Night Work (Part 3)

I made it as far as the nearest bathroom that night, before I stopped and rubbed myself to a quick, shuddering climax in an empty stall. The drive home was a blur, and I came twice more on my couch, my head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open, re-living how he’d thrusted deep into the back of my throat and the crude words he’d whispered. I fell asleep in a cum-and-contentment coma that lasted until nearly eight o’clock the next morning.

That was Saturday. By Sunday morning the high had worn off, and by Sunday evening my elation had fallen into worry that bordered on despair. The encounter still played through my thoughts, but now shame hung heavy over the recollection. I’d let a complete stranger just… fuck my mouth like he owned me. Cumslut. Cocksleeve. In the moment, the names had fanned the fantasy with delicious heat. Now they hit me like poisoned darts. I felt dirty. What if he’d had an STD? What if I saw him again? What if someone had seen, and I lost my job?

My stomach was in knots that night, as I faced going back to work Monday morning. Self-love vied with self-loathing. My fingers slipped between my folds; I imagined long blond hair and a Pop Evil hoodie and him fucking me across my desk at work. I stopped and started and stopped again as I told myself no! I wasn’t a whore. I wasn’t a slut. That hadn’t been a negotiated BDSM scene like I’d read about in my books; we hadn’t talked about safewords or boundaries or expectations. Had I been assaulted? He hadn’t forced me, and I’d enjoyed it, but…

Eventually I drifted to restless sleep on the back of another double orgasm, still ashamed of how easily I came.

Monday morning I tried to put the thoughts out of my head and go to work as normal. My eyes lingered a second too long on every person I passed, before darting back to the asphalt. Part of me was convinced that each and every one of them could see the stamp of what I’d done: a blinking neon sign of ‘WHORE’ emblazoned above my head. My cheeks burnt as I entered the department and stepped into the chaos of a Monday morning. Half a dozen people were already streaming in and out of the breakroom with steaming mugs of coffee, donut-laden paper plates, and all the small-talk of how their weekend had gone.

So what’d you do, Lily?

Random guy in a stairwell. You?

I ducked into my office and closed my door.

Fortunately, it was easy to pull the ‘too busy to talk’ card on a Monday, and after fielding inevitable queries with ‘oh, nothing much’ a few times, the lie came more easily. By noon I’d settled into a routine; the chit-chat felt normal and I’d all but forgotten about my invisible scarlet letter. The butterflies in my stomach took wing again when I realized it was four o’clock. I didn’t have to stay late. Even if I did, I didn’t have to go to Harolds Tower. If I went, I didn’t have to take the stairs. I didn’t have to do anything.

I packed up my things early and was out the door at five, just in case. Just in case, for some reason, I ended up back there again. Just in case he was waiting for me. In case I was tempted. I crawled through rush hour traffic with the radio blaring to distract myself from why I was going home so early, and from the echo of phantom warmth sliding over my tongue. I got home, slipped a frozen lasagna into the oven, and went to shower off the day while it cooked. The rest of the night passed by in a blur of Netflix and Facebook, until I finally distracted myself long enough to fall asleep.

Wednesday the files came back; the ones I’d retrieved for Legal the week before.

I jumped, physically, when Erica handed them to me across my desk and I reached for them; the moment I realized what is was, I snatched my hand back as if they were made of hot iron. They landed on my desk instead and rode the cushion of air right off the edge and onto the floor. Cue apologies: several from Erica that she’d thought I had it; a few more from me saying no, no, it was fine; my fault. She disappeared after a quick smile and a ‘thanks, sorry again.’

It took me the better part of a minute to finally slip out of my chair and retrieve the folder and its contents from the floor of my office. I picked it up with all the cautious reverence with which one would handle a venomous snake. I’d fetched them from the archives… and now I had to put them back. Which meant going back to Harolds.

I sucked in a deep breath and let it out through my nose. A spike of anxiety shot through my stomach and radiated out to my heart and, yes, regions further south. The mental image came back for the umpteenth time: young brown eyes, long hair, that smirk. I banished it with a shake of my head, then reached up to drag the wayward strands of hair back out of my face.

