The Longest Lunch Break

Office Short Stories · approx. 10 min read · 18+

Sensual short story · Reading time approx. 20 minutes · For ages 18+.

It was Thursday, just after half past six, and I was the only one still sitting in the office. The others had left at five, loudly, with that mix of relief and fatigue you only know after a week where three projects slide into their final phase at once. I heard the echo of their footsteps in the stairwell for a while, then silence. The silence was the first sign. The second was the soft throbbing in my belly that I could no longer ignore. I knew he would come. It was Thursday. The day when the air in the office grew thicker, as if it wanted to trap us both.

In front of me lay the plans for renovating the old town villa in Hietzing. A hundred and twelve square meters of main room, a curved staircase from the thirties, three generations of taste plastered on top of each other. My client wanted to tear it all out. I wanted to talk him out of it. On Thursday evenings we had the best argument. But the argument wasn’t in the plans. It was in the man who would open the door without knocking any second now.

The door opened without anyone having knocked. I knew who it was before I looked up. Daniel always came later on Thursdays because he taught at the Technical University in the mornings. We had made it a habit without ever saying it out loud — Thursdays just the two of us, the last hour before the weekend. But today it felt different. Today I was already wet when I put down the pencil, just at the thought of his hands on the paper, of his breath on my neck.

“You’re still here,” he said.

I put the pencil down. “I’m always still here.” My voice sounded deeper than usual, a hint of something I couldn’t hide.

He came to my desk, set down two cups of coffee, and I knew he had pressed the long button at the machine in the break room, not the short one. He only did that when he wanted to stay. That was one of our little unwritten agreements. Today he wasn’t just staying. Today he would do something I had read in his glances for months, when he leaned over my shoulder, when his fingers brushed the table, when his voice grew softer while I spoke.

“Hietzing?”

“Hietzing.”

“He still wants to rip out the staircase?”

“He wants to rip out everything. I want him to only touch the wallpaper.”

Daniel leaned over the plans. He smelled of the chalk dust he brought from the TU and the aftershave he had used for three years, an old-fashioned one with a note of cedarwood. I had all of that memorized long ago. What I hadn’t memorized was how close he leaned to my shoulder today, how his forearm touched the table, a hand’s breadth from mine. His breath brushed through my hair, and I felt my nipples stiffen under my blouse. I was glad he was coming from behind; he couldn’t see how arousal rose in me, how my thighs pressed together to hold the warmth gathering between my legs.

“The staircase is the whole building,” he said. “If that goes, nothing’s left.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to him for three weeks.”

“Do you need help?”

“I need five new arguments. By tomorrow morning.”

He sat on the edge of my desk, where the light from the desk lamp came from an angle below and lit his temples golden. Daniel wasn’t classically handsome. He had a nose that had once been broken, and eyes that turned light gray in the light, almost black in the half-dark. Now they were somewhere in between, and they rested on me as if seeing me naked for the first time.

“Five?”

“Three would be enough if you have the right ones.”

He took the plan, turned it ninety degrees, and I saw how he began calculating in his head — that movement in the eyes that architects have when they walk through a house from the inside without entering it. I knew it. I knew it from myself. But while he looked at the plan, I looked at his hands. Large hands, with long fingers that held pencils and touched plans as if they were alive. I imagined how those hands opened my blouse, how they slid under my bra, how they cupped my breasts, pinching the hard tips between thumb and forefinger.

“Load-bearing structure,” he said. “The staircase is part of the static concept. If that goes, you need a beam across the main room. Gives you a lower ceiling, broken light, and a budget twice as high.”

He spoke softly, almost as if he were speaking only to me, not to the imaginary client in the empty office. His voice was deeper than usual, a tone that flowed directly into my lower belly. I felt my cunt grow even wetter, how the fabric of my panties stuck to my labia. I pressed my thighs tighter together, as if I could dampen the heat, but it only made everything worse.

“One.”

“Acoustics. The old stairs distribute sound. If he replaces them, you’ll hear the kettle in the kitchen from the living room.”

“Two.”

“Resale value. The ensemble is under preservation, not monument protection, but every buyer who knows anything about the district wants that staircase in. He’s taking thirty percent off the price.”

