Christine stared in the mirror, her hands gliding slowly over her bare flesh. Fingers splayed, heat spreading from the contact. Slipping over her trim waist, just above where her pencil skirt began, then slowly upwards. Breath catching as her back arched. Palms on stomach, need erupting deep within her, a living, breathing thing.
Her hands moved to rest behind her back. They weren’t blocking the view that way. She couldn’t remember making them move. She must have. She could feel them there. Reaching up behind herself until her fingers caught in her bra strap. It wasn’t important. She wasn’t important. Only what she could see.
It was her voice but she quailed before it like a guilty schoolgirl before a fierce headmistress. What she could see didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been blindfolded.
What was important was what someone watching her might have seen. A young, pretty, blonde woman, naked from the waist up except for her bra.
That’s what they’d have seen.
It felt so good to be partly naked. Exposed. Her eyelids fluttered at the mere thought of the word. She could taste. She needed it.
Christine hadn’t been home all that long. She’d been out drinking with friends. She’d only had two glasses. But time had swept away, as it does, when you’re so tired from work and you just want some company and the need to forget pulls at you like water down a drain.
She’d almost forgotten her own name.
Her name wasn’t important.
Only her need was important. The need to expose her skin, her body. It was pulling at her, the craving clawing at her mind, driving out any other thoughts.
Christine’s eyes were fixed on the mirror. Seeing how much of her was exposed. How much more could be. Her pulse was pounding in her ears. Warmth, hot and dark, was shooting through her, pleasure overwhelming her as the driving need to be exposed was met.
Without thinking Christine turned side on, one hand held out of the way as one finger of the other hand drifted up her side, from the waistband of her skirt to her bra strap. Her breast was clearly outlined in her bra as her back arched.
There was so much more to see.
Why does that matter? It was an errant thought. Christine was almost surprised she could string that many words together. The hint of alcohol teased at the edge of her mind, mixed with the lethargy of the end of the day.
Even that wasn’t enough to explain the fog around her thoughts. Or the crashing need to rid herself of her clothes. Or the heat between her legs. She turned back to face the mirror, hands on her hips.
That way she could see how much of her was exposed.
She’d taken off her blouse. She knew that. Christine couldn’t really remember doing it, but she knew that she had. Because she wasn’t wearing it any more. She could see that, in the mirror. She could see her stomach. Which, if not flat, was nicely curved thanks to her visits to the gym and a diet carefully watched, her waist trim before her torso flared out to her hips. Hips that were still encased in her skirt. She could see her skirt.
Under that skirt was somewhere that was melting.
Christine didn’t want to think about that.
Her eyes were fixed on her reflection. Her pale skin glowed in the mirror, blonde hair falling about her shoulders. She could feel her own gaze on herself. It was as good as her hand had felt. Better. Her hand had obstructed her view.
Her view didn’t matter. It simply told her what someone else might be able to see.
Her body was so exposed, her breath catching at the thought, her lower lip quivering, raw need gathering at her centre, spreading outwards.
Christine’s eyes drifted upwards, came to rest on the reflection of her bra-encased breasts. With her blouse gone they were so easy to see. She heard someone moan. Realised that it was herself. Her body ached with need. Her centre was crying out. But not to be touched.
It wanted her to keep doing what she was doing. She needed to be more exposed. She knew that. It was the only thing that would satisfy her cravings.
Christine could see what one of her hands was doing now, as its reflection drifted upwards, came to rest on her bra, sparks shooting through her from the touch.
It wasn’t the touch that had those sparks running up her spine to explode in her brain. She could imagine what someone might think if they were watching her. Their eyes would be glued to her hand. They’d be thinking about what it promised. They’d see an attractive young woman running a finger along the edge of her bra. They’d see the way her finger’s touch was stoking her arousal higher and higher, the flush in her cheeks, the pout of her lips. She could almost taste the heat inside herself. It was as if someone was working her clit. Better, perhaps. Even the best of her lovers, not that she’d had that many, had never made her feel like this. That she was teetering on the edge. That she was going to come apart. Delicate fingers of arousal were coursing through her, matching her own finger as it slowly traced along the flesh of her breast.
