image 3 🩵 Sneaking one more in before year end.
The first buzz was a low, teasing hum against my clit. A secret current in a room full of dull conversation. My poor life choices were clinging to my curves like a high-definition neon sign. Or maybe that was just the crimson dress. Either way, the message was clear: I was an idiot.
I was standing in a hotel ballroom that smelled of expensive perfume and desperation, trying to look interested in a story about someone’s cat, when the second, more insistent buzz made my knees buckle. I fumbled my champagne flute, but Liam – the source of my torment – was there to steady me.
“Careful,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “You look like you’re about to confess to a murder.”
“I’m about to commit one,” I hissed back, forcing a smile as Brenda from accounting wandered by. “This was a terrible idea.”
“It was a great idea,” he corrected me, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. “You agreed. Fair and square.”
He’s right. The stupid, tequila-fueled Fantasy Fulfillment Swap. We’d each written down three secret, dirty fantasies on slips of paper and tossed them in a hat. I drew his. “Public teasing with a remote-controlled toy until you’re begging to be fucked.” He drew mine. “A full-body massage with edible oils that ends in hours of oral sex.” Fair and square. An eye for an eye. An orgasm for an orgasm.
Which is why, right now, a tiny silicone nub is nestled against my clit. And Liam holds the only key to my torment.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on the canapés. A waiter passes with a tray of tiny quiches. I grab one. It’s dry. Everything is dry.
“So, this is it,” Liam says. “Ready to become an office legend?”
I’m about to tell him exactly where he can shove his office legend status when it happens. A low, insistent BZZZZZZ starts up right against my clit. My whole body goes rigid. I drop the quiche. It lands with a sad little splat on the polished marble floor.
“Oh! Emma, are you alright?” Brenda asks, peering down at the quiche casualty.
“Fine!” I squeak, my voice several octaves too high. “Just… went down the wrong pipe.”
I shoot a death glare across the room at Liam, who is talking to my boss. He sees me. He winks. And then he presses the button again. This time it’s a low, steady thrum. It’s not enough to get me off, but it’s more than enough to make my knees feel like Jell-O. I can feel a flush creeping up my chest.
I grip the back of a nearby armchair. “It’s just so warm in here,” I babble to Brenda, fanning myself.
“Is it? I feel just fine,” she says, oblivious. God bless her. She hands me a glass of water. As I take it, Liam cranks the intensity. The low thrum becomes a powerful, pulsating rhythm.
Oh, fuck.
My inner muscles clench. A tiny, involuntary gasp escapes my lips. My nipples pebble against the silk of my dress, and I’m suddenly grateful my small tits don’t make the fact too obvious.
“Thirsty, eh?” Brenda chuckles, mistaking my sound for thirst.
I nod frantically, gulping down the water. The cold liquid does nothing to quell the fire building between my legs. I can feel myself getting wet. I have to get out of here.
“Bathroom,” I mutter, and make a beeline for the hallway. The vibrations follow me – a relentless, torturous rhythm. I stumble into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and leaning against it. I’m panting.
I brace myself, waiting for the buzzing to stop. It doesn’t. If anything, it gets more intense. He knows exactly where I am.
I stumble over to the mirror, bracing my hands on the cool edge of the sink. The girl looking back at me is a mess. My hair is escaping its updo, my face is flushed, my eyes wide and glassy. I look thoroughly, completely fucked.
The little monster is pulsing against me, a relentless, maddening rhythm. I’m angry and humiliated and so turned on I can barely think straight. I press my thighs together, but it only makes it worse. I close my eyes, rocking my hips slightly, chasing the feeling. I’m so close. Just a little more…
Knock knock knock.
“Emma? Honey, you okay in there?” It’s Jessica from accounting.
My eyes snap open. “I’m fine!” I call out, my voice shaky. “Just… feeling a little queasy from the wine!”
“Oh, dear! Do you need some crackers?”
“No, I’m good! I’ll be right out!”
I listen for her footsteps to retreat. I splash some cold water on my face and prepare to re-enter the fray. I’m completely at his mercy.
I find Liam by the snack table, pretending to be fascinated by a bowl of mixed nuts.
“Having fun?” I ask, my voice dangerously sweet.
“It’s a blast,” he says, grinning.
The next twenty minutes are a special kind of hell. I nod along to my boss’s boring story about his golf swing. I compliment the depressingly phallic ice sculpture. I even eat a dry, flavorless cookie. All while Liam, from across the room, conducts a symphony of torment on my body. A low hum becomes a sudden jolt, which melts into a teasing pulse. The tension in my belly is a wound-up spring of desperate need. My clit is a thrumming, persistent beat against my own will. I’m so wet I’m half-afraid I’m going to leave a damning wet spot on anything I sit in.
I’m in the middle of a conversation with Jessica about her new fiancé, Dave – some poor soul who probably doesn’t know what’s coming – when the wave finally crests. It’s the highest setting, a frantic, powerful buzz that sends a shockwave straight to my core. I’m nodding, smiling, but my eyes have glazed over and my brain has short-circuited. The coil in my stomach winds up with terrifying speed. Oh god. I’m going to cum. I’m actually going to have an orgasm right here, right now, while Jessica from Accounting cheerfully describes her wedding centerpieces.