“Three.”

We looked at each other. On Thursday evenings in the empty office, this moment always came when what we were talking about briefly ceased to exist, and only what we never talked about remained. Today that moment was different. It was longer. It was heavier. It was full of something building between us like pressure pushing outward.

“Four would be love,” he said. “Four would be the fact that this staircase in the hand of his grandmother was the property of women for ninety years, women who were born in this house. Four would be the sentence that you don’t tear down everything that was there before you.”

I nodded slowly. “I’ll take four. Four is good.”

“Do you need five?”

“Four is enough.” But I needed more. I needed his hands on me. I needed his cock inside me. I couldn’t pretend anymore that Thursday evenings were just work.

He laughed, not loudly, but the way he always laughed — briefly, almost embarrassed, as if catching himself at it. Then he reached for his coffee, which could only be lukewarm now, and drank. I drank mine too. On Thursdays at half past six, I drank coffee that didn’t have to be hot anymore. Today the coffee was just an excuse to keep my hands busy, to not reach for him.

He set down the cup, leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest, and looked at me. “What are you really thinking about?”

I should have said something about the plans, about the client, about Monday. But I was tired of lying. “About your hands,” I said. “About how they would feel on my skin.”

He didn’t move. His gaze was still fixed on me, but something in it changed, darkened. “And?”

“And I’m thinking about how wet I am right now. How my cunt is aching for you.”

He stood up slowly, came around the desk, and stopped right in front of me. His body blocked the light from the lamp, casting a shadow over me. “Show me,” he said, his voice a low growl.

I stood up, my legs trembling slightly. I reached for his belt, unbuckled it with practiced fingers, pulled down his zipper. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, and I wrapped my hand around it, feeling its warmth, its thickness. I stroked it slowly, watching it grow in my hand, the tip glistening with a drop of pre-cum.

He groaned, his hands finding my hips, pulling me against him. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against my hair.

“Me too.”

He pushed me back onto the desk, scattering the plans. Papers flew to the floor, but I didn’t care. He unbuttoned my blouse, his fingers fumbling with the buttons, and I laughed softly. “Impatient?”

“Fucking yes.”

He pulled my blouse open, exposing my black lace bra. His hands cupped my breasts through the fabric, his thumbs circling my nipples until they were hard peaks. I arched into his touch, moaning. “More.”

He unhooked my bra, let it fall away, and lowered his mouth to my breast. His tongue circled my nipple, then he sucked it deep into his mouth, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my cunt. I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him there. “Yes, like that.”

His hand slid down my belly, under my skirt, into my panties. His fingers found my wet slit, and he groaned against my skin. “So fucking wet.”

“For you. All for you.”

He pushed two fingers inside me, and I gasped, my hips bucking against his hand. He fucked me with his fingers, slow and deep, while his mouth worked my other breast. I was dripping, my juices coating his fingers, and I could feel my orgasm building, a tight coil in my belly.

“I want your cock,” I breathed. “I want you to fuck me.”

He pulled his fingers out, lifted me off the desk, and bent me over it. My hands flat on the scattered plans, my skirt hiked up around my waist, my panties pulled aside. I felt the head of his cock at my entrance, teasing, and I pushed back against him. “Now.”

He thrust into me in one smooth motion, filling me completely. I cried out, my fingers clawing at the paper. He fucked me hard, his hips slapping against my ass, his balls slapping against my clit with every stroke. The sound of our bodies meeting filled the empty office, mingling with my moans and his grunts.

“You feel so good,” he growled, his hand gripping my hip, the other reaching around to rub my clit. “So tight and wet.”

I was close, so close. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He fucked me faster, harder, his fingers working my clit in circles. My orgasm crashed over me, waves of pleasure ripping through my body. I screamed his name, my cunt clenching around his cock, and he followed, his hot cum flooding me as he groaned my name.

We stayed like that for a moment, panting, sweaty, intertwined. Then he pulled out, turned me around, and kissed me, deep and slow. “We should do this more often,” he said against my lips.

“Every Thursday,” I whispered. “And maybe some other days too.”

He laughed, his arms wrapping around me. “Deal.”