I went back the next morning. I had to; I needed those records. It had nothing to do with how everything had played itself through my head in echo that night, or how I’d lain awake long after cumming, wondering what would have happened ‘if’. If I’d come to the stairwell a few minutes earlier, or a few minutes later. If I had dared to go down another level. If I’d seen them. If they’d seen me.
Regardless – I needed those records. I had a job to do. And that was why I went back the next morning, nerves on high alert, back to Harolds Tower, and held my breath as I pushed open the door to the stairwell. I listened as I descended, step by step.
There was no one there. I made it down to the basement unobstructed by panting, thumping bodies of either gender. Files retrieved. I took my time – maybe hoping beyond hope that perhaps, on my way out, I’d pass a knowing smile and a wink as someone else came down.
I feigned a smile and ‘good mornings’ to everyone in my office, once I finished the walk back, and handed the dozen-odd multicolored folders over to the lawyer when she came by. I spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on my inbox and to-do list, and not on the heavy weight of disappointment in my gut.
By noon, I’d convinced myself why I hadn’t seen anyone there: I’d gone far too early. At eight-thirty people were still getting to work, getting their coffee, and settling in. The halls were busy – even those in construction areas, I told myself. It had been about seven p.m. when I’d overheard the tryst: well after the eight-to-five crowd had packed up their briefcases and backpacks and ventured into rush hour on the way home. Which meant staying late, if I wanted to try to overhear it again.
It was Friday, and by four-thirty people were already wrapping up their days and going home. At five o’clock, I smiled and made up excuses of catching up on work when departing coworkers asked why I was still at my desk. At five-thirty, I’d changed my tune to ‘getting a head start on Monday’. Paula finally waved good-bye and wished me a fun weekend at five-thirty-eight; at five-forty, I was alone.
Alone, and possibly insane. I stared at the clock, sudden apprehension flooding through me. Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to trek all the way over to Harolds and try to spy on some doctor and his secretary fucking in the stairwell — if they were even there?
Yes, yes I was. I grabbed my keys and my purse before I could talk myself out of it. If anyone asked, I was looking for a bathroom, and terribly, terribly lost.
I passed a half-dozen people on my way towards the building, all of them going the other way. Soon the hallways were empty and the click of my heels on linoleum kept a metronome beat. The ‘Out of Order’ was still taped to the elevator doors, and the metal latch-bar of the stairwell door was there for the taking. My fingertips met cool, smooth steel, and I almost paused.
There was no quiet way to open the door, so other than a held breath and a whispered prayer, I didn’t try. It was like ripping off a Band-Aid: just do it, and get the pain over with. I squeezed through as soon as it was wide enough and let it close behind me.
For a moment, there was silence — or, at least, I couldn’t hear anything over how hard my heart was pounding. But then, someone whistled. I didn’t recognize the tune. It wasn’t a wolf whistle or a catcall, just a lazy melody drifting up through the stairwell and echoing off the concrete walls. There was someone here… although it wasn’t a doctor fucking their secretary, unless he liked to whistle while he worked. I took a step down, then another, my hand tight around the railing. I’d descended from the eighth floor to the sixth and was creeping down to five when I finally came face to face with the whistler.
I couldn’t tell at first whether it was a feminine-looking man or a tomboyish woman. Long, straight blond hair fell down past their shoulders, held in check by a Pop Evil hoodie. It was open and unzipped, despite the hood being up; underneath, they wore a grey t-shirt with an Everlast gym logo. Loose denim jeans were held up with a black webbed belt, and fell over matching leather boots. They were short for a man but tall for a woman, with a slim and androgynous build. A strong, sharp jawline, but somewhat delicate features; cool brown eyes that studied me with a mixture of wariness and curiosity.
The voice settled the question of gender: a man, if a young one. He couldn’t have been past twenty-five.
“I– I know,” I stammered.
He eyed me, levering himself up from where he leaned on the wall. His attention drifted from my face down to my chest, trailing further until it hit my white high heels.
“You a friend of Shel?” he asked.
Shelly? Michelle? I didn’t know anyone by either name. But there was something about how he asked it, in the cocky shift in his posture, that made me wish I did. “Ah.. yes.”
“Yeah?” he asked, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. Maybe it was how meekly I answered, or how my body language broadcast I’m not supposed to be here! Again his eyes moved, this time checking from side to side, and up and down the concrete staircase. “You sure?”
“I– Yes.” I was too unprepared to concoct a plausible lie. “She, uh, works in… my department.”
“Right.” He smirked. It was sharp and predatory, despite his youth. One hand left his hip pocket and drifted over to the fly of his jeans. The clack of his belt buckle being released echoed off the walls. “So you know the drill.”