The exposed part of her breast. She needed to be more exposed.
Christine couldn’t understand why she was touching her breast like that. She didn’t think she was telling her hand to do that. But it was doing it. She could feel her finger as it traced across her breast. It felt so good. But what was even better was how much of her was exposed.
It would feel even better if there was more of her to be seen. She had to do it. She knew there was no logic to the desire, but that didn’t matter. She had to be more exposed.
She needed to let that imaginary watcher see more. She needed to let them see her breasts. It was such a simple thought. Uncomplicated. Obvious. She needed to breathe. She needed to eat.
She needed to let them see her breasts.
Not like she needed to breathe. Or to eat. Or to drink. They were simple things. Ordinary. There was no passion in them. The need to have her breasts exposed was a living thing. All fire and heat and desire. She’d die if she didn’t do it. The skin of her breasts was aching, a delicious need that caught in the back of her throat.
Christine’s hands fumbled behind her back for the catch of her bra. She paused, almost frozen, as she undid it.
What am I doing?
In some ways that was an easy question. This was what she did every night. Took off her clothes. Took off her underwear. It was what anyone did.
It wasn’t the same.
She’d never watched herself, her eyes glued to her reflection. Drinking it in. More than that, knowing that she looked like this. Knowing how much she could see of herself. Knowing how much someone else could see if they were watching. Her knees trembling as arousal raced through her. She could feel how wet she was. Christine knew how much of her body could be seen if anyone was watching. Knew how much more would be seen if she took off her bra.
Her hands were on her shoulders, fingertips finding the straps of her bra, the touch of the material making her breath catch. Slowly, gently, she slipped those straps off her shoulders, her arms clasped to her sides to hold the cups in place. Her hands found her breasts. If she lowered her hands her breasts would be exposed.
What does that matter?
Christine had seen them before. Hundreds of times. Thousands. It wasn’t unusual.
It had never felt like this. It was so good. So necessary.
If she lowered her hands she could be seen. She’d be exposed.
It was just a word.
If it was just a word, why did it have her quivering like this? The anticipation was sending chills through her. She couldn’t stop herself. She had to do this. Slowly she lowered her hands, more and more of her flesh coming into view, the idea sending a thrill through her. A thrill so good she could taste it. Hot and delicious and as tempting as sin.
Christine stopped. She was sure that she could just see the edge of one of her areola. The left one. She must have lowered that hand a little more than the right. She could just see the curve of the edge, the dark pink clear against the pale skin of her breast. Nervously she licked her lips. She could do this. She’d done it so many times. But not like this. Not with the idea of someone watching her. Not with the thought of what they could see. Not with the pressing need that was tearing her apart.
Slowly Christine lowered her hands.
Her centre was throbbing as her bra crept lower, the gentle friction of the material as it slid over her diamond-tipped nipples like a tongue on her clit, like a rock-hard cock thrusting deep between her legs. Her eyelids were fluttering, her focus shattering. It didn’t matter. If someone was watching they could still see her.
Her hands dropped lower, her breasts exposed. They were firm and pert and anyone who could see her would be able to see them.
It was so good.
It wasn’t enough. That imaginary audience wouldn’t want to stop with her breasts. Being naked from the waist up wasn’t satisfying her need. It wasn’t enough.
Christine swallowed, nervously, her hands trembling as they reached for the zipper of her skirt.
She was so wet. She could feel her arousal trickling down her leg. Her panties must be soaked for that to be happening.
Her zipper was undone now. It would take so little to pull her skirt down, over her hips. Just slide it down. Like she was sliding it down now. Like it was slipping over her hips. Christine could see the reflection of her panties now. They were soaked, the flimsy material almost transparent. As she edged her skirt lower she could see her thighs, a clear line of moisture on one. Her thighs were exposed. It felt so good, like water to a woman dying of thirst. Anyone watching would know how aroused she was.
