Lust in an elevator

It was my last and only chance to make it happen, the ideal time to do what I wanted, without worrying about what anyone thought, the ultimate ‘goodbye and sod you all moment’ – my last ever day in a job I never wanted, nor needed to leave on good terms.

I had taken a mundane filing/general gopher job after hitting the post-uni world with a bump in the mid-1990s, when getting a job was only marginally less difficult than it is now. My idealism about being snapped up by a media or advertising company, or landing a role writing a film script, was snuffed out within weeks of living back with my folks and having to sign on at the job centre.

So, I ended up with this job of filing, and running around for people in a public sector/civil service department, purely because the job centre made me take it on. It was supposed to be a five-week stint, but I ended up there for three years, my brain turning to porridge and any ambitions rapidly fading away. But it had been a crash course in office politics, cynicism and the revelation that people in mundane government jobs were all at it like rabbits, whenever they got the chance, regardless of whether or not they were married.

During that time I had been ogled by middle-aged men, learnt how to pretend to work, heard numerous stories of this man and that woman shagging in the empty office upstairs and had a bit of a fling with the quiet but cute guy in the office down the corridor. But I had always carried a torch for the tall, blonde mail delivery boy – let’s call him ‘E’. He had been out of reach, flirting and joking with the older women in the office. I was only a couple of years younger than him, but his quick and witty banter meant he could hold his own with senior officers, even though he was qualified to do little more than push a trolley round the building.

I was also aware that he fancied another girl in our team, so there was no hope. But in my three years of mundanity, people came and went, including this girl, who eventually left to do a nursing course.

My escape finally came when I realised I should apply for a vocational course to shake off the label of useless graduate with an ‘arty-farty’ degree. And as is traditional in most workplaces, I was coerced into the usual ‘leaving do’.

For this particular workforce, that meant starting on drinks around midday and not returning to the office until mid-afternoon, if at all; no one seemed to care. This was the good old days of not having to log your every move, and productivity targets being set very low.

So, we marched down to the nearest pub – me and what seemed to be an army of male colleagues. The two most attractive were E and ‘Lechy Les’ – he had winked at me and sweet-talked me since day one and now, knowing this may be the last time he ever saw me, he was trying extra hard. He was in his late 40s, drove a vintage convertible sports car and clearly saw himself as one for the ladies. It was evident that he had been a very good-looking guy in his prime (yes, nowadays I may have thought differently about a man this age), say 20 years ago. But now, he was clearly aware he was fading a little, so was putting in 100 per cent effort when up against E.

E was also being more focused on me than ever, seeing as nurse girl had now left and he was single. There was a lot more smiling and eye contact than usual when he would normally be entertaining a captive audience with his silly voices and jokes. Our hands brushed when we both reached for our glasses at the same time and we exchanged little smirks. But in the blue corner, Lechy Les, sitting on the other side of me kept putting his arm around me and I was not exactly pushing him away. It crossed my mind that he could probably teach me a thing or two in the bedroom. But no, the attraction to E was, by now, too intense.

After what seemed like half a day, we all staggered back to the building. As some of our group started to go in, E and I hung back. E said: “Lechy Les was really up for it back there – he was all over you.”

“But I would much rather have you than him,” I slurred, slightly startling myself at my sudden boldness.

E’s eyes widened for a second, not believing what he had just heard, and then the cogs in his mind must have started turning very quickly. He grabbed my hand and quickly led me inside. By now no one was around, as they had all sensibly returned to their desks, probably pretending to work.

E, still holding my hand pressed the button for the lift. As soon as the doors opened he gently, but purposefully pressed me against the wall and kissed me, his lips soft, but sensual, the tip of his tongue entering my mouth. He tasted of cold beer and excitement. I kissed him back with gusto, feeling his firm torso through his blue cotton shirt.

The lift landed on the next floor. He reached out to press the button for the doors to quickly close without moving his lips away from mine. All these years of going from floor to floor with the mail trolley were clearly not wasted – they had reached fruition in a moment like this.

By now we were kissing full-on passionately, our bodies pressed together, our heartbeats thumping in unison. I could by now feel the solid bulge in his trousers against my crotch, as my hands glided down his back and rested on his pert buttocks.
We had not come up for air, so I was starting to feel light-headed and nuzzled his neck, gently kissing his shoulder.

The lift stopped on the next floor so again, he blindly pressed the next button, which took us up to the second floor, then the third. No one worked on this floor, so it was a safer location. And by now, we had to make a choice – passionate kiss, then back to our desks, or dare to bare.

He paused and looked in my eyes for a moment. “Yes?” he asked without needing to elaborate on the question. “Yes,” I gasped, again starting to kiss him. It was a hot June day and being in a small, confined space was beginning to feel a little sticky. It also meant my only obstacle was a pair of knickers under my short cotton dress.

He pushed me against the steel wall, and his hand slowly moved under my dress, his fingers finding their way inside my pants, inside me and … “Oh!” I sighed. I was aroused and wet within seconds and my hips were thrusting themselves forward beyond my control, yearning for him to be inside me.

I walked my fingers to his crotch, picking at his zip and fly. I grabbed his firm, sizeable cock, running my fingers up and down it, enjoying its pink, shiny beauty. I wanted this thing inside me.

There was no going back now, and at that moment I didn’t even care if someone caught us. The lift had not moved or been ‘called’ from this floor, so I slipped a foot out of one side of my pants.

He lowered himself so his cock was under me, then slowly pushed against me, entering my wet, blissful vagina. I grabbed the bar behind me to steady myself as he thrust. We both sighed, partly from the heat and partly at the relieving of our urges.

“Yes,” I whispered, “yes.”  I was pinned against the cold metal wall and we were banging and clanking. The little metal box we were in must have been juddering on its cables. But I was in no hurry for this to stop. There were many better, more comfortable places to do this, but this was the moment, the here and now, the only time we would do this. We both knew it and were happy to bruise ourselves – him his knees, me, my back and bum as we threw ourselves against the walls. His cock fitted well and I pressed his rear to keep him going, faster, faster, intensifying the banging against the wall.

“Aah,” he exclaimed, as his thrusting switched to the familiar spasm of a man about to ejaculate. He pulled out and came all over the lift floor. We quickly reassembled and adjusted ourselves, enjoyed a long and lingering final kiss, smeared the liquid into the floor with our feet – what else could we do – then pressed the button down to the first floor.

I walked out of the lift calmly returning to my desk and pretending to tap a keyboard. He sauntered out a few seconds later, retrieving the mail trolley, pushing it down the corridor for his afternoon collection. Then at 5pm, I was straight out of there, on to a new start, a new life.

As I set off for the train station, a car beeped after me. A voice hollered: “Hey, can I give you a lift home?”  Lechy Les was behind the wheel.

 

Read more on my blog – drunkenslutmum.co.uk

 

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