"Crush" by DontBShy

Transcript

I hate having to work with you. You know that, don't you? The moment you walk into that front door with your button-up shirt and tie, your messenger bag and dress pants, I know that your sole purpose is to torture me.

Every day we get on the elevator together, and no matter how crowded it is, you always end up standing behind me. So close. So fucking close.

I can feel your breath on the back of my neck. Your chest rubbing against my spine. The turbulence causing you to press up against me and bump your crotch against my ass.

My eyes roll to the back of my head, and my back starts to arch, desperately craving the feel of you. Then the elevator bell dings, and I'm thrusted back into reality. I've never been on an elevator ride that was too short and so long at the same time.

Luckily, the momentum of everyone getting off at the same floor helps me to remember how to walk again, because I clearly wouldn't have been able to do it on my own. It's lunchtime. That's right.

Just bend over and grab your lunch out of the break room refrigerator. How you're purposely bending so slowly. Your ass is just begging to be grabbed.

I'm imagining myself walking up behind you, yanking your pants down to your ankles, and grabbing a fistful of your hair as I spank you. I bet you would love it. I have a feeling you're just as dirty and depraved as I am.

Needing desperately to be spanked for being so fucking naughty. So bad for assaulting my thoughts like this, making it hard for me to focus. Your strong arms reaching, flexing, straining against your shirt's fabric.

I could take it off of you if you want. Looking innocently up at you as I open your shirt, one agonizing button at a time. God, the things you could do to me with that tie.

The things you could do to me with those hands. I'm starting to get lightheaded again. And just when I think it couldn't get any worse, you start eating peanut butter from one of those small, individually portioned cups.

You scoop some onto your spoon, and you don't eat it like a normal person. No, you stick your tongue out and slowly start licking it off the spoon. Every long, wide-tongued lick is felt going up my pussy.

That's usually around the time when I start to get cross. My eyes cross, and my legs cross tightly together in a desperate attempt to stop the throbbing between them. I drop my fork, and the sound of the metal hitting the ceramic-tiled floor ripples through the break room, causing all eyes to look at me.

Even your green ones. At least, I think they're green. My vision has gone blurry.

And if anyone asked me what my name was, I would most likely just bash my head against a desk like that kid in Hereditary. I look around and laugh nervously. I wanted to run, but my legs stopped working again.

Time for plan B. Tell a corny joke. Sorry guys, unless you have a fork allergy.

I get a few eye rolls, but mostly a few smiles. They turn back to watching the elevated TV screen playing afternoon home improvement shows. You smiled at me.

I smiled back, dramatically moving the fork in your direction. You raise both your hands and act as if you're scared, and we both laugh at our silliness. Then, we get back to doing what we were doing before.

Me eating my pathetic chicken Caesar salad, and you making that peanut butter spoon your whore. Break time is over. I wait until everyone leaves or is too distracted by the TV to notice me wobbling out the door like a baby deer.

We're back at our desks again. You just sit at your desk and act like everything is normal. God, you won't stop, will you? You just keep trying to rile me up.

Of course I can see you from mine. The low cubicle walls don't impede my view of your face at all. I can't get my act together enough to do anything.

It's almost 3 p.m. , and I haven't gotten any of my work done. One of the main things I needed to do was to call you into my office so we can listen to one of your customer service calls.

But I've been trying to do the initial evaluation of your call, and every time I hear your voice, I start getting wet. I hear the way the customers flirt with you. Both the men and the women try to shoot their shot with you, but you kindly turn them all down.

I can't blame them for wanting you. For wanting to sit on your face until they're stupid. I want to do the same.

I can feel myself getting wetter. In a few minutes, I'll just go to your desk and ask you to come to my office, and I'll be normal and professional, and nothing will go wrong. Two hours have passed, and I haven't moved from my seat.

I've just been listening to your voice on repeat this entire time. He's going to be leaving soon. I need to do it now before it's too late.

I shakily stand up and pull down my pencil skirt. I button up my cardigan in a vain attempt at covering my hardened nipples, and try to breathe and walk at the same time. The closer I get to him, the more tingly my skin gets.

My knees want to give in on me, but I clench my butt cheeks and tighten my abs to give me some stability. It seems to be working. And as I approach your desk, you seem to be packing up your things for the day.

I ask if you could stay for a bit after work so I can go over a call with you. However long it takes, you'll be able to use that time to leave early on Friday. But I don't anticipate it being longer than 15, 30 minutes.

Knowing how hectic it can be to leave the parking garage at 5 p.m. on a Friday, you seem happy to agree to the terms. We're sitting at my desk, side by side, listening to your phone call together.

You're looking down at the customer service checklist to confirm what you did right and what you may have missed during your interaction with Ms. Rand. There's something incredibly strange about hearing your voice in my head and having you so close to me that I could reach out and touch you if I wanted.

I can smell your deodorant and cologne invading my brain. Hopefully you don't notice me staring at your mouth and your hands because for some reason I can't seem to tear my eyes away. The recording stops with a chime that snaps me back into reality.

You finish jotting down your notes, then look up at me expectantly. They're green. Your eyes are fucking green.

