Marnie
The third floor women's restroom at Gibson Grant is as close to private as I’m ever going to find in this building. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, tile in wet-concrete gray, lighting that erases every human flaw—if you squint, that is. But I’m not here to touch up my make-up. I’m here because my panties are soaked straight through, and the scent is a dead giveaway. Yet, I can’t let anyone know that I’m constantly aroused whenever I see Mr. Gibson or Mr. Grant, and therefore, I have to change my panties on the reg when I’m at work.
I all but dive through the door, clutching my purse like a life raft. If anyone’s behind me, I don’t see them. I make a beeline for the last stall, the handicapped one with the shelf big enough to stage a five-course meal. I lock myself in and press my back to the cold partition, lungs burning.
It’s only after I’m safely hidden that I let myself look. The navy pencil skirt is dark enough to hide most sins, but when I shimmyit up my thighs, I see the clear outline of my own disaster: panties, formerly light pink, now stained a wet magenta at the gusset. My thighs are slick and shiny, and there’s even a trail of fluid leaking almost all the way to my knee. OMG! What is going on with me? I hardly even see my bosses, and yet it’s the knowledge that Brent and James are here.
In the same building.
Huge.
Dominating.
Eating me up, with one lapping at my clit while the other sucks at my tits.
I feel a wave of arousal rush through my form, which only serves to make me wetter. Perfect.
I hate my body for this. For the way it betrays me whenever Brent or James come within ten feet, for the way my nipples go hard at the sound of their footsteps, for the way my clit throbs when either of them look at me too long. It’s humiliating, and worse, it’s distracting. I have a job to do—no, amission—and my own traitorous curves keep tripping me up.
I rifle through my purse and pull out the emergency kit: fresh panties (boring nude, no frills), a packet of baby wipes, and a Ziplock bag. Also, the newest addition to my morning routine: the plug.
It’s small and sleek, not much bigger than a fat lipstick tube, and disguised as a “pelvic floor trainer” on the packaging. The color is rose gold, the silicone soft and matte, the tip blunt and almost dainty. I bought it last week after three consecutive days of ruining my panties before lunch. At first, I thought keeping itin me was a punishment, but now I suspect it’s the only thing keeping me from full-on public meltdown.
I wipe my pussy down with a wet-nap, biting my lip at the hypersensitivity of my own skin. When the soft cloth brushes my clit, I gasp, clapping a hand over my mouth. I’m half convinced the air-ducts are bugged and someone is in the break room listening.
After getting myself as clean as I’m going to be, I slide the fresh panties up my legs halfway. Then, with a low moan, I insert the toy into my sopping vag. It slides in with a wet, indecent sound that makes my breath hitch. I angle it up, feel the faintest tap as it nestles against my G-spot, tempted to fuck myself with it a few times. But there’s work to do, and I wouldn’t be helping myself by having a full-on climax in the women’s restroom. So I push the toy a little deeper in, and then pull down my skirt, taking a second to adjust the waistband so nothing bulges. It’s not a total cure for my constant arousal, but the fullness helps me focus, the slight stretch in my pussy keeping my mind sharp and my hands steady.
I ball up the ruined panties, double-bag them, and bury them deep in my purse. I’m not above tossing them in the trash, but I live in terror of Ms. Jenkins doing one of her random checks for “contraband food” in the cubicles and finding my damp panties instead.
I check my face in the hand mirror. The reflection is almost normal—cheeks flushed, yes, but not the crimson of a total meltdown. Eyes a little wild, but I can pass for caffeinated. I reapply lipstick and smooth my blonde hair into its bun, then square my shoulders.
I unlock the stall and step out, half expecting to see Shay at the sink, smirking with that “gotcha” look. But the restroom is empty, silent but for the faint hum of the air system and the drip of water from a leaking faucet. I wash my hands for longer than necessary, letting the cool water shock me back to reality.
I flex my pelvic muscles, testing the fit of the plug. There’s a tiny thrill every time it shifts, an illicit reminder of what I’m carrying. It’s not enough to make me cum, not nearly, but it keeps me on a razor’s edge, which I need.
Because today, I’m not just going to survive the office. Today, I’m going to break into the archive room.
I check the hallway, then glide out, walking the exact pace of a woman who has nothing to hide. I pass Ms. Jenkins in the corridor—busy talking to someone, thank god—and make it to the elevator bank before a wave of arousal hits. The toy shifts as I walk, sending a ripple up my spine as my tummy clenches. Oh my god, this feels so good! I want to lie down and fuck myself deep with the small toy, but instead force myself to stand tall, to breathe. No one can know my secret.
Meanwhile, there’s work to be done. I press the button on the elevator for the sub-basement, where the old files are kept. As the elevator doors slide closed, I allow myself one last look in the mirrored panel.
I look like a woman with a secret. And for the first time, I don’t hate it.
I bite my lip, clench my thighs, and ride the elevator down to hell, my heart already pounding with anticipation as my pussy swells. Oh my god, what kind of woman have I become? The illicit, naughty kind … which I love so much.
If the restof Gibson Grant is a runway show for the Fortune 500, the sub-basement is where they dump the bodies. The air is ten degrees colder, the walls are poured concrete, and there are no windows. The flicker of a fluorescent tube light overhead gives everything a greenish, morgue-like cast. At least there’s no one to sense my arousal down here, which is for the better.
I tap my badge at the heavy steel door and hear the bolt thunk with a slow, deliberate release. Inside, the shelves run floor to ceiling, packed with file boxes, most labeled in Sharpie and covered with a decade of dust. There’s a smell here—paper, but also mold, and something electric from the old fluorescent ballasts humming overhead.
It’s all so different from upstairs that I almost laugh. No one polishes these floors. No one cares if you track in mud. This is where the firm keeps its secrets: things that matter, and things that were supposed to disappear.
I roll up the sleeves of my blouse, trying not to think about the plug in my pussy. The fullness is a constant distraction, but down here, the stakes are higher and the risk is an aphrodisiac all its own. I visualize being caught, imagine Ms. Jenkins or even Shay catching me wrist-deep in forbidden files, and my pulse doubles. There’s no one else around, but I swear the shelves themselves are watching.
I find the Williams section fast. “W,” right in the middle, sandwiched between “Watson, A.” and “Wilson, T.” I scan the spines of the boxes, looking for the one that feels the most radioactive.
Then I see it: “WILLIAMS, S.”—all caps, underlined, with a small strip of red tape at the bottom. The box is heavier than I expect, packed tight. I drag it down to a battered rolling cart and crack the lid.
Inside: folders, photos, court exhibits, even a crumpled manila envelope with my mother’s handwriting. I recognize the penmanship instantly and feel the muscles in my jaw go tight. For a second, I don’t breathe. This is it. The real story, buried in paperwork and buried again in this basement tomb.
