Chapter 2: The Office Analyst
The email from Catriona arrived at 11:47 AM.The subject line read, “Lunch Logistics.” The body was three sentences.
Aidan,
Delia Moss requires your assistance in her cubicle at 12:30 sharp. Ensure her quarterly stress levels are adequately managed.Do not be late.
He stared at the screen until the words blurred.A hot flush crawled up his neck.Delia. The one with the kind eyes and the loud laugh, who always asked about his weekend and brought in banana bread. She had a wedding ring, a silver band worn thin, she’d said, from washing so many baby bottles.His stomach turned.
The open-plan office felt like a terrarium under the relentless buzz of the fluorescent lights.He watched the clock, each minute a lead weight. At 12:28, he stood.His legs were stiff. He walked past the empty desks, the hum of computers and the distant clatter of a keyboard his only company.
Delia’s cubicle was a nest of familial comfort in the sea of corporate grey.Photos of a grinning toddler were tucked into the fabric walls. A crocheted blanket was draped over the back of her chair. The air smelled of her perfume, something warm and vanilla, overlaid with the ghost of microwave popcorn.
She was waiting for him, leaning against her desk with her arms crossed. Her curly blonde hair was a bright halo under the artificial light.She smiled, but it was different now—knowing, edged with a playful sharpness. “Right on time,” she said.Her voice was cheerful, but it held a new note of ownership. “Come in, Aidan.Close the curtain.”
He stepped inside the fabric-walled enclosure. The space was suddenly very small. He pulled the beige curtain along its rod, sealing them in a dim, sound-muffled box.The world outside reduced to vague shapes and muffled echoes.
“Catriona gave you the rundown, I assume?” Delia asked, not moving from her perch on the edge of the desk.He nodded, words stuck in his dry throat.“Good. Then we understand each other.” She pushed off the desk and walked to her chair. She patted the seat. “Sit.”
He obeyed, lowering himself into the chair that still held the warmth of her body.It rolled slightly under his weight.Delia stood before him, looking down. Her gaze was analytical, almost clinical. “You know, we’ve all been wondering,” she said conversationally, as she began unbuttoning her blouse.“Since the gym shower incident with Brenda. She said it was like seeing a myth come to life.” She let the blouse fall open, revealing a practical, lace-trimmed bra.“We had a betting pool on the first verification. I won.”
She unzipped her trousers, wiggling out of them with a practiced ease. She folded them neatly over her desk chair, atop the crocheted blanket. “Catriona always gets first dibs, of course. Queen bee privileges.” She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sensible cotton panties and slid them down.“But second? That’s a position of honor.Means she trusts me to show you the ropes. The real ones.”
Now naked from the waist down, she stepped towards him.Her body was soft, maternal curves over solid muscle. The vanilla scent was stronger now, mixed with something muskier, intimately human. “Scoot forward a bit,” she instructed.He shuffled in the chair. She placed a hand on his shoulder for balance as she swung one leg, then the other, over his thighs, settling into his lap facing him.Her warmth seeped through his trousers. She was so close he could see the faint freckles dusting her nose, the small chip in the lens of her glasses.
“You’re nervous,” she observed, her hands coming up to frame his face.Her touch was surprisingly gentle. “It’s cute.Really. A big boy like you, all shy.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear.Her breath was hot.“Don’t worry. I’m a teacher at heart.My little one’s just starting to talk. This is… a different kind of instruction.”
She shifted her hips, her hand snaking between their bodies to fumble with his belt buckle.The clink was deafening in the quiet cubicle. She worked with efficient focus, freeing him.Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise beneath the performative cheer. “Oh, my. Brenda wasn’t exaggerating.” Her fingers wrapped around him, giving a slow, testing pump. “This is going to be fun.”
She positioned herself, still holding him, and began to lower.It was a slow, deliberate invasion. He gasped, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.She was tighter than Catriona, different. She watched his face, her own a mask of concentrated pleasure as she took him inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her.“There,” she sighed, settling fully onto his lap, not moving yet. “That’s it.Just rest there. Let me do the work.” She began to rock, a slow, undulating grind.It wasn’t frantic; it was possessive, exploratory. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her cheek against his. “You can touch me, you know,” she murmured. “This isn’t a one-way service.”
Tentatively, his hands came to rest on her hips.The skin was warm, the flesh yielding under his fingers.
“Good,” she purred.Her rocking gained a subtle rhythm.“See?Team building. Catriona’s a genius, really.” She let out a soft laugh, a puff of air against his ear.“Okay, dirty joke time. What’s an accountant’s favorite part of a woman?” She paused, her hips circling. “The bottom line.”
He let out a choked sound, half-surprise, half-laugh. The absurdity of it, the sheer surreal normalcy of her dirty joke in the midst of this, unlocked something tense in his chest.