My breath caught, and all I could do was watch in disbelief and fascination as he unbuttoned and dragged his zipper down. I caught a glimpse of dark green boxers before I finally tore my eyes away and forced them back up to his face. I could still see him pull his member out over the black waistband in my peripheral vision, and the lazy motion of his hand as he started stroking.
Did he– did he really expect me to… fuck a complete stranger in a stairwell? My cheeks burnt with a fierce blush, and a hurricane of a questions slammed into me. Is that what I’d heard: him and ‘Shel’, up against the wall? Was this some anonymous hook-up spot — no names, no questions, just sex? I’d read about things like that: glory holes, orgies, Eyes Wide Shut style parties; dogging in public parks, and casual encounters on Craigslist. I’d never been brave enough to do more than read, wonder, and fantasize. I’d always been too afraid, and talked myself out of it. Now here I was.
Jesus. Was I really weighing the pros and cons of this?
“Well?” he prompted.
And was I really going to do it?
“I…” My mouth was dry, but I was dimly aware that other parts of me were getting moist. I licked my lips and looked away from his expectant expression. My gaze hit his cock, now half-erect and growing, and I stiffened too. My eyes jerked back up again. “Sorry. Sorry, I…”
His smirk widened into a smug smile. “S’okay. You know how to suck cock, right?”
He was cute. The Hot Topic look wasn’t my style; I preferred clean-cut, older, bearded: ‘hot dads’ and ‘daddy Doms’. He had to be ten years younger than me, and probably not ‘gainfully employed’. Somehow that made the mental image all the more tempting: on my knees for a guy I’d never glance at twice any other time.
I drew in a deep breath and nodded.
“Alright. Good.” He let go of himself long enough to shimmy his jeans and boxers down another few inches, exposing slim hips and a manhood nestled in a patch of golden, dark blond curls. He was still only semi-hard. “Show me.”
I felt like I was moving in slow motion as I stepped in closer. I held my gaze on his face. He had not an ounce of uncertainty. He knew what was going to happen. That confident stare made my pussy tighten.
Oh Jesus. I was really going to do this.
I set down my purse as I got to my knees. His eyes stayed on me; mine dropped down when I did. I stared at his staff. I was about to blow a man I’d never met in a stairwell at my work. I was going to be so fired.
“Come on,” he urged.
I swallowed, my tongue wetting my lips as I glanced back up at him. His long blond hair spilled forward over his jacket; he reached up to flip part of it back so it didn’t block his view. He was long: more endowed with inches than girth. I leaned forward and parted my lips to take the tip into my mouth. Warm, velvet flesh met my tongue, laced with salt and teenage musk.
Electric heat shot through every nerve I had. There was no going back now. I suckled the head and traced the grooved underside with the tip of my tongue. I knew what I was doing; I was ‘vanilla’, not ‘virgin’. I took a little more of him into my mouth. The back of my tongue pulsed against the roof of my mouth as I worked up enough saliva to get him nice and wet.
“Niiiice.” He coiled a strand of my hair around his finger before dropping it and resting his palm on top of my head. “Yeah, don’t be shy, baby.”
I’d worked my way half way down his length. I bobbed my head to swallow another half inch, then dragged my lips back to the flared tip. He was fully hard now, and close to nine inches from base to tip; his girth, thank God, remained ‘average’. I wasn’t going to be able to take all of him either way. I tried. I wanted to try, and ‘being shy’ was a suddenly distant memory. I was only dimly aware that I was still in the stairwell, in my Friday business casual, high heels still on and purse next to my knees. The world had condensed down to the three square feet around me: the denim-clad legs and scent of Old Spice body wash; the firm hold of his hand in my hair and the heat of his cock in my mouth. All the stories I’d read, all the fantasies I’d had… for just fifteen minutes, I was living them.
My hand wrapped around his shaft and pumped as I pulled back to focus on licking and sucking the tip of his dick. His grip on my hair had tightened but he wasn’t pulling me down — yet. His breathing shifted, and he muttered quiet encouragement. I looked up at him and saw that androgynous, blond-framed face angled down at me, his brown eyes narrowed in concentration.
He saw me looking and sneered back, white teeth flashing. “Keep sucking, bitch.”
His hand twisted and pulled; pain lit up my scalp. I whimpered in answer and went back to work with new eagerness. Each time I went down on him I strained to go a little further. He was already hitting the back of my throat, and I fought to keep my gag reflex under control. Strands of saliva started to drip from my lower lip and trail down my chin. Sticky nectar did the same, between my thighs.
“That’s it — take it! Take it all the way. ‘S what you came here for: a good fuck, load of cum down your throat.”
