Brat’s Heart

Erotica Berlinable by Rebecca Ridge

My heart bounces around in my chest, as I walk the short distance from my office cubicle to the ladies. One sweaty fist holding the hem of my cardigan. The other gripping my mobile phone. Nobody is paying attention to me, but I feel like everyone is looking and whispering. I smile, making eye contact with Lee, who occupies the cubicle nearest the toilet. He smiles back, before averting his eyes to speak to Claire who has just approached with a brown folder in her hand. The crowded office building is as busy as always. Phones are ringing off the hook; voices mould into one other, creating a constant dull hum. A ceiling fan blows loudly above my head. I pause, with my hand on the door handle for just a second, letting the cool air blow over my skin, cooling the sheen of sweat that is sticking to my neck.
Once inside, I check each stall to make sure I’m alone. Not that it would make a difference if I wasn’t. I have approximately ten minutes to complete my task; or else I am in trouble. There is no wiggle room with my dom; and the last thing I want to see is disappointment in his mesmerizing eyes. Just thinking about him sends my head into dizzy fantasies that have my nipples standing to attention and my pussy pulsing.
I chose the stall at the end of the room, the one with one solid wall. The other side is MDF with a small gap underneath leading into the next stall. My pulse quickens at the thought of anyone looking under. They wouldn’t, I hope. I mean, why would they?
The wet squelch of my fingers jamming into my pussy echo’s loudly of the walls in the toilet stall. My heart pounds franticly at the thought of being caught. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead looking up at my phone, that is hanging on the hook at the back of the door in the specialised case that Sir made… for this reason. It’s hanging just at the right angle, in the perfect position, to see everything.
I’m sitting on the toilet seat, my back pressed against the cold porcelain. My dress pushed up to my stomach, my underwear around my ankles, feet together, legs spread at the knees. The fire between my legs is building to a fever. I’m biting my lip to keep my panting under control. Sweet pleasure is rippling out through my core making it hard to keep quiet. I grip tightly to the seat. Reluctantly pulling out my fingers just before my orgasm claims me. I smile at the camera, trying not to show my frustration. It won’t help me. It would just make my situation worse. I probably wouldn’t come at all today.
I lick my fingers clean of all of my juices and then pull up my underwear, straightening my dress. I take the phone down from the door, look into the camera, smile sweetly and say,
“Thank you, Sir,” before pressing end.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror above the sink on my way out. My cheeks are flushed, my chest is covered in red splotches. Sir calls it my sex rash. It appears whenever I’m turned on. It also appears when I’m drunk or angry, but he chooses to ignore that. The door to the ladies opens. Natasha strolls in, her ginger ponytail bobbing from side to side with the swing of her hips. she works in the cubicle next to mine. Her eyes take in my flushed appearance. Her brow knits in concern.
“Are you okay? Are you ill?”
“Time of the month.” I lie fluidly, walking past her a fast as possible, before I’m outed as a fraud.
My wet underwear sticks uncomfortably to my still wet pussy. I’m never allowed to wipe. He likes me to remember. He wants to drive me crazy with my need to come.
The rest of the day is long and frustrating. My clit throbs periodically through the day. He doesn’t always fill my days with sexual frustrations. Just Fridays, or when he is out of the country.
Three-thirty my phone pings.

Go back to the toilet,

Remove your underwear.
Keep them off!
Play with your slutty pussy.
Stop before you come.

My heart kicks up, accelerating a million miles per hour. Shit. I glance around the office, again, no one is paying attention to me. I have no pockets and I would look strange taking my bag. Besides, I know the whole point is to make me feel humiliation. It’s one of his favourite kinks. He wants me to carry my knickers back. It’s lucky they’re so small. I think with a smirk. The next text puts paid to my bratty thoughts.

Use your underwear as a
hair tie.

My stomach drops. Fuck! Ten minutes later I’m back at my desk. My knickers wrapped around my hair band discreetly. It looks quite pretty actually, like a lacy ribbon. My clits throbbing in time to my racing pulse. Shockwaves of pleasure spread through my core …

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