Working Late

Whitney and Eliza sit at desks a few feet apart, pretending to work. Whitney's spine hides her from Eliza. She slips her phone under her dress, snaps a raw shot of her cunt, sends it, then sits back like nothing happened. Eliza flicks her eyes over once, twice. Then she smiles at her own phone. Whitney's photo has hit its mark. Eliza answers with one of her own: camera angled up her skirt, pussy bare and waiting. Whitney stands. She strolls the short gap and bends low so her lips brush Eliza's ear. 'Can't wait to meet your parents this weekend.' Eliza's breath catches; she hisses at her to shut up. Office rules are ironclad, and their secret relationship could torch both their jobs. Whitney shrugs, voice barely there: the boss is sprawled in the corner office, hung-over from last night's photo-proof bender. At least an hour, maybe two. Safe. Eliza answers through her teeth that they shouldn't be working the weekend anyway. The words dissolve. They yank at each other's clothes, fingers working fast. Shirts open, bras yanked aside. Whitney's mouth claims a nipple; Eliza stifles a gasp. The next moment she's on the desk, skirt hiked, knees wide while Whitney's tongue drags over her clit. Their glances keep snapping to the closed door. Every wet sound is louder than it should be. Eliza pulls Whitney up, swaps places, pushes her down and buries her face between Whitney's thighs. Tongues and teeth and the hot, slick slide of skin against wood. Moans leak out between gritted teeth. The door stays shut, but it feels like it might swing open any heartbeat.