Christine’s skirt slipped from her nerveless fingers. The moment it the floor her hips jerked as she came, bliss exploding within her, what few thoughts she had left shattering as the orgasm rolled over her.
“What the fuck was that?” Christine cried in confusion, still trembling from the aftershocks of her peak. She’d never done anything like that. She wasn’t an exhibitionist. The need was gone. Vanished. But she could remember what it had felt like.
Christine crossed her arms over her chest, shoulders hunched and head bowed like an embarrassed schoolgirl. Then angrily she pulled her arms away. She was alone, in her own apartment. Who cared if she was almost naked?
With a shiver she pushed that thought away.
Maybe it’s just been too long. That had to be it. She’d been ignoring her own needs. It couldn’t have been anything else. It couldn’t have been that friend of a friend who’d been with them tonight. The short, blonde, girl, whose name Christine thought was Alice. Who’d made them play that silly game. Look at another person and say the first word that came into your head. Christine could hardly remember any of it.
Except when Alice had looked at her and said “Exposed.”
That couldn’t be it. Except that it might just have set something off because Christine had been single for too damn long. And even if it was she was done with it now. Hastily Christine slipped on the long t-shirt she slept in, fetched a clean pair of panties.
She had no urge to take them off.
No silly images, no unwanted desire. No burning, crashing, unstoppable need.
Christine wasn’t going to think about what she’d done. It didn’t mean anything. She forgot about it.
Until the next night.
Christine stood in front of her mirror again, her hands cupping her naked breasts. Offering them up.
Her pink nipples were engorged. She could see her own reflection, but she wasn’t offering her breasts to herself. It was to that imaginary audience. She could feel her fingers on her flesh, feel the heat radiating from her breasts. Feel an answering fire deep inside her. Feel her arousal trickling down her leg.
She knew now just how soaked her panties were if that was happening.
Someone who might be watching would see how aroused she was. Would see the flush in her cheeks. Would hear her moan, her need hot and urgent. Anyone watching would be able to hear her.
What a watcher wouldn’t know was how much she needed this. How nothing else mattered. How she couldn’t think of anything else.
Of course no-one could be watching. She was home, alone. The curtains were drawn. So no-one could see her. But Christine could imagine it. Could almost feel their eyes on her. But they wouldn’t want her to stop with her breasts. She hadn’t stopped there last night. Why would she stop there now? When this felt so good.
No. Something, some little voice, tried to tell her that this was wrong. That no matter how good she felt she shouldn’t like this. Shouldn’t want this.
She wanted it. More than wanted it, she needed it. She couldn’t stop herself. There was an ache, deep inside, that would only be satisfied if she was exposed.
Shaking, Christine’s hand sank to the zipper on her skirt, pulled it down. Let the garment drop to the floor. Pleasure rushed through her, it felt so good. But the need was still there. Riding her. Leaving her without choices, her resolve vanishing like smoke.
Anyone watching would be able to see her legs now. Her sculpted calves. Her trim thighs. They might even be able to see the trickle of moisture on them. They’d see her panties. How wet they were.
Christine could see her labia, clear through the drenched fabric. Her hands lingered at the waistband. She could hook her fingers into the elastic, slip them down.
It would be so easy.
She knew that she could. She wanted to. Her fingers were tingling with the need to just do it.
Christine felt the gentlest scrape as her thumbs hooked into the elastic, her fingernails grazing over her skin. It was such a slight touch but need sparked from there to her centre, hot waves rolling over her body, fogging her mind.
She stood there, indecisive. She could remove her hands. Or she could pull her hands down. Take her panties with them.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her breasts ached. Ached as they never had for a lover’s kiss, for someone’s hands on them. Ached for her to pull that scrap of cloth down. She could feel her clit, engorged, throbbing with need. Feel the moisture leaking out of her.
It wouldn’t hurt to edge her panties down, just a little. That wouldn’t show much. And she so badly wanted to do it.
Christine moaned as the soft flesh came into view. As a few blonde hairs poked over the edge of the undergarment. Was that what someone looking would want to see? Or would they want to just see her skin? Know that she’d removed her hair? Just for them?
