Could be worse

The room stayed still for a long time after Susan left.

Emily didn’t move.

She kept her head down, breathing through the spinning and the ticklish edges of the high as it crawled through her bloodstream like warm syrup. Her skin felt hyperaware—every part of her body tuned too tightly, like she could feel the pressure of her bra clasp across her back, the seam of her pants against her waist, the cling of cotton on her chest.

She knew how she got when she was high.

Flushed. Silly. Reckless.

Mischievous.

Flirty.

Stupid.

The last time had been in college—half a brownie, a bottle of wine, and she’d ended up sending her TA an extremely detailed fantasy involving office hours and rope. He’d printed it out and made her read it aloud before bending her over his desk.

She had never eaten an edible again.

Until today.

Shit.

She sat up, grabbed her phone, and silenced every notification. She closed her email. Pulled down the blinds. And made a single, firm decision:

She was not leaving her office for the rest of the day.

No bathroom trips.

No breakroom.

No wandering into the copy room and saying something stupid to Eric.

She'd lock herself down, ride it out, and hopefully be sober enough to drive home by five.

And for a while—it worked.

No one knocked. No calls. Her computer stayed blessedly functional. She sipped water. Answered a few safe emails. Read the same paragraph of a supplier contract seven times. And when 2:00 rolled around with no disasters, she almost let herself believe she was in the clear.

Until the heat kicked in.

That low, liquid hum between her thighs.

Her nipples had been hard all day—pressed tight under her bra, achy, tender from the friction. Her skin buzzed. Every little movement—crossing her legs, shifting in the chair—sent soft jolts up her spine. Her clit throbbed gently, then harder, then refused to stop.

She tried to ignore it.

Lasted fifteen minutes.

Then she snapped.

Her blouse slid off.

Her bra followed.

The relief was instant—her breasts full and heavy, nipples flushed pink, skin cool under the office air. She rolled one nipple between her fingers and shivered.

Then—because she was high, because she was alone, because she felt so fucking sexy for the first time in months—she opened the front camera.

The first selfie was demure: chin tilted, breasts bare, tongue teasing her bottom lip.

The second was filthier. She squeezed both tits up toward her collarbones, bit her lip, pinched her nipple until it peaked hard against her fingertip.

The third—just her hand between her legs, jeans still on, fingers pressing the seam hard to show off how soaked she was.

She sent them to Jason. Just like that.

No caption.

Just ping—ping—ping.

Three messages in a row.

The bubble showed he was typing.

Then it stopped.

She smirked, high and proud, and unzipped her pants.

Her phone propped on her desk now, front camera flipped. She spread her legs wide in the chair, tugged her panties aside, and recorded herself moaning his name.

One hand on her breast, the other circling her clit, fast, wet.

Her thighs trembled. Her breath caught.

She bit back a scream as she came—quick, hot, shuddering—right there in her rolling chair, slick fingers trembling against the curve of her pussy, her eyes fluttering, her legs wide open.

The video saved automatically.

One minute, thirty-eight seconds.

She opened her messages, tried to send it.

“Video too large for text. Would you like to trim or send via other method?”

“Ugh,” she muttered, tapping the screen.

Then she had a brilliant idea.

She grabbed the phone cable from her desk drawer, plugged it into her USB port, waited for the little chime.

Her photos folder popped open.

She dragged the video into a new email window.

To: Jason Davenport
Subject: For You

No message. No explanation.

Just her name in the “from” field.

And one very explicit, very high-resolution masturbation video as an attachment.

She clicked Send.

Grinned.

Sat back in her chair.

And didn’t even think twice about it.