Appetites

The elevator doors slide shut, whisper quiet.

“I’ll bet I can get you off before we reach the 40th floor,” she says, tugging up the front of my skirt, mouth close enough to leave lipstick smudges on my ear. Crimson Flood, her favorite shade, I’ve found marks from her lips in the strangest places.

“You’re on.” I’m wedged in the corner, gripping the handrails in anticipation, palms damp.

Skirt bunched around my waist, Myrna nudges my panties to the side and finds my folds already slick with wetness. “Open your blouse, Chantal.”

I free one breast and watch the tip disappear behind her pout, smiling over the fact that I’ll be wearing Crimson Flood there later. While she sucks, the end of her tongue drags across my nipple, tightening the skin while her fingers slide over my clit.

“Myrna, oh, Myrna.”

The deliciousness of the act swallows me whole. I swivel my hips, grinding my mound against her hand. Somewhere around the 20th floor, the car makes a sudden stop, but neither of us notice until a man enters the elevator.

“Sorry to intrude,” he says rather nonchalantly.

Broad shoulders, gray flannel suit, fedora, an expensive watch peeks from one cuff when he presses the button for the 60th floor. Myrna hasn’t missed a beat, if anything, her movements are more frantic under the stranger’s intent gaze.

I observe him through narrow eyes, this handsome voyeur who is about to witness my impending climax. Briefcase on the floor, he unzips...