasion. He releases me, and I gulp in a long, shuddering breath before going back to work on him. I can feel him coiling and tensing, getting ready to come. "Play with yourself while you suck my cock," he says, sending a tremor through me, "But you're not allowed to come."

I obey. My hand goes beneath my skirt and finds my swollen clit. I start rubbing it fast and hard, matching the pace of my hand to my cock-sucking. His hands clench in my hair. "Don't move," he says, his voice hoarse and breathless. "Just hold still. I'm going to fuck your face." I open my mouth wide, folding my lips protectively over my teeth, and he feeds his entire length down my throat. I choke as he starts to thrust in and out of my mouth, saliva dripping from me and wetting the front of my blouse. My fingers continue to move on my clit, and I cry out around his cock, perilously close to orgasm.

He freezes. Then he pulls his cock from my mouth. His hand begins to move rapidly up and down on his shaft. I keep my mouth open wide, extending my tongue in invitation. He moans as he starts to come, and I see his entire body shudder with the orgasm. Come sprays into my mouth, and coats my cheeks and forehead. I swallow every drop my tongue can reach. He gives a final satisfied sigh, and then uses his fingers to gather the rest of the come from my face and feed it into my mouth. I suck his fingers eagerly, my own fingers still moving on my cunt. I give a sharp cry as I reach the brink of my own orgasm.