She Risked Giving Herself Away Fantasising Over Her Office Crush
When your desire is too strong, what choice do you have?
Wendy drummed her fingers on the back of her mouse.
The plasticky sound was louder than she had intended, and she glanced nervously over the partition at Ciara. But her colleague was apparently engrossed by her screen, her head craned slightly forward, her light ponytail catching on her jumper so that it splayed into wispy arcs beside her neck.
Wendy’s eyes lingered. How could they not? Ciara was undeniably handsome; but it was her idiosyncrasies that had made a growing snowball out of Wendy’s secret crush on her. Her powerful, office-Valkyrie physique was the most obvious: a total contrast to Wendy’s tiny Celtic rose, and so compelling, and exotic, as a result. But her flighty enthusiasm for everything and everyone; and the tangible insecurity beneath: they just made Wendy want to laugh with her, hold her, love her.
And now: why was she smiling, ever so faintly? Was she internet surfing, here in the office late at night? Or was she somehow amused by the client brief she was reviewing? Wendy dropped her eyes, finally embarrassed to have stared so long. She wanted to say something witty, make Ciara look at her. But nothing came to mind, and she gazed morosely through the keyboard.
This was not the first time the two of them were the last in the office, and not the first time Wendy had stayed only because Ciara was there. Over the months — was it years? — Wendy had been waiting, hoping, desperate for a chance meeting of hands, or turn of conversation, that might suggest that Ciara had feelings for her too.
To no avail. Ciara was friendly, a familiar and comfortable colleague. But never a flirt, never a connection. Wendy’s only consolation, only hope, was Ciara’s apparent lack of a partner. Perhaps that was why she so often worked late.
Just look at me! Wendy roared, in her mind. So I can look back, our eyes can meet; and the office, the desks, and that cursed partition can go into soft focus, can fade into irrelevance. So we can fall in love, at last.
Fat chance. Wendy glanced over again. Ciara was still distracted. She didn’t seem to be looking at the screen, but at its base, as though lost in thought. Her lips had parted slightly, and their shape lingered in Wendy’s mind as she looked away.
A sharp upper edge under ethereal wisps, falling around and inward; a texture of fine lines on pale salmon. A dark gap, a hint of white teeth. Then out again, full and perfectly rounded. How Wendy wanted to touch those shapes, with her fingertips, with her own lips. To feel them yield, to gentle affection, to urgent pressure. To taste them.
Wendy stirred uncomfortably, distracting herself from the sudden gentle tension in her loins. Now wasn’t the time.
Even if Ciara decided to drape herself suggestively over the partition, Wendy was too stressed, too depressed.
Wendy smirked at the image, frowned at another tug below; then squinted at her monitor dejectedly, trying to make the lines of black, scratchy noise resolve into meaning and importance.
She had her finger on Ciara’s cheek. Their eyes were locked together as she traced a slow heart there. Ciara smiled gently, warmly, her green eyes so deep and open; so that Wendy could only fall forward, longingly. Then her skin was there, so close, so richly imperfect, as their noses touched and slid beside each other.
Then: the jolt of perfect energy as their lips brushed for the first time; and Wendy jumped, startled. The white glare of the monitor, the hum of the laptop fan, the dry rush of the air conditioning; they mocked her, smirked at the glow of her cheeks, whispered gleefully about the warmth in her loins.
She sighed, resisting the urge to glance over the partition again. But the sigh seemed to take on a life of its own, and reached an uncomfortable depth before she wrested control and truncated it sharply. She stared down to one side of her keyboard as the realisation came upon her: she had to have sex, with Ciara, right now.
Her mind raced, as though suddenly freed from shackles of doubt. Where? On the desk? Perhaps! But no, too open. The copier room? What if someone came in? The washroom. No. The shower.
Wendy’s eyes widened. Yes. But first. How to seduce her? Or maybe just trick her. Yes, some story to make her come to the shower, then blam! a kiss before she knew what was happening. Then against the wall, clothes falling like cotton rain. And oh god those shapes, under Wendy’s hands, under her tongue, softness yielding to the press of fingertips.
Wendy was pushing against the desk, her heels lifted, her back arched, her clitoris reaching for the firmness of the chair edge. The fantasy was there, more real than reality, and she fought to suppress a moan of desire. Some part of her was burning with the awareness of her obvious agitation, and it forced her to stand.
She smiled a tiny smile at Ciara, as if to say ‘left it too late, didn’t I?’ and fled towards the washrooms. Perhaps Ciara’s eyes followed her. But she did not glance back as she reached a door, pulled at it, tucked through the opening gap.
She stopped. There was the shower room.