It was only two o’clock. Surely the stairwell was empty in the middle of the day. No one was insane enough to risk a workday tryst in the middle of the day. Except he didn’t seem old enough to be an actual employee… but if he wasn’t working here, what was he? One of the construction workers? He was old enough for that, certainly, but he hadn’t been wearing any safety gear.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, I told myself firmly, as I picked up my purse and slipped it up my shoulder. The sooner I got there, the sooner I was back, and the further from six o’clock it was.

The elevators were still closed. The technology of healthcare changes at a lightning pace, but absolutely nothing else does: we’d be lucky if the renovations were done within two years’ time; five days barely registered a blip. I chewed the inside of my lower lip as I stared at the stairwell door. Part of me screamed to take another way; part of me ached to take this one. I had no idea what I’d do if I saw him.

Nothing wagered, nothing gained. Or maybe it was fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Either way, I steeled myself and pushed open the door. The clank of the latch bar announced my impending descent.

There was no one on the eighth floor, nor the seventh, nor the sixth. Five, four, and three passed uneventfully. Two and one were a bore. When I finally got to the basement, my breath trembled as it passed my lips. The click of my high heel shoes echoed off the walls. I had a key to the Records room; no one was waiting inside it. I pulled out the drawer of the file cabinet and slid the folder back home.

I was back in my office by a quarter ‘til three, completely unmolested. I couldn’t tell whether I was disappointed or relieved.

~ * ~ * ~* ~ * ~

There was a Panera Bread not far from the office; about three blocks away. The neighborhood around the hospital frankly wasn’t the best, and it wasn’t a place I’d walk after dark. For some fresh air and warm food during a lunch break, though, I didn’t mind the stroll. There were enough people around that I felt safe, despite the increasingly downtrodden buildings and people as you moved from the north side of Lincoln Street to south. I was on my way back, a Diet Coke in one hand and brown paper bag in the other, when I noticed him waiting for me.

“Heeeey. Seven, right? Thought it was you!”

He stepped away from the old brick building he was leaning against, smirking a devil’s smirk. Both hands were shoved into the pockets of his black hoodie, which this time declared he was part of the ‘Anti Social Social Club’; the hood was pulled up around his long blond hair. Baggy jeans were secured around his slim hips with a Joker-themed belt splattered with white-purple-green and ‘HA HA HA’ laughter around its length. His tennis shoes matched, but had seen much better, and cleaner, days.

It took me a moment to recognize him, but once I did my heart ricocheted off my ribcage. My mouth went dry, and several drops of that missing moisture ended up between my thighs as my memory filled in the details of his hand in my hair, and helpfully supplied his name.


I meant to say it, but the word never made it to my lips. I tried, I really did, but all I could do was swallow and try to keep breathing as my feet came to a stop.

He stopped as well, right in front of me, blocking my path. His body language was all ‘casual chill’, but his eyes were too damn intelligent. “Seven, right?” he repeated, his cool brown gaze sweeping over me.

“I.. y-yes. Seven.”

“Friend of Shel’s,” he pressed, now studying my face. It was broad daylight outside, and I felt all the more vulnerable without the dimness to mask who I was. “Right?”

I swallowed again, and had to lick my lips against the nervous dryness. “Right,” I managed, with only a bit of a quaver in my voice.

The young man studied me a bit longer, before his tilted smirk split into a wide, white-toothed grin. He was taller than me by several inches, and couldn’t have been older than twenty-two or twenty-three. A thin, lanky build suggested he’d grown mostly ‘up’ rather than ‘out’, and had skipped high school athleticism. He wasn’t the type of physique I’d ever have described as imposing, but with the unabashed self-assuredness he projected, I felt like a mouse staring up at a feline smile.

“You got no fuckin’ clue what that is, do ya?” he asked, his head tilting to the side.

My dismay splashed across my face like black paint, and I felt a bowling ball sink my stomach all the way to my feet. “I– I–” I didn’t know anyone named Shelly, or Shelby, or Michelle in the office I worked in. Put on the spot, I was too off-balance to frame a plausible lie. “…no,” I admitted, unsure of the consequences it would bring.