If she shaved off her hair she’d be even more exposed.
With the slightest movement of Christine’s hands more of her stood exposed. She was so close to showing everything. She was so close.
Christine knew that she shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t feel this way. Shouldn’t be giving into these urges. Shouldn’t be drowning in bliss at the mere thought of letting her panties fall to the floor. All she’d have left were her shoes. She glanced at them, high-heeled and glossy black. Why had she worn them? They were so much higher than what she usually wore to work.
They displayed her legs so well.
“Oh God, yes.” Just the thought of that made Christine’s breath hitch, her eyelids flutter. Her hips thrust forward.
She pulled the elastic over the curve of her hips, her eyes taking in the moisture clear in her bush.
Christine came the moment her panties hit the floor, the soaked garment bunching around her heels, bliss rocketing up her spine, her thoughts exploding into a million sparkling shards.
When she could think again Christine resolved that she was never doing that again.
She was still telling herself that the next morning at work. She wasn’t going to give some imaginary audience a show. Wasn’t going to give in to those urges. Urges that she could feel, just under her skin, pulling at the edges of her mind.
Pushing the need away Christine looked around at her colleagues as she sat in the meeting. She could barely remember what it had been about. The whole time she’d been fighting the urge to expose herself. She wondered what they would think of her if they knew. Knew that she was getting off at night to the thought of someone seeing her naked. What would they think, if they saw her like that? Saw her undoing her blouse. Saw her slipping it off. Saw her bra following it. Saw her panties falling to the floor. Saw her naked. Her skin was itching, her hands quivering. It would be so easy to take her clothes off. It would feel so good. The urge was moving through her mind. It was less than idea. It was primal. She needed to be exposed.
“And that wraps it up,” Bill, her boss, declared. “We’re done early. You can have fifteen minutes of your life back.”
Hastily Christine pulled her hand away from the top button of her blouse. She wanted to disappear, have the floor open up and have her sink into some dark hole. She couldn’t believe that she’d even been thinking about undoing that button.
She definitely couldn’t believe how turned on she was by the idea.
Christine sat there, after everyone else had filed out of the room. After the door had closed. She was alone, her hands quivering as she fought the idea, the temptation, the need, of being exposed. She could imagine her colleagues, her boss, going back to their desks. Maybe they’d notice that she wasn’t with them. Maybe not. Maybe some of them would realise that she was still in the room. Would glance in her direction. If the walls weren’t there they’d see her.
See her as she rose from her seat, walked over to the door. See her flick the lock, so no-one could come in. No-one would want to. The next possible meeting wasn’t for another fifteen minutes. She had time. She could do what she wanted.
What she needed to do.
Maybe her colleagues would keep looking in her direction, wondering when she was going to emerge from the room. If it wasn’t for the walls they’d be able to see her. Their eyes would be on her. They’d watch as her hand went back to her button. Undid it. Then undid another one.
It felt so good.
After that they’d see the edges of her blouse fall back, her smooth skin coming into view.
Christine’s free hand was shaking. She didn’t want to do this. She shouldn’t be doing it. Couldn’t be. She could ruin her career, her life.
But the blood was pounding in her ears again, the fire was burning between her legs. She could imagine everyone’s eyes turned in her direction.
It was what she needed to do.
Christine undid another button, the one just over her bra. She could feel the sides of her blouse falling away, like a leaf on a breeze, unveiling the lacy garment beneath, the flesh of her breasts open to whoever might be watching.
Why had she worn that bra today? Usually she simply wore something sensible. Not this. This one was for special occasions.
This was a special occasion, her nipples so hard and her breasts aching to be free. To be exposed.
This was so much better than at home. She barely knew her neighbours, the people that shared her apartment building. Didn’t know when they were home or out.
Didn’t know if they’d been awake when she’d done what she’d done the last two nights. But right now she was so close to people that she knew. They were just out there.
Need danced between her legs, pulled at every inch of her.