She had to. A tiny corner of her mind was still hastily concocting an excuse as she shut the door and bolted it. It was late. Why shouldn’t she have a shower? But the fantasy was too strong, and as her hands came to her heart and pushed down, rippling her shirt over her sternum, separating over her navel to rub down onto her skirt, she let loose the moan that could no longer be held back.
With the last of her consciousness, she reached into the cubicle and turned on the concealing rush of water; then she leaned backward into Ciara’s waiting embrace.
There were kisses under her jaw, the press of breasts against her shoulder blades as Ciara’s taller frame leaned down to hold her. Ciara’s hands were crossed on her upper abdomen; but Wendy grasped and lifted those wrists, guided those hands decisively to encompass her own breasts. Her head hung forward and to one side, and she splayed her fingers over Ciara’s cheek as softness and wetness played over her neck, weaving an ecstatic tapestry of coolness and warmth.
But, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t satisfy her intensely physical need. Her hand fell through Ciara’s face onto her neck where Ciara had been kissing, her other hand took on the role of both of Ciara’s, and cupped and pushed hungrily. Her eyes were wide as she leaned backward awkwardly onto the shower room wall, her breath forceful as though the air was limited. She tried to see Ciara there, standing before her, naked. But she had never seen Ciara naked; and the image would not resolve, so she saw only fleeting glimpses, of muscular shoulder, of wide breast, of surprisingly narrow wrist.
‘Ciara!’ she breathed, as though she could conjure her lover into reality.
Her hands had flowed further over herself, forgotten; and one, having found the lower edge of her short skirt, had tucked under, and was holding the softness of her inner thigh dangerously close to her knickers. ‘Please!’ she whispered impulsively, as the other joined it on the other side. She wanted to let them lift, play over the wetness, press deliciously through it. But her fantasy was imperfect, not worthy of Ciara. She wanted it to be real.
Real. But real was friendly smiles, and endless distracted meetings, and furtive gazing at shapes that asserted themselves through cotton and wool and polyester. And sitting purposelessly in the office, dreaming, as darkness fell outside.
Wendy hung her head, in her strange hunched position against the wall. The ache continued to throb within her, unsatisfied, but now, it was joined by barbed tendrils of loneliness, and smothering shame. The steam of the warming shower was rising, but it could not hide her. What would Ciara think, if she knew? Had she even noticed how long Wendy had been gone, heard the droning of the electric pump? Or was she just engrossed in her work, sitting there in her characteristic attentive position, finishing some document before she headed home?
Or perhaps, perhaps she knew everything.
Wendy’s eyes came suddenly wide. Perhaps Ciara too, was waiting, desperate for some undefinable moment, some escalation of words or actions that would allow them to fall together. What if her ambiguous smiles were each a tentative beginning, a prompt for more than a smile in return? What if she too, had been sneaking glances over the partition, as Wendy worked herself into a private ferment of desire?
What if she too, had let her own hands take the part of another’s, alone now at her desk, watching carefully for her imaginary lover’s return?
Wendy’s heart thudded, forcing a gust of renewed hunger out of her open mouth. Ciara’s hands could themselves be free, roaming, taking the place of Wendy’s own. They could be holding softness, not encompassing like Wendy’s had been, but pressing into heaviness. They could be flowing over curves resting on the chair, over relaxed flesh, the muscles within twitching into desirous life.
And over, and around. To tuck between thighs, spread and lifted slightly by tip-toed feet. To be denied by seams of unyielding denim. To impulsively dart at the fastenings above, pop button from hole, draw the zipper down awkwardly over folds of material. To thrust decisively within, to hold, to press, to feel the answering shudder as it departs to the furthest reaches of the body.
Dampness and warmth under fingertips, waves of rising ecstasy. No inhibitions now, not even to prolong the moment, for time is short. Tucking, pressing, vibrating. Gushes of breath from clenched chest through open mouth under tightly lidded eyes. A wrist wrapped under lifted breast, holding, feeling the thudding heart within.
Higher, higher. Moans depart, unheeded. Wendy. Ciara. One.
A sound, a shuffle, close at hand. Reality cuts through Ciara’s fantasy like a silver blade through the canvas of a portrait.
Her eyes snap open; her body freezes. Wendy is standing close by.
Of course. She had only been to the washroom, not the shower, where Ciara’s imaginings had taken her.
But as horror descends on Ciara, her cheeks reddening with shame, she sees that Wendy is actually biting her lip coyly.
And when she takes a tiny, smiling step forward, Ciara begins to realise that this, finally, is the moment they had both been waiting for.
Cody Kmochova writes lesbian fantasies with a twist. If you’d like something longer (and scarier) for your next read, try this:
