You’re in the office building at 7:42 p.m., the lobby deserted, fluorescent lights humming like a distant swarm. The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and she steps in—your coworker from accounting, the one with the pencil skirts and the laugh that makes your stomach flip. She presses 14; you press 12. The doors close, and the car lurches upward. That’s when the thoughts detonate.

You imagine the emergency stop button glowing red under her manicured finger. The elevator halts between floors, the lights flickering to emergency red. She turns, backs against the mirrored wall, and hikes her skirt to her hips—no panties, just smooth skin and a glistening invitation. The mirrors multiply her into infinity: a thousand versions of her spreading her legs, try for free a thousand reflections of you dropping to your knees. try here The air is thick with her perfume and the metallic tang of the elevator shaft. Your tongue finds her instantly, the taste of coffee and desire, her thighs clamping around your ears as the car sways gently. The emergency phone rings once, then goes silent—she’s unplugged it with her heel.

The fantasy escalates. You stand, spin her around, press her chest against the cold metal wall. The mirrors show every angle: her face flushed, your hands gripping her hips, the slap of skin echoing in the confined space. The elevator cable creaks overhead with every thrust, the floor indicator frozen between 11 and 12. She reaches back, guides you lower—there—and you slide into her ass with a groan that fogs the glass. The mirrors steam with your breath; the only light is the red emergency glow painting her skin like a crime scene. The climax is a silent explosion—her body locking around you, your release spilling deep inside as the elevator lurches once, then stills.

But the thoughts don’t stop at the elevator. They follow you to the parking garage, where she’s waiting in your car, skirt gone, legs spread across the backseat. They follow you to the rooftop, where she bends over the ledge, the city lights twinkling below as you take her from behind. They follow you home, where she’s in your shower, soap sliding between her breasts as she drops to her knees again.

The elevator becomes a portal, every ding a promise, every ride a potential crime. You start taking the stairs just to avoid the temptation—but the thoughts ride with you, relentless, vivid, tactile. The only way to satisfy them? To find more elevators, more coworkers, more moments where the line between professional and primal blurs into oblivion.