Christine undid another button, her knees going weak as arousal coursed through her.
She was almost cumming as her blouse hit the floor. If someone did come through the door they’d see her in her bra.
No-one was going to come through the door. Christine knew that. She’d locked it. But if someone did come through they’d see her taking off her bra. See her slowly lowering it to expose her breasts.
That’d be wrong. Christine knew that getting aroused at the thought of anyone coming through that door, seeing her strip, was wrong. This wasn’t her. It wasn’t what she wanted.
Except it was. She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything else. She knew that if someone could see her it would be so much better. So much better than the electric fire that was racing through her at the thought.
A moan tore from Christine’s throat as she let her bra drop to the floor
Her colleagues were metres away. Metres from where she stood, naked from the waist up, her cheeks flushed, her nipples erect, her bare sin feeling so alive. Maybe someone was looking in her direction right now. Just a casual glance. Not realising what they’d see if it wasn’t for the wall between them. Her lips quivered at the thought, chin rising as her back arched. They’d see even more like that, her breasts presented, nipples erect as her hands played over her torso.
Not because she liked the touch, but because someone watching might to see her do that.
It wasn’t enough. She could do more. She had to do more.
Christine imagined her colleagues’ eyes on her. She could feel it, their gaze caressing her breasts, the sensation shooting down to burn between her legs. She was moaning, as she silently prayed that no-one would hear her. What would she look like if they did see her? An office worker, naked from the waist up, like some wanton slut, her hands sliding up her sides to cup her breasts, offering them up, her head thrown back, eyes half-closed as desire washed over her. They’d be able to tell how aroused she was, from the bright flush in her cheeks, a flush the spread to her chest, her stomach.
All parts of her that were exposed.
Another moan tore from Christine’s throat as she slipped her skirt over her hips.
Christine eyes were riveted on the door. That’s where someone would stand when they saw her. They might knock, wondering where she was, wondering if the sound meant there was something wrong. They wouldn’t be able to get in. But she wouldn’t be able to open it. Not immediately. Would they wonder what she was doing, as she desperately grabbed for her clothes. Would they imagine that she was naked?
You’re not naked.
Her voice again, but crushing down on her mind. She wasn’t naked, not completely. There was still more she could do. She still had her panties on. She could take them off. It wouldn’t add much to the time it would take her to get dressed. It wouldn’t matter.
Except that it would matter. If she took her panties off she’d be totally naked, so close to her colleagues, so close to all these people that she knew.
And it would feel so much better.
Shame and humiliation flashed through her. But the feelings were weak, so much less than the searing heat, the animal need, that roiled through her mind. The need to take off every stitch of clothing that she had.
If someone did come through that door they’d see Christine hook her thumbs into the waistband of her panties. See her taking them down.
But they’d want to see more than that. For a moment Christine pulled her panties back up, reached her hands over her head, spun on the spot. As she turned Christine could feel the weight of her breasts, pulling at her chest, free and exposed.
Christine let her hands glide down her side, looked at the door from under hooded eyelids. Cocked her hips and smiled as her thumbs hooked into her waistband again.
She was easing them down. She was going to be naked. At work. If someone did come through the door they’d see her. See all of her. See everything she had.
Everything she was.
The moment she let her panties drop Christine came, her eyelids fluttering, head thrown back as a yet another moan escaped her lips. She leaned back against the table, hands gripped its edge. Her high-heeled feet were planted a foot apart.
Christine shuddered as the waves rolled over her. She wanted more. She could touch herself, roll her clit between her thumb and forefinger, sink her fingers into her opening.
She wouldn’t do that.
It would stop someone seeing her.
Never again, Christine told herself firmly as she hurried back to her desk. I’m never doing that again. It had been wrong and stupid and she had no idea why she’d done it.
Except that it had felt so good.
Christine imagined that everyone’s eyes were on her. What would they think if they knew what she’d done? They’d despise her, Christine was sure of that. But would they like what they saw? What would it feel like, to actually see their eyes as she stood there naked, exposed?