He reached for me, and his long fingers cupped around my elbow through my jacket. Adrenaline kicked my heart into double time. He tilted his head again, this time nodding sideways towards the building he’d been leaning against when I approached. In between it and its neighbor was a small side-street — more of an alley, barely big enough for a single car — that served as home to several trash cans and an abandoned wooden pallet propped up against the wall.

“Why don’t we talk and I can clue you in.”

Half of me wanted to scream. Half of me was convinced he was going to murder me, and I’d be a Jane Doe on the ten o’clock news, found robbed and strangled near 18th and Lincoln. The other half was completely focused on the pressure of his touch on my arm, and how his eyes fixed on mine.

“I’m at work,” I objected in a whisper.

“Then you might be late,” he responded.

My heart skipped as he turned and urged me towards the alleyway. My body responded on autopilot; my feet shuffled step by step while my numb fingers clung to the safety of my Panera take-out. I saw him pause long enough to glance around just before we stepped into the maw between the buildings — checking to ensure our exit from the street went unseen.

He guided me past the trash cans, only one of which was full. The wooden pallet had a broken plank and had clearly done its rounds before being abandoned here. It leaned against the brickwork at an angle. He pulled me to a stop on the other side of it, where its bulk helped further shield us from any casual, curious passers-by.

He turned me so my back was against the wall and he was at my front. He looked me over again, from my tan high heels to my brown, pinstriped skirt, up to the pale blue of my blouse beneath my coat. Even as ‘business casual’ as it was, it was leagues more chic than his streetcorner vibe. He plucked the to-go cup from my right hand and the ciabatta-laden bag from my left. Both were swiftly deposited on the cement near our feet.

“Missed you, Seven,” he announced. His palm dropped to my hip as he stepped in close; his eyes shift sideway for one last check of the surroundings. “Really thought you’d be back.”

I instinctively tried to back up; my back hit brick in less than a foot. My heart was racing, my cheeks were warm, and I wasn’t sure whether I was terrified, turned on, or both. “I– I did go back.”

“Yeah? Didn’t see you. You suck off someone else?”

“No!” The objection was swift, if stammered. The fire in my face reached new shades of embarrassed red as my mind repainted the scene of me on my knees, and then on my back, the musk of his crotch in my face. “Just– Just you.”

“Aww. Sweet.” His other hand drifted down my flank and over my hip, sliding south until he found the hem of my skirt at mid-thigh. Three finger tips curled beneath the edge and eased it upwards. His voice lowered to a husky murmur. He smelled like cheap ‘sea and spruce’ body spray, and fuck if I didn’t love how tacky it was. “You gonna be Shawn’s special girl?”

Say ‘no’. Say ‘no’. Say ‘no’!

I tried to say something, but all that came out was a weak, shivering mewl as my skirt climbed up my thighs. I licked my lips and closed my eyes; I pressed my palms back against the wall behind me. My mind raced to try to keep up with what was happening, and what was going to happen if I didn’t stop it. Every iteration of that mental image ended with my legs wrapped around his waist and him fucking me senseless, like I’d so desperately needed in the stairwell that night.

I was still on lunch; no one was going to miss me for another half hour. Did he have a condom? I shuddered and exhaled hard as his fingers reached the junction of my thighs and pressed the already-damp cotton panties up against my skin. I knew I shouldn’t do this, but God how I wanted to.

“That’s nice,” he murmured, starting to stroke the indentation between my lips. “Can tell you want it. I never got a taste of that sweet pussy.”

He pushed a centimeter of finger into me, fabric and all, and I tried not to moan. I wanted it; there was no denying that. I knew how stupid I was being, but rational thought was shutting down as fast as my nerves could light up. My arms raised and laced around his neck for support; my eyes were still shut, but I could feel the heat of his body radiate against mine and hear the quiet rush of his quickened breath. His hand withdrew, slipped under the waistband of my panties, and found my sex again.

“You wanna get fucked?” he whispered, rubbing his fingers between my folds and smearing the wetness he found.

I nodded.

“You want my dick, right here in the alley?”

