I will never use my vibrator again.

No, I will get better at not being caught.

Ironically, he chooses now to give me the orgasms I crave, alone at the office Christmas party. This thing throbbing inside me is connected to my boyfriend’s phone. It is a dreadful mistake to be in the restroom. The muffled buzzing carries, ricocheting off the grey walls and plain tiles, and even these pathetic whimpers echo. I was discreet out there; I acted casual. No, I looked like a crazed slut with a remote-controlled sex toy inside me. A yelp escapes, and I know another woman is in here.

Braced against the cubicle walls, the inevitable arrives. The crests and peaks rise faster and faster, and I am in freefall. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I stop the squeaks leaking out. Knock-kneed, twisting, I shake from my hips and through my body. God damn my pelvic floor, trying to milk this bastard as I climax. It rages hard, smashing through my self-restraint... my pride.

“Putain de Merde!” Hissed under my breath, and tinny laughter from my phone goads me.

Panting, aftershocks make me spasm. Put some magic back into our relationship, he said. This will add heat to our cooled passions. I should remove it, but he needs to experience my unfulfilled lusts.

Fuck... what is he doing? How long do these batteries last?

The intensity rises, tempting me to beg, and a recollection ransacks my mind. Last week, I did not wear panties in the office, hoping my dirty pictures and messages would turn Remy into a demented animal. Until I dropped my laptop, took to my haunches and showed Christophe everything: stockings, suspenders and my bald peach of a pussy.

My... oh fuck... my glowing, swollen, throbbing... cunt!

Poleaxed, my orgasm runs like a colt that tastes freedom. It scorches my face, and an inferno blazes. Any woman will know what I have done here. Hell, even the men will.

My body buckles; I must pant and grovel to my phone.

“Remy, more...”

Drool leaks from the corner of my mouth, and a storm swells between my legs. Christophe is kind, thoughtful, and funny. He did not covet me before; now, I am not his colleague, and he is not my secret crush. I am a svelte, sultry sexual object to him, and... and... rolling like thunder, lightning strikes, and a delicious salvo of pulses ripple over my G-spot.

Finally, some noise drowns out my crisis as distant water flushes down the pan. Ripsaw waves cleave my mind in two. An outreached hand thumps against the wall; I am crippled, my legs spasm, trembling for the big one to sweep me away.

Happy... fucking... Christmas!

Pummelled from my staid life, I regress into primalism, and the incarcerated want out. I am not fulfilled, and I want cock, nestled between my breasts, in my mouth, my cunt, and my tight, slutty ass. I want that glow and that ache afterwards.

No... I fucking need it.

Sliding my fingers into my panties, I rub my clit. I know my wings are cut, and Remy blames me for not knowing how to fly. All conventions and the staid decorum of my life vapourise; I hate being the no-fun grown-up. Guiding it to that place, I squeeze, and tears of joy escape. My mascara is not waterproof, and I do not care.

I need a man who can do this to me, not a toy or a boy. Perfumed by the acrid scent of their essence on my body and in my holes, I want to be a Whore, not their Madonna. Mindless, through gritted teeth, the vibrations build. Ascending, the truth beckons at the highest summit, and I know what I must do.

“Christophe...” I whimper.

Nothing. The world stops, cutting me off in my prime. Panting, hanging by a thread, I am feral.

My tormentor hits the bottom of the bin with a dull thud, and I ignore my phone as it hums. Two-tone disco lights cast shadows through the gloom as determined steps bounce on the floor. Marching with intent in my eyes, a woman nudges another; they can watch and learn. I refuse to join the snaking conga.

My oiled gait is a siren call, and Christophe must answer it. It halts his conversation, and startled like a pristine rabbit; he sidesteps his friend, who melts away. I yank his hand to follow me. The diminished bass line and frivolity fade when the office door locks. He leans against the desk wide-eyed, and my skirt is a belt. A power pose, feet apart, hips pushed forward, with the flare of my naked mons proud.

See my cunt; you will worship its power.

“Anaïs.” He splutters. The poor confounded boy, handsome recent graduate... delicious fresh meat.

My raised eyebrow means business. “You want it?”

He nods enthusiastically.

It might be his birthday today; it is definitely Christmas, and I am his present. Pressing my lips to his, I swoon, and those strong arms hold me close. He understands the direct approach and kneads my clothed breast. He kisses because he means it. My hand kneads his rigid bulge, and my eager tongue stifles his surprise.

Wearing a nerdy festive tie, it is a leash, and he lays on the desk as my ritual sacrifice. I stalk over him with my blouse wide open. Wrestling with his trousers, I take his girthy erection, and the enthusiasm in his eyes excites me. Towering over him, I sit on a tailor-made rod of iron, and we groan in capitulation.

“I hope you have been drinking.” I gasp, circling my hips.

Freeing my breasts, he is mesmerised. “Uh-huh.”

My hand grips his throat, and I tilt my head, scrutinising him. “Excellent, because I need this... all night.”

Plunging for it, he meets me with perfect timing, sending raptures through my body.

“Good boy,” I growl. “Fuck me hard. I am your whore now.”