I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I couldn’t.
Christine knew it was impossible. She wasn’t about to jump on her desk and start giving everyone a show.
Even if it was so tempting. A real person, actually looking at her. While she was naked. Exposed. The tip of her tongue emerged, licking at her upper lip. What would it feel like to have a person actually looking at her while she was exposed? Their eyes running over her, their gaze on her body, drinking her in, seeing everything. Every line, every curve, all her private places. Christine was swallowing. Licking her lips. Running a hand up one thigh. That hand edging closer to her dripping centre. She wasn’t going to touch herself. She couldn’t. Her hand would be in the way then.
God, what am I thinking?
Of course she wasn’t going to touch herself. That would be so wrong. To do something like that, out here, where everyone could see her?
Just, no. She wasn’t going to take such a risk at work ever again. She was resolved.
She wasn’t going to think about the other reason she wasn’t touching herself.
But the image wouldn’t let go, an actual person looking at her, while she was naked. Their eyes would linger on her, possessing her. The idea drove into her, teasing, tempting, sneaking through her mind, making her blood pound in her ears. All through the rest of the morning. All through lunch, as she picked at her food. The last two nights, that morning at work, she’d been imagining people looking at her. What would it feel like if someone actually was?
A moan escaped Christine’s lips at the thought, her centre moistening.
Eyes wide Christine glanced around, hoping no-one had heard her. To her relief no-one was looking at her. Not the couple two tables across, absorbed in each other’s presence. Not the other people scattered around the coffee shop, just as fixed on electronic devices as the lovers were on each other. Not the short, blonde, woman, contentedly sipping her coffee and gazing off into space.
I can’t. I just can’t. It was stupid and I’m not doing it again.
Christine didn’t want to think about the need crawling through her mind, tugging at her. Making her skin itch where something covered it.
Back at work, sitting at her desk in the open-plan office, Christine couldn’t concentrate on her work, words and numbers and graphs meaningless. She knew what she wanted. She glanced at her colleagues. What would they think? What would her boss think? She couldn’t do this.
But a need was pressing at her, a hand drifting to the buttons of her blouse or to the zipper of skirt before she angrily pulled it back.
She couldn’t do this.
She undid a button.
Her breasts were aching, need thundering through her. She needed to do something. She needed to take her clothes off. Even if no-one could actually see her. It didn’t matter that she’d done it just a few hours before. It didn’t matter that she was still at work. Her skin was burning up, heat and desire, the need to expose herself a living thing, filling her. Driving out every other desire. Her resolve was a shrivelled, useless, thing.
Desperately Christine looked around. The main meeting room was occupied. But there was a smaller one. Its door was open, inviting. No-one was in there.
Hastily Christine brought up on the on-line booking system. The room was free. For the whole afternoon. She wouldn’t need that long.
Christine leapt to her feet. Grabbing her things she almost ran to the room. She sighed in relief as she closed the door. Sank back against it before locking it. With shaky steps she headed over to the table, dropped her things on it.
Her hands flew to her buttons.
The room was small, but large enough for what she needed. Large enough for Christine to strip down, expose herself, her arousal burning hotter with each item of clothing she removed. With each one removed the need to expose herself shot higher. Her breath caught as her blouse drifted to the floor. Licking her lips she slipped out of her bra. Eyelids fluttering Christine worked her skirt over her hips.
Christine’s fingers tweaked her nipples, her hips jerking forward as she came.
She was naked, clad only in her high heels.
Christine shook her head, unable to believe what she’d just done. She couldn’t believe that she’d given in, again. When she’d told herself that she wouldn’t.
This is the last time. I promise. It had to be. What she was doing was too risky.
How loud had she been? Too loud, she was certain of that. Someone had to have heard her. She was dying of embarrassment. What was wrong with her? She didn’t want to think about it.
Quickly she grabbed her bra, tugging it on before pulling on her blouse, her arms tangling in the fabric, haste making her clumsy.
She hadn’t been clumsy as her hands had played over her naked flesh.
