Image by the brilliant Emmeline Peaches

Somewhere, a guy has a photo of me sitting topless in an office chair. Not just an office chair, in fact: the chair he sat at from nine til five, every day for over two years. My face, turned slightly away from the camera, is grinning with post-coital happiness.

How long after you’ve fucked someone in their office can you publish a blog about them without worrying they’ll get fired? Should you wait until they’ve left that job and moved on to another? Until long after you’ve broken up? Until after they’ve given you the go-ahead? Perhaps all three. Perhaps just one or two. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, because here’s one of my favourite sex stories…

It’s partly to do with how he acts in front of his work colleagues. There’s a confidence there – a teeny amount of swagger. And swagger wouldn’t be sexy if it weren’t for the fact that he often lacks it. He’s normally a bit shy, perhaps self-deprecating. The passion he has for what he does covers up the fact that he does it with skill. And I have no idea how skilled he is until I get to hang out with his colleagues.

On this particular night we’re having Friday night beers with the people he works with, and I’m listening to the way they talk to him. They admire him. Some of them adore him. And all of this contributes to me being the horniest I’ve been for weeks. Wanting to wave and shout about the fact that this guy – this hot, self-deprecating, skilful, awesome guy – is coming home with me later on, and will fuck me on the sofa. He’ll take the hands he’s so skilled with at work and shove them roughly down my knickers. Take the lips through which he tells you how he does it, and clamp them firmly round one of my nipples – sucking and biting and making me gasp.

I want to drop to my knees in the pub and wrap my arms around his thighs, pulling him closer to me and burying my face in his crotch and just breathing in the sheer, hot, end-of-a-hard-day smell of him.

Having worked myself up like this, when we leave the pub I want to drag him to an alley. Grab now what I can’t quite wait for. I hold back, though, because I’m growing up a bit, and because sex in doorways is too often covered by ever-present CCTV. There’s one place that won’t be covered, though:

“I need to pop back to the office to pick something up,” he says. And he smiles a little bit. That delicious combination of swagger and shyness. Swagger: we could fuck. Shyness: we couldn’t… fuck, could we?

We could.

I follow him to the office – so close to the pub, just round the corner – and he lets us in with a huge set of keys. The shutters open so painfully slowly. Clunking their way up towards waist height, and eventually just high enough that we can duck inside. Another twist and the inside door is open. He types a code into a box. He holds the door open for me like I’m a distinguished guest rather than a horny hanger-on, and I step inside.

Everything’s quiet and dark and neat. It’s a small office – no more than fifty people, I’d guess. His desk is close to the centre, surrounded by others, and on it lies the laptop he’d come back to collect. I could conceivably leave – tell him to grab his laptop and hurry up so we can catch a tube for home. But there’s a fantasy I’ve had that could be closely fulfilled and I’m not quite willing to let it slip by unmentioned.

“You know how I’ve always wanted to…?”

“Yes.”

“Can I?”

No pause for thought, or to try and recall which of the many dirty thoughts I’m remembering: he knows straight away. He opens his laptop, connects it to the monitor, and fires up something he was working on. Real work. Genuine work. Something he’ll email colleagues about tomorrow and discuss in future meetings. Then he unzips his trousers, pulls out his dick, and nudges me down below the desk.

Why this? I don’t know. It’s partly the challenge of being able to distract him – to see if he can focus on his work while I’m doing my best to suck his cock to orgasm. Perhaps the fact that it’s cramped down there, and difficult, and I enjoy the confinement: no room to spread out and nothing to focus on other than his twitching dick.

I spit. I work my hands. I tongue the underside in the place he likes it. I alternate long, wet, languid strokes with faster, tighter ones. I spit again. I imagine that we’re not alone, although we are.

And before I get too involved in the task, he calls a halt. Pulls out his chair and tells me that there’s something he’s always wanted to do too: full-on fucking in the office.

“Stand up,” he tells me, and of course the authority in his voice makes me wetter. Gives me that kick of lust in the pit of my stomach. “Take your top off.”

I do.

“Bend over.”

Oh yes.

He pulls down my shorts so the waistband pulls tight against the back of my thighs. Not fully down, so my legs and arse are all exposed: just a tiny amount, just enough to give him room to push his dick in, and give me the sensation that this one would be quick. It isn’t the fuck of a pair of horny drunks who have snuck into the office – it’s the kind of functional fuck he wishes he could have when he’s at work during the day. Bored and semi-hard as he ponders a particular problem, wishing he could have a quick wank to ease the tension. I’m not his girlfriend, I’m tension relief. A bent-over, part-exposed, dripping wet office desk toy.

And it’s amazing.

I stretch my hands out to grip the far edge of the desk, as the near edge bumps painfully against my hips. He grips me while he fucks to pull me harder onto him, and I can feel that he hasn’t even bothered to pull his trousers down: he’s just fucking with his dick through his flies. There’ll be stains later – a wet patch imprint of my cunt where he’s squashed himself against it. And I like the knowledge that it mingles with my spit. I like to think we’ll wipe the desk down after, and he’ll turn away as he zips up his flies.

As he comes, he grunts in the back of his throat, exactly as he knows I want him to. Like I was just there to relieve a stressful work day, and that quick fuck was his way to wind down.

“Unngh.”

As if I’m a toy. He’s used me, and we’re done now.

While I pull up my knickers, he rifles around on his desk, unplugging his laptop and collecting all the things he needs to take home with him. I sit down on the chair and spin for a while, and he takes a cheeky photo.

“Lucky none of your colleagues came back,” I tell him.

“Lucky there’s no CCTV,” he replies, and after a quick panicked look around we both sigh with relief. I’m still topless and before I grab my jumper he comes up and stands beside me. I can smell the mingled scent of my cunt and his come, and I breathe in deeply to try and fix it the memory in my mind.

“When’s the last tube?”

“Not for twenty minutes.”

“One more go?”

“Why not?”