Chapter 8: The Afternoon Shift
He didn’t move from his cubicle for nearly an hour. The Montgomery file was a blur of digits, a meaningless sea of black and white. His phone, face-down on the desk, pulsed with a silent, threatening energy. Every few minutes, he’d flip it over, watching the group chat tick with emoji reactions—fire symbols, winking faces, a thumbs-up from Sarah. It was a digital applause track for his own undressing.
The need for coffee was a physical ache, a craving for something normal. He stood, his body feeling oddly heavy, and made his way to the break room.
The room was empty. The fluorescent tube overhead buzzed and flickered, casting a jumpy light over the cheap linoleum. Someone’s birthday cake from last week still sat on the counter, the vanilla frosting crusted and weeping oil. The air smelled of burned coffee grounds and that sickly-sweet decay. He went to the machine, pulled the carafe. Empty.
“Figures.”
The voice came from behind him. Delia. He turned.
She leaned against the doorframe, having softly closed the door behind her. The click of the lock was a tiny, final sound. Delia Moss smiled, her curly blonde hair framing a face that was all mischief and warmth. She pushed her glasses up her nose.
“You look like you’ve had a morning,” she said, her tone light, conversational.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
She walked toward him, her heels silent on the floor. She didn’t stop until she was right in front of him, forcing him back against the edge of the counter. The cake box dug into his hip.
“Catriona’s a little concerned,” Delia said, her voice dropping to a confiding murmur. She reached out and picked a nonexistent piece of lint from his suit jacket. “Millie’s a sweetheart, but let’s be honest, she’s a quick ride. Stamina is a professional asset, Aidan. You need to build it up.”
He stared at her. “Stamina.”
“Mmm. Practice makes perfect.” Her hands went to his belt, her fingers deft and unhurried. There was a comforting, almost maternal certainty to her touch that was more disorienting than Clara’s grim efficiency or Millie’s eager curiosity. “I volunteered to help. Consider it… continuing education.”
The buckle came open. The zipper hissed down. The cold air of the break room hit his skin. He was already half-hard, a traitorous response to the proximity, to the sheer absurdity.
“Delia, I don’t think—”
“Shhh. Thinking’s not your job right now.” She turned, presenting her back to him. She bent forward over the counter, her soft, generous figure curving over the stained surface. She pushed a stack of paper plates out of the way. “Just do the doing, honey.”
She hiked her tweed skirt up around her waist. No stockings today, just smooth skin and simple cotton underwear. She hooked her thumbs in the sides and slid them down. “Come on. We’ve only got twenty minutes. I’ve got a 2:30 call with the IRS. Talk about mood killers.”
Her casual chatter, the mundane reference to her schedule, stripped the act of any pretense of passion. This was a task. A calibration. He stepped forward, his body moving on an automatic pilot he was beginning to hate. He guided himself into her. She was tight, wetter than he expected, and she let out a soft, satisfied sigh as he slid home.
“There we go,” she said, her voice muffled against the Formica. “See? You know the basics.”
She began to move against him, a slow, rocking counter-rhythm. “So,” she said, as if they were chatting by the water cooler. “Millie looked pretty pleased with herself. Get a good selfie?”
He didn’t answer, just gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into soft flesh. He thrust, harder than he meant to.
“Oh, there’s a bit of fire,” she chuckled. “Good. Use it.” She pushed back, meeting him. “Clara looked like she’d sucked a lemon afterward, though. She’s never been good at sharing toys.”
Aidan’s mind recoiled at the word. Toy. He focused on the physicality—the slap of skin, the smell of her perfume and coffee, the gritty texture of the counter under his knuckles.
“Catriona likes a clean finish, you know,” Delia gasped, her composure slipping for a second as her movements became less measured, more urgent. “No condoms. It’s messy. But it’s the proof. The signature.” She reached a hand back, clutching at his thigh. “Don’t you dare stop. I’m close.”
Her body clenched around him, and she came with a series of sharp, gasping moans, her forehead pressed to the cold counter. He felt her pulsing around him, and it triggered his own response, a wave of building pressure he knew he couldn’t, and wasn’t supposed to, restrain.
“Yeah,” she panted, sensing it. “That’s it. Do it. Right there. Sign the work order.”
The crassness of it, the sheer bureaucratic sleaze, was what tipped him over. He groaned, shuddering, emptying into her with a violence that left his knees weak. For a moment, they stayed like that, joined, breathing heavily in the buzzing silence.
Delia was the first to move. She straightened up with a slight wince, pulling her underwear back into place, letting her skirt fall. She turned, looking him up and down with a practiced eye. He was still exposed, spent. She gave a sympathetic little click of her tongue.
“See? Stamina’s fine. You just needed a proper warm-up.” She pulled a pack of wet wipes from her purse—always prepared—and cleaned herself between the legs with brisk, efficient motions. Then she handed one to him.
As he numbly cleaned himself up, she took out her phone. She leaned back against the counter, hiked her skirt again, and aimed the camera at her inner thigh. The evidence was already there. She snapped several photos, selecting the best one with a critical hum.
He zipped his trousers, the sound loud in the quiet room.
Her phone chirped as she sent the picture. She grinned, typing a caption. A second later, Aidan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t need to look to know what the group chat now showed.
Delia put her phone away, smoothed her hair, and adjusted her glasses. She walked to the door, unlocked it, and paused with her hand on the knob.
“Thanks for the extended lunch break, Aidan,” she said, her cheerful, gossipy tone fully restored. She winked. “You’re a quick study. Next time, we’ll work on your… other skills. Catriona mentioned you’re woefully inexperienced with backdoor work. Can’t have that.”
She slipped out, the door swinging shut behind her.
Aidan was alone again with the flickering light and the rotting cake. He pulled out his phone. Delia’s photo was crisp, clear. The caption read: Lunch break extended. Stamina assessment: B+. Needs further practical exams. xoxo D.
Below, Catriona had already reacted: Noted. Schedule follow-up.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket. The hollow feeling wasn’t empty anymore. It was filling up with something cold and dense, like wet cement. He looked at the coffee machine, still empty. He looked at the forgotten cake, a monument to a normal office ritual he’d never be part of. He had seven names left. The practice, it seemed, was just beginning.