He was panting, and the more of his cock I forced down my throat, the harder he forced me to take it, jutting his hips forward and yanking my head to his crotch. His left hand joined the right, and he used them both. I wasn’t in control of the tempo any more; the more I struggled not to choke, the more I drooled, and the more I soaked my panties. He used me like a sleeve. I wasn’t blowing him anymore; he was fucking my face.
“You’re gonna swallow,” he growled, jackhammering the tip of his cock into the back of my throat. My eyes started to water from the effort just to keep breathing; I screwed them shut and tried to focus. “Aren’t you, slut? You like this? Fucking cocksleeve whore. Gonna be my personal cum dumpster. Shawn’s pet cumslut.” He was beautiful, the way he snarled, and the insults only made me wetter. I wanted — I needed — him to fuck me, but my mouth was too busy to beg.
His voice broke into a low, heavy groan, and he slammed me down so hard and fast that my lips touched his balls. I choked, and choked hard. Tears streamed out the corners of my eyes and I instinctively tried to yank myself away. He held me tight. The head was down my throat; he shot thick ropes of cum so deep inside that I couldn’t even taste it. I felt its hot, viscous glory as I gagged and tried to swallow it down. I couldn’t — not with his cock still blocking my air. I coughed, and strands of white semen shot out my nose.
The young man laughed and finally let me loose. I jerked backwards, lost my balance, and landed on my ass. Another dollop of pearl cum leaked out one nostril; the rest of it oozed down my throat. I was still coughing, and almost in shock. I’d never been fucked like that before. I smeared my hand across my nose and tried to wipe away his jism. He was breathing hard and grinning at me with a fox-like smile: sly and filled with teeth. Cock still erect and glistening, he stepped forward and sank to his knees between mine. His unfastened belt jangled as he moved. My breath caught, and for a moment I was absolutely certain he was going to push my skirt up around my waist, rip down my pantyhose, and bury himself between my thighs.
He didn’t. Instead he knee-walked himself up my body until he was straddling my shoulders. Another toss of his head cleared his tousled blond hair out of his eyes. I was face to face with his member again; this time it was his hand steadying the base as he rubbed the engorged tip over my parted, panting lips. I didn’t know what else to do other than spread them wider and let him in.
“Oooh, yeah. Damn, look at you.” His grin widened, Cheshire Cat style. The cap of his hoodie had fallen back; he looked so damn hot in those indie-rock clothes. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I was horny, hungry, and awestruck. “Suck,” he ordered, and I sucked, still staring up at him. He let me nurse the end of his shaft for ten or fifteen seconds. “Lick.” My tongue obeyed.
“Gonna call you ‘Seven,” he murmured. “You remember that, okay? You talk to a king, you tell him Shawn says you’re Seven.”
I had no idea what that meant. I was thirty-two; clearly not seven, and not even the most twisted pedophile could mistake me for underage. Was I the seventh woman to wander down these stairs? Was it seven o’clock? And what did he mean by ‘a king’?
I couldn’t ask. I was too busy on my back, the sting of his cum still in my nose, sucking and licking and loving it as he eased his dick in and out between my lips. The second blowjob took longer, but he had all the energy of his youth. ‘Longer’ meant ten minutes instead of five. He liked it rough; it wasn’t long before he wrapped his hand around the back of my head and ‘helped’ hold me up to better angle his cock down my throat. This time, though, he let me deep-throat him at my own pace. I took him as best I could, bobbing in time to the subtle rock of his hips, and whimpering my agreement to his muttered humiliations. When he clenched his eyes shut and jerked against me, I was able to swallow it all.
“Nice,” he whispered again, finally starting to go limp. “Real nice. That was good.”
I hummed a sound of agreement since my mouth was full. I felt dazed: warm, disoriented, and almost floating. He hadn’t drugged me; it was just… I didn’t know what it was. But it felt incredible.
He pulled out and stood up; strands of my saliva stretched between his flesh and mine. He stretched out a hand. “Get up.”
I took it; even with assistance, I had to focus to get back on my feet. I tried to focus on my breathing to make sure I was alright. He tugged me closer, and then used my nice white skirt to wipe the spit off his dick before tucking himself away and zipping up his pants.
“Take the third floor elevators; they’re unlocked,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the descending flight of stairs. “See you around, Seven.”
He still hadn’t fucked me, and I still needed it. My panties were a mess — slick with evidence of just how desperately I needed it. Was I allowed to ask? Or was that against the ‘rules’? The first rule of Fuck Club is…
I licked my lips. They were sore and almost raw from the friction and from how brutally he’d pounded against them. My throat was going to be sore tomorrow.
I didn’t ask. Still half-numb and in disbelief of what had happened, I nodded and took hold of the stair rail. Step by step, I made my way down to the third floor. Far above me I heard the loud metal clank of a stairwell door open, as the one I’d just left swung closed.
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