My breath rushed out as he started rapid-fire rubbing his fingers against me. All my self-control crumbled to ruin as the blond man went to work on my clit with single-minded purpose. My muscles jerked in involuntary concert, and this time my moan was audible. “Yes! Yes, please.”

“Say you want it,” he demanded.

“I want it!”

“Want what?”

I shuddered again. Being made to put voice to it made the heat and humiliation all the more delicious. “Fuck me; you to fuck me, right here.”

The clank of his belt buckle made my eyes snap open. My entire body felt like I was fevered. His face was only inches from mine, and as he freed his member from his fly all I could do was stare at him. He was so young; he should have looked innocent and naive, but he didn’t. The only warmth in his expression was the sharp lick of lust; the only question was how hard to take me. My eyes dropped to his belt; my chest was heaving as I panted, and he was still rubbing me with one hand while he unfastened his fly with the other. Instinctively I dropped a hand to help. He pushed down the waistband of his boxers while I coaxed his impressive length over the top.

“Turn around.”

I’d only stroked him twice, but he didn’t need my assistance with getting hard. His manhood jutted out from his jeans, proud and imposing over the grey band of his navy boxers. I looked up at him again, my lips parted and my eyes wide. Part of me wanted him to fuck me face to face, so I could crush his lips against mine. Part of me revelled in the idea of him taking me from behind and the delicious debauchery of it. Not a single part of me thought of saying ‘no’.

My arm slid off his neck. I turned, and as soon as I faced the wall he pushed my shoulders into it. I braced with both hands and turned my head to the side to avoid tasting brick. Cool air hit my ass as he shoved my form-fitting skirt up over my hips and yanked my panties down to mid-thigh. His left hand cupped the back of my neck to hold me still while the right one steadied his member. I felt the sear of flesh-on-flesh heat as his head touched my lips; then with a strong press of his hips, he slid home.

He shifted his feet, moved his hand from his cock to my hip, and arched up against me. I whimpered in with need and discomfort; that same hot, long shaft that I’d wanted so badly had enough length to make me ache inside. I didn’t dare try to pull away, though. He was finally fucking me, and that half-conscious thought looped itself through my addled mind: he’s fucking me; I have to take it, I need this.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered, thick with satisfaction. He withdrew smoothly all the way to the tip, before burying himself up to the root again. “Good girl. You’re gonna take this like a champ. Don’t you make a goddamn sound.”

Good girl. Those two words of praise branded themselves across my being. I’d finally earned his cock inside me. I bit my lip as he started pounding my pussy from behind. I wanted to beg and plead, but I stifled it down to a breathless, muffled grunt each time he hilted into me. The slap of his balls against my sex echoed off the walls. I made myself swallow my moans. Good girl.

All that Fifty Shades of Gray? Nothing compared to this. He used me like a sleeve, now holding my hips with both hands, and fucked me with every ounce of his twenty-something vigour. And I loved it. I couldn’t think past the merciless tempo, past being filled up again and again and again, each thrust stabbing so deep that it hurt. Even the pain felt good. Each blunt impact against my cervix added another pulse of sensation, and I wanted more.

Between the jolts of him slamming into me, some distant part of my brain reminded me that I was being fucked in an alley on my lunch break. It mixed with the dull awareness of my own arousal dripping down the inside of my thigh, with the heavy pant of his breath over my shoulder, and with scent of cold air, old stone, and Old Spice. An unexpected rush of shame flooded me with heat. Oh God, what was I doing?

Embarrassment and orgasm hit seconds apart. My sex clenched and the world went black save for bursts of pleasure behind my eyes. My fingers curled against the brick; every muscle locked in delicious tension. He never stopped, and I didn’t want him to. At that moment I wanted everything he could give me and more, in every hole I had. A groan found its way out from my gritted teeth; I pressed my half-open mouth against the wall to muffle it. He’d told me to be quiet. I had to be quiet.

Quick, wet smacking sounds echoed through the alley as he rode me through my shuddering climax. He panted crude obscenities; I nodded and mumbled my agreement even though I barely heard them. I couldn’t do anything but tread water on the flood. I was still dazed, content, and compliant a few minutes later when he slammed into me one last time and filled me with his cum.

