It is three o’clock, and I am sleepy at my desk. The air conditioning whistles and whirrs until my eyelids fall heavy and then pop open. My inbox is empty, there isn’t a meeting until four.
I should describe my office: cramped, converted, weird. There are a lot of corners to travel around and many nooks to stand inside of. My coworkers type with their noise-cancelling headphones on, answering emails and thinking about dinner. Not many people like to take coffee as late as I do, and so I take my cup and enjoy a slow walk over to the kitchenette.
It’s raining outside, and dark enough that I can check out my reflection in the windows and tighten my ponytail. Sometimes I am thankful that I work an office job that feels so comfortable and safe, sometimes I wish that I lifted bricks and stacked them for a living. My body aches from sitting so still and looking up cooking videos on YouTube. From the angle I walk to the kitchenette, I see that it is empty. But of course, I wait for Michael.
I take a long time to clean out my cup, scrubbing out the brown residue from this morning’s coffee. Then I dry my cup with a thin paper towel and place it under the single-cup coffee machine. Michael walks into the kitchenette and taps his way over the linoleum. He smells like soap and looks handsome; his trademark.
We don’t talk.
I stand by the machine and lift a wasteful, single packet of coffee to place inside of the machine. Michael looks right and left, then stands behind me as he waits for his turn at the machine. I can feel his body heat through the back of my silk blouse and pencil skirt. And then, I can feel his cock against my lower back. I don’t move as I watch the coffee drip into the cup.
Michael puts down his ceramic mug, #1 Accountant, on the counter beside me. Then reaches beneath my skirt while I spread my legs for him. His thick fingers creep up like a snake, searching past my panties and up towards my cunt. He is to-the-point as any good accountant might be, tickling me to see how wet I am before dunking his fingers into my body. The coffee finishes pouring into my cup.
His fingers plunge into me and then pull back, perfectly imitating a cock and then some. Their curve moves inside of me, hitting me in new places, until my breath fogs the silver brush of the coffee maker. Michael is too good at his job; it’s not going to take me but a few minutes to finish. My legs wobble as he works, dripping with the three o’clock juice that had been forming in anticipation for months. Pavlov’s Dog.
My back is arched for him, jailed by the tightness of my skirt as I rock over his fingers. I think of how disgusting and dirty they will be when he goes back to his desk and works a calculator. Unless he washes them, they will be sticky and scented. An orgasm gallops out of me all over those wicked work fingers, and I pretend to cough while I stifle the scream I would love to have.
Before I feel the happy wave of completion, Michael pulls out his fingers and reaches for his cup. I grab my own mug and run out of the kitchenette, caffeinated in a dirty way.