Violet's POV
My office was quiet in the way only late evenings were, especially when you were the only one left in the office.
The only sound I could hear subconsciously was the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft click of my keyboard when I tapped my fingers on the keys.
I didn’t care about the keyboard or the damn document I was asked to work on. I hadn’t typed a single useful sentence in forty minutes. Instead, my eyes kept drifting to the small black leather notebook half-hidden under a stack of printouts on the right side of my desk.
I shouldn’t have brought it to work.
I knew that.
I just didn’t care.
I pulled the notebook closer, opened it to the last written page, and uncapped the pen I kept specifically for this. The ink was dark blue, almost black, bleeding just enough on the thick paper to look filthy when I pressed too hard.
I started writing.
"I keep thinking about the way your hands look when you roll up your sleeves. Thick wrists. Veins. The kind of hands that could hold me down without even trying too hard. I imagine them on my throat first, squeezing and choking air out of my lungs. Then sliding lower. Across my collarbones. Over my tits—touching, squeezing, grazing my nipples."
I shifted in my chair slightly out of uneasiness. The movement made the seam of my trousers press against my clit. I was already wet. I had been wet since lunch, when I watched him lean over the conference table and the fabric of his shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, revealing his toned, muscular body.
I licked my lower lip and kept writing.
"I want to experience how it feels to be degraded and praised at the same time. To be called a good girl and then a dirty slut after. To be treated like a whore and then called a princess after."
My breath hitched.
"I want you to bend me over your desk. The big one in your office. The one with the glass top so I can see my own reflection while you fuck me. I want you to pull my skirt up and my underwear to the side like you don’t have time to take them off properly. I want you to spit on your fingers and shove two of them inside me roughly. I want it to sting. I want you to tell me I’m already soaked and that I’ve been thinking about this all day. Because I have."
My free hand slipped under the desk to work on myself.
I didn’t bother looking around. The only camera that could possibly catch me masturbating was pointed at the main entrance, not at my corner desk. Still, the risk of getting caught made my heart beat harder.
I pushed my palm flat against the front of my trousers, then lower, pressing my hand against my clit through the fabric. A soft, shaky breath left me. My hand wrote faster, the pleasure pushing me over to the edge.
"I’d be loud. I wouldn’t be able to help it. You’d have to cover my mouth with your other hand, or maybe you’d just tell me to shut up and take it. I think about you doing that to me a lot. You telling me to be quiet while you wreck me. I think about you calling me a dirty little slut for getting this wet at work. For writing about you in a notebook I hide under my reports. For touching myself under the desk while you’re just two offices away."
My self-restraint slipped away and I couldn't help but zip down my trousers.
I shoved my hand inside my underwear to feel myself soaked. My fingers slid easily between my folds, gathering slickness, then rubbing tight circles over my clit. My hips jerked forward once, twice. I bit down on my bottom lip hard enough to taste blood and kept the pen moving.
"I came last night thinking about your cock. I had three fingers inside myself and still felt empty. I imagined you stretching and forcing me open. Thick. Heavy. Stretching me until it burned. I came so hard I had to shove my face into the pillow and cry your name out loud. I wrote about it after. The pages are still stuck together a little. I almost brought those ones today, and maybe I should have. Maybe then you’d find them and finally do something about it."
I increased my pace, going harder on myself. I pushed two fingers inside me, curling, while my thumb stayed on my clit. The wet sound of it was soft. Loud. Unmistakable. My breathing had gone from calm to ragged. My handwriting deteriorated with every line.
"I honestly want you to find this. I want you to read every filthy thing I’ve written about you and then make me say it out loud. I want you to look at me while I do it. I want you to see how red my face gets. I want you to make me prove every single word. If I wrote that I finger myself thinking about your mouth on my cunt, I want you to sit me on your desk and make me show you exactly how. If I wrote that I want you to come on my tongue, I want you to hold my hair and use my mouth until I can’t breathe properly. I want—"
My orgasm interrupted me suddenly, my whole body locking up.
A broken sound escaped my throat before I could stop it. My fingers kept moving through the pulses, messy and desperate, and I felt myself gush around them. Wetness spilled over my hand, down to the open notebook, darkening the page even more.
I didn’t take my fingers out. That wasn't the first time I was coming while writing about him.
I kept writing through it, hand shaking, ink smearing where the cum had landed.
"I just came on this page thinking about you. Again. My fingers are still inside me. My pussy is still twitching. The desk is a mess. I’m a mess. And all I can think is that I want you to walk in right now and see it. I want you to make me clean it up with my tongue while you watch. Or maybe you wouldn’t let me clean it. Maybe you’d make me leave it like this so every time I open the notebook, I remember what a filthy little whore I am for you."
I looked down at my fingers glistening with my release, and my diary soaked in three distinct places, warping the lines slightly. I stared at the mess for a long moment, then deliberately dragged my wet fingers across the bottom of the page, leaving a shiny streak.
I wrote one last line under it, slower now, almost neat again.
"I hope you find this. I really fucking hope you do."
I closed the notebook carefully, as if that somehow made the evidence less real. I wiped my hand on the inside of my trousers, zipped up, and tried to force my breathing back to normal.
My cheeks still burned. I didn't look the same in any way.
I slid the notebook back under the stack of printouts, exactly where it had been, and turned to the blank report on my screen.
My fingers hovered over the keys, my hands refusing to settle down to type a word.
I pulled out my notebook again, flipped to a fresh page, and continued my diary.
"Ten minutes later and I’m still wet. I can feel it every time I try to move my body. I keep thinking about what would happen if you walked over right now. If you asked why my face is flushed. If you noticed the way I’m pressing my thighs together. I wouldn’t be able to lie properly. I’d probably just hand you the notebook and wait to see what you’d do."
I kept writing until my wrist ached and the pages were filled with my dirty imaginations.