My Dirty Little Office Secret

Hey, internet void. It’s Tara. I’m spilling it all here because, well, no one at work can know. I mean, no one. But I have to get this out or I’ll burst. So, here goes.

It started a month ago. New guy walks in—let’s call him J. Fresh shirt, shy smile, hands that look like they know exactly what they’re doing. He’s the new admin, same floor, different department. We met at the coffee machine, both cursing its pathetic drip. I said hi first. “Tara, Marketing.” He shook my hand—warm, firm, lingering a second too long. My stomach did a stupid flip. Just colleagues, right? Just friendly.

Week one, we’re chatting. He’s funny—dry, like he doesn’t even mean to be. We trade memes over Slack, share fries at lunch, laugh about the boss’s bad tie. By week two, it’s different. He’s leaning closer when we talk. I’m noticing his jawline, the way his sleeves roll up. I catch myself staring at his fingers on the keyboard—long, steady—and I’m wet just thinking about where they could go. I’m trying so hard to keep it chill, but my thighs are crossing tighter every time he walks by.

Week three, it’s flirty. Subtle. Safe. He drops a pen by my desk, picks it up, lets his knuckles graze my knee under the table. I pretend it’s nothing, but my pulse is screaming. I “accidentally” brush his arm when I hand him a report. He looks at me—eyes dark, like he knows. But we don’t cross that line. Not yet. We’re just friends. Just… really good friends.

Then yesterday. Oh god, yesterday. 10:47 a.m. Office buzzing, phones ringing, keyboards clacking. He comes to my cube—says he’s helping with my spreadsheet. Everyone’s around, heads down, none the wiser. He leans over, shoulder brushing mine, pointing at my screen like it’s all business. But under the desk, his hand slides up my skirt. Slow. Deliberate. Finds me—lace already damp—and flicks my c*** once. Sharp. I freeze. Pen drops. He doesn’t stop. Another flick. My breath catches. I want to say no—someone could see—but I don’t. I can’t. His thumb circles now, light, then firm. I’m gripping the desk edge, staring at Excel like it’s my lifeline. He’s so calm—still talking about formulas—while I’m unraveling.

I come. Silent. Hard. Full-body jolt—like I got shocked. My chair creaks. Someone looks up—Janet from accounting. “You okay, Tara?” I nod, voice tight. “Just… bumped my knee.” Janet goes back to her email. If only she knew. If only they all knew. My p****** are soaked, thighs trembling, his fingers still there—milking every pulse. He pulls away, wipes his hand on his jeans, and walks off like nothing. Like he didn’t just wreck me in front of twenty people.

I sit there—heart pounding, p**** throbbing, chair wet—trying to type. He’s back at his desk, sipping coffee, smirking. I want to kill him. I want to kiss him. I want him to do it again. Tomorrow, maybe. In the stairwell. Or the elevator. Or right here, with everyone watching, pretending they don’t see.

God, I’m so fucked.