Half-naked Christine gazed numbly at the door. Thought about resuming her seat in the open-plan office. Trying to bury herself in her work. She refused to think about what she’d done. Refused to think about what someone could have seen if she hadn’t been alone in the room.
Refused to think about how much better it would have been if someone had actually seen her.
The idea was still in her head. Someone actually seeing her. Even with what she’d just done she’d only been able to imagine what that would be like.
Christine shook her head as she turned back to the table, leaned on it. There was no way she could do that. Be naked in front of her colleagues.
Christine frowned. She wasn’t leaning on a table. She was leaning on a desk. She was sure that this room had had a table. But it clearly didn’t. And it wasn’t just a desk. It looked old fashioned, if not old, the front of the desk was a solid panel that reached almost right down to the floor. Drawers on either side. The lower half of anyone seated at the desk would be totally out of sight.
Christine glanced down, the signs of her arousal clear in the moisture beading in her pubic hair.
I can’t. She’d told herself, just moments ago, that she’d never do it again.
I just can’t.
Christine knew that wasn’t true. She could. It would be so wrong. But she could. But if she did it would be risking so much more.
The need was still there, pulling at her.
It would be so much better if someone could see me.
Christine didn’t know where that thought had come from. Didn’t know why she believed it. But it was true. As true as the liquid arousal coursing through her.
Swallowing nervously Christine shoved her skirt and panties into a drawer. Unlocked the door before scurrying back to the desk, aware that she was naked from the waist down. Someone could come through the door.
She wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing. The skin on her legs tingled. So much freer, so much better, than being clothed. She could feel it. In her thighs. Behind her knees. Along her calves, electric pulses rocketing through her nerves, shooting to her centre.
A centre that was melting. Hot and sticky.
Christine couldn’t believe that she was doing this. Couldn’t believe that she wanted to do this.
She did. The way the idea was turning her on left no doubt of that.
But sitting there by herself didn’t achieve anything.
She could do something about that.
Hands shaking she opened her laptop, turned it on. Opened her email. Started composing a message.
‘Tania, could we talk about the Peterson contract? I’m in meeting room 2.’
The letters stared back at Christine from the screen. She didn’t have to send the message. And even if she did Tania might say no. Might say she was too busy. She didn’t want Tania to come in.
If she didn’t want Tania to come in, then why was she imagining the door opening? Imagining her colleague standing there. Imagining what Tania could see if the desk wasn’t there. Imagining how turned on that would make her.
Knowing how turned on she was.
Christine hit send.
Oh fuck, what have I done?
Desperately Christine wondered if she should send another message, tell Tania not to come. Or call her. Maybe it was too late already. Maybe Tania was on her way to the room. Was looking in Christine’s direction. Christine’s breath hitched.
The door opened.
Tania stood there, a questioning look on her attractive Asian features. “What are you doing in here? You know we’re only supposed to book these rooms for proper meetings.”
Tania was looking at her. Christine was half-naked and someone was looking for her. She could feel her nipples poking in to her bra. Feel the heat melting her centre, warm and wet and trickling between her thighs to pool underneath her on the seat of the chair. She could feel the flush in her cheeks. Feel the need coursing through her. More than that she could feel Tania’s eyes on her, like a physical touch, heat searing through her, so much better than any lover’s caress.
She could stand up. She could undo her blouse. It would be so easy. It would feel so good. She wanted to do it. She needed to.
Somehow Christine stopped herself.
“Well, uh,” Christine managed. “This is a meeting. So it’s proper.” She wasn’t sure how she managed to say anything. Her blood was burning. It didn’t matter whether the excuse she’d given Tania was tissue thin. Someone was looking at her. She could feel Tania’s eyes on her. It didn’t matter that, as far as Christine knew, Tania wasn’t into girls. Neither was she. All it mattered was that someone could see her.
It didn’t matter that the desk stopped Tania seeing Christine’s naked flesh. Well, not much. This was so much better. It would be even better if the desk wasn’t there, if Tania could see her naked flesh, but Christine knew that she couldn’t do that. And at least someone was looking at her, while she was naked.