I try to shift my weight, to discreetly press my thighs together, but it only makes the sensation more intense. I can’t stop it. My breath hitches. My vision starts to blur at the edges. I open my mouth to say something – anything – but all that comes out is a soft, breathy moan.
Jessica stops talking, her eyes wide. “Are you… okay?”
“Cramp,” I gasp, my hand flying to my lower back. “Just a really bad… cramp.” I hop from one foot to the other, a ridiculous, spastic dance that does nothing to help the orgasm threatening to tear me apart.
I can feel Liam’s eyes on me. I have to end this. I grab Liam’s arm, my fingers digging into his skin. “We have to go,” I whisper urgently.
I drag him through the ballroom, searching for an escape. We end up in a small, darkened conference room. I kick the door shut behind me and slam him against the wall.
“You are the worst,” I breathe, fumbling with his belt.
“You love it,” he groans, his hands already under my dress, his fingers hooking into the sides of the vibrating panties. He yanks them down, the little silicone nub still buzzing away. He clicks the remote off, and the sudden silence is deafening.
“I hate you,” I say, but it’s a lie. I’m already freeing his cock. He’s hard, so hard it strains against the fabric of his boxers.
“Liar,” he growls, and then he spins me around, bending me over the polished oak table. He kicks my feet apart with his own. With his free hand, he gathers the crimson silk of my dress, hauling it up over my ass and leaving it pooled at the small of my back. I hear the rustle of his trousers falling to his ankles and then the hot, heavy length of his cock is pressing against my soaked folds.
He doesn’t enter me right away. He drags his cock up and down my slit, coating himself in my wetness, teasing my swollen clit with the tip. I whimper, pushing back against him, desperate for more.
“Liam…” I groan.
“What?” he taunts. He continues his slow, torturous glide, the head of his cock catching on my entrance with every pass, nudging it open just slightly before pulling away. “Tell me what you want, Emma.”
“Just fuck me,” I gasp.
He chuckles. Then, in one swift, hard thrust, he’s inside me. I cry out, my hands flat against the table to brace myself. He’s impossibly deep, stretching me perfectly. He gives me a moment to adjust before he starts to move, and the rhythm he sets is frantic, yet perfect.
There’s no finesse. No slow build-up. At this point, it’s a desperate, primal need for us both. He fucks me from behind, his hands gripping my hips. He pulls me back to meet every powerful thrust. The sound of our bodies slapping together echoes in the small room. The wood groans beneath us. My dress is bunched up around my waist, his trousers are pooled around his ankles. It’s clumsy and messy and so incredibly hot.
One of his hands leaves my hip and slides up my back, tangling in my hair. He gently pulls my head to the side, exposing my neck. He leans over me, his chest pressing against my back, his mouth hot against my ear.
“Look at you,” he growls, his voice a low, possessive rumble. “So desperate for it. You were dripping back there, weren’t you? So wet for me while you were talking to your boss.”
I can only moan in response, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. His words are as much a torment as his cock, and I love it. He reaches around me, his fingers finding my clit. He circles it once, twice, and I see stars. And then, just as I’m teetering on that perfect, painful edge, he leans down and sinks his teeth into the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder.
It’s not pain, not exactly. It’s a sharp, possessive jolt that electrifies every nerve ending. The shock of it, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock and the perfect circles on my clit, is too much. The orgasm I’ve been teetering on for the last hour finally crashes over me. It’s a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming rush of pleasure that rips through my entire body. My inner muscles clench around him, a rhythmic, pulsing grip. My nails dig into the polished wood, my head thrown back.
My vision whites out. For a moment, the only thing that exists is the blinding pleasure and Liam’s ragged groan as my orgasm triggers his own. I feel him pulse deep inside me, a hot, flooding release that prolongs my own ecstasy.
For a long moment, we just stay there, collapsed over the table, tangled together, panting. The smell of lemon-scented polish and sex fills the small room. Then Liam starts to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I mumble, my cheek still pressed against the table.
“I win,” he says, pulling out slowly, the loss of him leaving me feeling achingly empty.
I push myself up and turn to look at him. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed, and he looks thoroughly, completely satisfied. “You didn’t win. I won.”
“You came first,” he says, grinning.
“That’s not how the bet worked!” I protest, but I’m laughing too.
We straighten ourselves up as best we can. I pull the panties back on, now just a regular, slightly damp piece of lace. Liam smooths down his hair. We look like we’ve just been through a wind tunnel.
“You go first,” I whisper, peeking out the door. The coast is clear. He slips out, and I follow a minute later, trying to look nonchalant. We rejoin the party as if nothing happened. As if we weren’t just defiling the company’s conference table.
I grab another glass of champagne, my legs still a little shaky. Jessica finds me a few minutes later. “There you are, dear! Feeling better?”
“Much,” I say, and I mean it. I feel amazing.
Liam comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He presses a soft kiss to my temple. “Merry Christmas, Emma,” he murmurs.
“Merry Christmas, Liam,” I reply, leaning back into him. I might have lost the bet, but I have a feeling I’m going to be winning a lot more in the future. And so is he.
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