My cake goes twitch. I clear my throat. So, what do you think? I think the call went pretty well, you say.

Well, you know, I agree with you. You speak with a lot of confidence on your calls, enough to put even the most irate customer at ease. It's quite impressive.

Why, thank you, you say. I can tell my statement has made you blush a little. Even when you get those customers who get a little too comfortable with you, you seem to handle those situations with professionalism.

Yeah, it happens a lot, but I think I've gotten the hang of it, you say. I bet it does happen a lot. Nothing.

You say nothing. The air becomes thick like cement, and we don't break eye contact until I do. It's suddenly very hot in here, so I slowly stand up from my chair and rest against my desk to unbutton my cardigan.

When I do, I notice your eyes voyage downwards to see my hardened nipples straining underneath the tight elastic blouse. Still, no one is saying anything, so I finally break the silence by clearing my throat. So, are there any things you think you could improve on? I noticed you staring at me during work.

Is there something you'd like to say to me, you ask. I don't know what you're talking about just now. I could see you staring at my hands and mouth at the corner of my eye.

I gulp. No, I think you're mistaken. You suddenly stand up and it startles me, causing me to grab the edge of the desk with a death grip as I continue to lean against it.

You step in front of me, a foot of space between us. We just stand there, staring at each other. My breathing becomes ragged.

My face starts tingling as your eyes travel from my eyes to my full, slightly parted lips, to my neck, down to my nipples. He lingers there, licking his lips, and I swear I can feel them getting even harder. You slowly look back up at me until we're eye to eye.

I can smell the peanut butter on your breath and I get flashbacks of what your tongue could do to the hardened peaks beneath my shirt, to the throbbing place between my legs. My legs now twisting in agony. You glance down at them with a coy smile on your face, then return your eyes to mine, eyebrow raised.

Am I mistaken? You ask with a smirk. Since words don't seem to work in my brain anymore, I release a shaky, Shaking your head in doubt, you take a step closer to me.

Instinctually, my head tilts upwards so as not to break eye contact. That's my excuse, anyway. I have no excuse for the way I'm breathing, though.

Asthma wouldn't explain it. The only logical reason is you. Are you sure? You ask while staring down at my mouth.

Before I can deny the obvious, you lean in close to me, and just before our lips touch, I release a small whimper and close my eyes as you reach behind me and set the clipboard down on the desk. The sound of the board hitting the desk makes me realize my mistake. I rub my eyes in a feeble attempt at playing off what I had just done, and when my vision adjusts, it focuses on the sight of you looking at me incredulously with your hands on your hips.

Stupid allergies, I say, and you chuckle at the absurdity of my comment. You move in, leaving only a centimeter between us. My legs spread a bit instinctually to give you space to stand.

It causes my skirt to ride up to my thighs midway. Every time I inhale, my nipples brush against your chest. My eyes cross, and my right eye twitches as if I'm needing maintenance.

I can't make it stop. I can't make my breathing normal. I can't even imagine what you must be thinking about me right now.

Are you okay? You ask with a smirk on your face. My brain is in hibernation mode at this point, so the only thing I can manage to say is a weak, barely audible whimper.

You move your lips to my ear and whisper. You hold all the cards here. You hired me, and you could fire me.

You motion toward the picture frame on my wall. You have a beautiful family, by the way. If I were him, I would want to keep your smoking hot body to myself, too.

You sigh, breathing on my neck, my kegels spasm. So, you realize what I'm up against here. You continue.

You mentioning my husband seems to have helped my eyes right themselves, and I slowly nod my head in a moment of clarity. Don't get me wrong. I'm rock hard just thinking about what I could do to you on this desk right now.

Your nipples are just begging to be sucked on. I want to raise that skirt up to your waist and bury my face between your legs. I would devour your pussy, worshipping it until you came on my tongue.

Then, I'd fuck you so hard the two of us became one dehydrated mess. You sigh with exasperation, taking a step away from me and adjusting your erection. But, I can't take that chance.

I nodded my head, disappointed, but I understood. Thank you for being strong enough for the both of us. Are you happy? In your marriage, I mean.

Yes. He's my world. He just isn't you.

I can't say hearing that doesn't make me feel good. And he's fulfilling your needs. I mean, he's almost perfect, but.

.. But? But? But I don't know how to tell him what I want.

So, you think he would try to do what you wanted if you just told him, or do you think he'd shoot you down? No, I think he'd actually try. I'm just too shy to ask.

I personally think a woman who tells me what she wants is sexy as hell. Really? Oh, hell yes.

Do you want to practice on me, you ask? I thought you said that talking isn't touching. I'm just a friend helping another friend out.

Okay. Okay, sure. Where do we start? First off, I want you to know you're hot as hell.

Any man would be lucky to be with you. I desperately want to know what you want me to do to make you happy. I will do anything you want me to do to make you happy.

Nothing you say to me will make me think any less of you. You're in a safe place. You have all the power here.

Do you understand? I nod my head. Use that confident voice of yours to tell me you understand.

I understand. Good girl. Because what you have to say matters.