The thought had her breath catching. Every time Tania glanced in her direction it was like a lover’s fingers stroking her. Christine could feel it. On her throat. On her breasts where they still lay hidden. And, when Tania glanced down, on her naked, needy, flesh, underneath the desk. It was better than anything she’d ever felt.
Why? Christine didn’t understand why she wanted this. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t right. It was so, so wrong. But it was so good. So much better than the morning. So much better than when she’d been alone in the room. A desk was so much less than a wall. What would Tania think, if she knew?
Tania looked at her again, Christine’s arousal spiking. She was sure the line of Tania’s gaze had swept over where her clit lay. She was so close to cumming.
“Are you okay?” her colleague frowned.
“Yeah, ah, sure,” the blonde replied.
“So what did you want?” Tania explained.
“The analysis needs more work,” Christine explained. It was true, but it didn’t need a meeting. She didn’t care. She just needed someone here. “Have you got your copy?”
God, she wanted to cum.
Tania shook her head. “No. But I can just come around there and we can both look at it.”
“No!” Christine cried. If Tania came around her side of the desk she really would see. See that Christine was naked from the waist down.
She wasn’t ready for that.
Something told Christine to ignore that thought. “No, uh. Go get your laptop. If we both have it open we can edit it together.”
With a shrug Tania turned and left.
Christine stopped breathing. Tania hadn’t shut the door. If anyone looked at her they’d see her. They wouldn’t know. But they’d see her. Their eyes would be on her. When she was naked.
Christine gripped the edges of the desk. Tried to get herself under control. She couldn’t let herself cum.
Christine wasn’t sure how long it took for Tania to reappear. As she stood in the doorway Christine was sure Tania could see her feet, poking under the edge of the desk. She had her heels on. Tania wouldn’t know that was all she had on. That her legs were bare. That her skirt was in one of the desk’s drawers. With her panties.
Christine’s arousal shot higher.
Tania slipped into the chair opposite Christine. Every time that Tania glanced in her direction Christine imagined what her colleague would see if the desk wasn’t there. What would Tania think if she did see? Christine could barely concentrate, hot, delicious, need radiating from her centre. Tania’s eyes were on her. She was half-naked and talking to someone. She’d never done that before.
Of course she’d done that before. More than that. It wasn’t like she’d never said a word when she’d been naked with one of her boyfriends. Cries and demands as clothes were lost. If she was lucky some tender words afterwards.
This wasn’t anything like that.
This was making her heart pound. Her body sing, her nerves alive, hovering on the edge of bliss.
Tania didn’t care for her, not like a lover. Tania was just someone who could see her. That made it better. Tania was clothed. It was only Christine who wasn’t.
That made it better too.
The blonde’s arousal drove through her. It was delicious torture.
“Okay, that everything?” Tania asked at last.
“I, I think so,” Christine acknowledged. She was on edge. Had been for she didn’t know how long. Didn’t know how much longer she could hold on. She needed to cum. Had been so close so many times. But she knew she couldn’t. Tania would know what was happening. She couldn’t risk that. “Could you shut the door after you?”
Tania paused in the door way. She looked back. Christine almost lost it as the brunette’s eyes lingered on her.
Tania shrugged, and closed the door after her.
“Oh, fuck,” Christine cried, hips lifting off the chair and head falling back as the orgasm ripped through her. If Tania had still been there she’d have known. If the desk hadn’t been in the way she’d have seen everything.
She could see more.
No! she had to stop doing this. It was so wrong. Christine didn’t understand where these urges were coming from. Even now she could feel them, making her lips dry, making her fingers twitch. She could feel how good it would be if there was nothing between her and whoever was watching.
Feel how good it would be if she was exposed.
Her hand drifted towards her centre, her fingers brush the fine hairs that lay there.
Swallowing nervously Christine could imagine it.
No! I won’t. I won’t.
She wasn’t going to give in. As Christine pulled her skirt and panties out of the drawer she told herself that she was never doing anything like this again.