Oops, Did You See That?

Tiffany had already bent over your desk twice that day.

Once to “accidentally” drop a pen.

The second, a casual stretch—hands on her lower back, arching, her ass flexing under that ridiculous black bodycon dress.

It clung to her like it had been painted on. Glossy fabric hugging her hips, outlining every shift of her body like a whisper that screamed.

She knew you were watching.

She wanted you to.

You’d helped her with two Excel formulas this week already.

She’d done something wrong with the pivot table again.

Same mistake.

Same flirty giggle.

Same “oops, you’re so good at this” as she leaned across the chair next to yours and let her bra strap fall off her shoulder.

“Don’t look,” she whispered, pulling it back up with a smirk.

The scent of her—light perfume, skin, something faintly sweet—lingered between you.

Her hair brushed your sleeve.

She always found ways to touch your arm.

Shoulder bump.

Hand on your thigh, just a second too long.

And today, she brought you coffee.

Now she stood by your desk, tall and impossibly smug, tablet in hand, looking down at her own terrible analysis like it wasn’t her problem.

“I think I, um…” she tapped the screen, lips pursed.

“Did this thing again where it… broke. You’re so smart, though. You’ll fix it for me, right?”

You took the tablet.

The report was a mess.

But your eyes caught something else—beneath her arm, as she leaned slightly forward.

The neckline of her dress shifted.

Just enough to see it.

Black lace.

Bra strap hanging just slightly off again, like it was meant to.

“Oops,” she said again, glancing down at herself, then back at you with wide, mock-innocent eyes.

“God, it just won’t stay up today.”

You didn’t answer.

Your fingers moved over the screen, scanning columns.

But your peripheral vision stayed locked on her waist, on the hem of her dress rising higher on her thighs as she leaned in again, watching the numbers.

“You always smell nice,” she murmured.

“What is that? Detergent?”

She was flirting and pretending not to be.

You could see the flicker of play in her eyes.

The flicker of hope.

“Come here,” you said, more command than invitation.

She blinked, but moved closer.

You grabbed her hand, pulled her gently to your side, sat her on your lap.

She gasped.

“Hey—what are you—”

“Showing you how to fix it.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t resist.

She settled onto your thigh, long legs crossed, heels kicking lightly.

Her weight warm.

The hem of her dress rose higher again, and her ass settled right against the stiff line growing under your pants.

She felt it.

Sucked in a quiet breath.

Didn’t move away.

“That’s not part of Excel,” she whispered.

“No,” you said, fingers moving across the screen.

“But you’ve asked for help three times this week.”

“…So?”

“So you either want me to fix it…”

You dragged your palm along her bare thigh, slow.

“…Or you want me to fuck it.”

She froze.

A full second passed.

Then—

She laughed. Nervously. Flushed.

“That’s not—I mean, that’s not—”

Your hand slid higher.

She gasped.

You didn’t stop.

Under her dress, the skin was hot. Thighs trembling faintly.

You felt the hem of her thong.

White.

Just like your friend had said.

You cupped between her legs.

Soaked.

Tiffany let out a noise—half sigh, half moan, biting her lip hard as her hips twitched.

“Oh my God, I didn’t—”

“You wore this to work.”

“I didn’t think anyone would notice—”

“You’re dripping.”

Her breath hitched.

“You remember the toilet,” you said, softly now.

“You sucked him off in the club. Let him finger you while you bent over the sink.”

Her legs pressed tighter around your hand. She whimpered.

“No one was supposed to—”

“Someone walked in. So you stopped. But you didn’t want to.”

Her face turned red. She was trembling now.

“I wanted him to fuck me.”

She said it so quietly you almost missed it.

“I was so wet, and I—I hoped he would. I hoped he’d do it anyway.”

You slid two fingers under the fabric of her thong.

She was soaked.

Her pussy welcomed you, lips parting with a wet, eager heat that pulsed against your fingers.

“Fuck—Tiffany—”

She moaned again, higher now, breath hitching.

“Please don’t tell anyone…”

You didn’t answer.

You stood.

Bent her over the desk.

She gasped as her elbows hit the wood, ass raised, skirt riding high.

White thong now fully exposed.

You pulled it aside.

She was dripping.

Dripping for you.

Just like she had been for your friend.

“You’re going to fuck me, aren’t you,” she whispered, dazed.

“No.”

You leaned down, mouth near her ear.

“You’re going to ask me to.”

She whimpered.

And then—soft, breathy:

“…Please fuck me…”

You unzipped.

Guided yourself to her.

Rubbed the head against her soaked pussy.

She bucked back on instinct.

And just as you were about to push in—

The door clicked.

A voice behind you:

“Hey, do you guys know where—”

Silence.

Tiffany froze.

You didn’t move.

Then the voice:

“…Holy shit.”

A second of silence.

Then—

“…Is that Tiffany?”

She looked back over her shoulder, eyes wide.

Another coworker. Just staring.

And then—

He grinned.

“Should I shut the door?”

She swallowed.

Nodded.

He stepped inside. Shut the door.

And reached for his belt.