“There we go,” she said, pleased. She picked up her pace slightly, the chair creaking in a steady, rhythmic protest.“You’re loosening up.Next one. Why did the auditor cross the road?” She shifted, a subtle internal clench that made him suck in a breath. “To get to the other side.”
Her jokes were stupid, corny. They were also a lifeline, a bizarre thread of ordinary human interaction in the profoundly unordinary act. He found himself focusing on them, on the rasp of her voice in his ear, as much as the building, coiled sensation in his gut.After a few minutes, her breathing grew more ragged. The cheerful instructor facade cracked at the edges.“Okay, okay,” she whispered, her rhythm faltering. “Enough foreplay.” With a final, deep grind, she lifted herself off him. The sudden emptiness was a shock, cool air against wet skin.She turned around, presenting her back to him. Bending forward, she braced her hands on her desk, next to the photo of her child. The toddler grinned, frozen in time. “Now,” Delia said, her voice dropping, losing all its playful tease.It was plain, direct, hungry. “You’re going to use your tongue.Back there. And you’re not going to finish until I say you can.”
The command was so stark it sliced through the last of his disorientation. He stared at the presented reality, the intimate, hidden anatomy.His face burned. Shame returned in a cold wave, but it was tangled now with a compulsive urge to obey, to prove he could do this, that he was worth the job, the salary, the fucking banana bread.
He got on his knees on the cheap office carpet.The fibers scratched through his trousers. He put his hands on the backs of her thighs to steady himself.The vanilla-musk scent was overwhelming here, earthy and complex. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and leaned in.The taste was salty, sharp.The texture was alien. She let out a low, shuddering moan the moment his tongue made contact, a sound utterly devoid of cheerfulness.It was a raw, guttural noise of pleasure. “Yes,” she hissed, pushing back against his face.“Just like that.Don’t be shy now. Get in there.”
He obeyed, losing himself in the mechanics of the task. His own arousal, which had flagged for a moment, returned with a vengeance, a painful, throbbing demand between his own legs.He was simultaneously completely detached and hyper-focused, a servant performing a specified duty.
It didn’t take long.Her moans became urgent, fragmented. Her hands clenched into fists on the desk, knocking a pen to the floor. With a final, sharp cry she muffled by biting her own arm, her body tightened, convulsing.She slumped forward, breathing heavily.
“Okay,” she panted, not moving.“Okay.Now.Back inside. Finish.”
He rose on unsteady knees, his own need a blinding imperative. He entered her again from behind, his hands gripping her hips. This was faster, harder, driven by a cocktail of instruction, shame, and pure, unadulterated physical need. She cried out again, softer this time, as he drove into her.
His climax tore through him with a violence that left him dizzy, his forehead pressed against her sweat-dampened back as he emptied into her with a series of ragged groans.Silence. The only sounds were their labored breathing and the eternal, indifferent buzz of the lights.
Slowly, he pulled out. He saw the evidence of his obedience drip onto the cubicle carpet, a single stark droplet on the grey fibres.Delia straightened up, turned around. Her face was flushed, her glasses slightly askew. The cheerful mask was back, but it was softer now, satiated.She grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and cleaned herself with a few efficient motions. Then, she picked up her phone.
“Smile,” she said, not to him, but to the phone’s screen.She angled it downwards between her legs and took a picture. The flash was a tiny, brutal star in the dim cubicle. She examined the photo, nodded, and began typing with her thumbs. A second later, a soft swoosh sound confirmed a sent message.She held the phone up for him to see.The image was graphic, unambiguous. Beneath it, in a text thread with Catriona, was a single line from Delia: Stress officially managed!😂
Aidan looked away, his face flaming.
Delia laughed, a real, bright sound.She reached down and squeezed him, still semi-hard. “Oh, don’t be so red-faced.You did great. Really great.” She pulled her underwear back on, then her trousers.“You’re a quick learner. Brenda’s gonna love you on Tuesday.” She buttoned her blouse, tucked it in.“Now, go get some lunch. You’ve earned it. And hey—” She winked as she pulled the cubicle curtain open, flooding the space with harsh light and the mundane office noise. “My husband’s picking up the little one today. So… thanks for handling my midday tension.”
He dressed clumsily, his fingers fumbling. As he slipped out of her cubicle, the normal world rushed back in—the click-clack of keyboards, the smell of reheated leftovers, someone asking about a missing stapler. He walked back to his desk, the phantom sensation of her on his lap, the taste of her on his tongue, clinging to him more persistently than any scent.He sat down. His email was open, the “Lunch Logistics” message still on top.Another email popped into his inbox. It was from Catriona.No subject.It contained only the photo Delia had sent.No comment.
He stared at the image of his own making, displayed on his company-monitored screen, and felt a strange, hollow pang of pride beneath the shame.He was doing his job. He was part of the team. And he was, despite everything, painfully hard again.