The cop car at the mouth of the alley was what jarred me out of it. The all-black car was emblazoned with ‘POLICE’ in thick white letters. Its lights were off, and for a moment it seemed it would slow-roll past with the quiet crunch of gravel under the heavy tires: just an officer on a routine and boring patrol. The wheels stopped. The engine downshifted into idle. The car door opened, and my brain kicked into gear again. Oh shit.

Shawn felt me tense. He was still inside me, but my abrupt shift of attention swung his eyes around as well. He pulled out and stepped back so he could shove his member back into his pants; I hurriedly shimmied my panties back into place and tried to smooth my skirt back into place.

“S’okay,” he murmured to me out of the side of his mouth, as the officer rose out of the cruiser and walked around the hood. “Stay quiet.”

The policeman came to a stop at the front of the alley, still safely on the ‘main street’ side. He was a tall, solidly-built middle-aged man, either bald or clipped so short he might as well have been. His dark navy slacks paired with a lighter, steel grey uniform shirt. I could see the radio attached to his shoulder, and gun, cuffs, and baton on his belt.

“Everything okay here?” he asked.

“Yeah, Officer. We’re good. Nothing wrong.”

“Yeah?” The officer’s gaze shifted over to me. “You okay, miss? Nothing going on?”

I was still flushed and red; my heart was still pounding, now from the anxiety of impending arrest in addition to that mind-blowing orgasm. I felt sure that my clothing must be ruined, and that he could see how wet and sticky I was. Shawn was still breathing heavy, too. Even his baggy jeans couldn’t hide that he was still sporting an erection.

He’d told me to stay quiet. I licked my lips, unsure whether I should answer.

“She’s fine. We were just talkin’.”

“I’m asking her. Miss?”

I risked a glance at Shawn. He was smirking at the officer and had shifted his weight to one leg, still cocky and confident despite the situation. He nodded without looking at me. “Yeah, go on, tell ’im.”

“I- I’m fine. Officer.” My throat was dry; I swallowed and then tried what I hoped was a natural-ish smile. “We were just talking. I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh. Well. If you two are done ‘talking’, I’m going to ask you to get a move on. Not the best neighborhood to be hanging around.”

Shawn’s smirk split into a grin again. “Sure. We just finished. Gone in five minutes. Thanks, officer.”

The policeman didn’t look nearly as amused. “Make sure of it. Don’t let me catch you twice.”

“Yes, sir.” The younger man saluted, mock military, as the agent returned to his car and got back in. A single warning blip of the sirens pierced the air before the car rolled away.

Shawn turned to me. My head was still fuzzy; I tried to focus on him as he cupped my chin between his fingers. The hood of his ‘Anti Social’ hoodie had fallen back during our ‘talk’, and now messy, dark blond hair scattered over his shoulders, coming to an end at mid-chest.

“Good girl,” he repeated. “That was real good. Did everything right. Prouda you, Seven.”

I was still breathing through half-open lips; I tried to nod, but he was holding onto my jaw too tight. The coolness in his eyes ruled out any sort of affection behind the compliments, but I didn’t care.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“You know that basement that connects Harolds with Ferguson? That little maze underneath?”


“Want you down there Friday, six p.m. sharp. Alright?”

“Alright,” I echoed.

He smiled. “Good. Was real nice seeing you again, Seven; real nice. Don’t forget your food.”

My Panera. In all the commotion, I had forgotten about it. I had to move slower than usual to make sure I kept my balance as I turned and crouched down to retrieve it. By the time I had it safely in hand and had gotten back to my feet again, Shawn was gone.

Writing is a passion, and the support and appreciation of my fans are what help keep that flame burning bright. Each small comment, email, or Twitter compliment received lets me know that you enjoy my work as much as I like making it.I’d like to especially thank my Patreon Patrons and Ko-Fi supporters who help offset the costs of the many cups of coffee sometimes necessary to wash away writer’s block.

Last, but certainly not least: a very HUGE thank you my Muses, JV and Helen. May I inspire you like you inspire me <3

Leave a Comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.