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“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Mark says.
Gemma looks up from where she’s laying the towels over the couch. “Well, don’t say it like I have a gun to your head. It’ll be fun! It’s not a big deal.”
Mark looks suspiciously around her tiny windowless office, like he’ll find hidden cameras or a peephole in the wall or something, even though Gemma’s had this office for years and there’s a zero percent chance of uncovering spyware. He feels like it’s fair for him to be a little paranoid, though, considering the circumstances.
“Mark,” Gemma says with a knowing smile. “I can sense you stressing out.”
“I’m not stressing out,” Mark protests. “I’m just … mildly concerned. About getting caught. Obviously.”
Gemma couldn’t look more relaxed. “Don’t worry, okay? The rest of the faculty on this floor have all taken off for the night, the students have cleared out, and we’re literally on the basement floor of the most isolated building on campus. Do you know how many of my students get lost looking for me? You have to walk through seven doors to get to my office. Seven, Mark.”
Mark can’t argue with that. “It is a lot of doors. I’m pretty sure Hitler was behind fewer doors in his Führerbunker.”
“Not the comparison I would’ve made, but okay.” Gemma pulls him toward her by his lapels, kissing him deeply. “You know I love it when you talk history, baby, but maybe shelf the Hitler talk when we’re about to have sex, yeah?”
Mark makes a lip-zipping motion as Gemma works his blazer off, then helps him pull his sweater up over his head. She lets out a cutely petulant huff when Mark is left in his shirt and tie and slacks, not even close to fully undressed.
“Why are you wearing so many layers?”
“It’s November!” Early November, technically, but it’s dropped below 45 degrees in Ganz and stores are already putting Christmas chocolate on the shelves. So more like December when you think about it.
Eventually, Gemma gets him down to his boxers, the checkered dark red pair she likes. Mark sits awkwardly on the towel-covered couch as Gemma strips. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact they’re about to have sex in her office. In a public space. With the door unlocked.
He imagines another professor walking in on them — worse, the dean walking in on them, no matter how unlikely. God, what a stupid way for them both to get fired.
“This is such a bad idea,” Mark says, overcome by a sudden rush of anxiety when he looks at the door. “What if someone just — walks in?”
Gemma laughs, and the sound goes straight to his groin. He realizes that she’s just in her bra and panties now, the black material stark against her skin, and he feels a rush of heat that silences his worries. Rational brain Mark is gone and lizard brain Mark is taking the wheel.
Gemma puts her hand on his chest, gently pushing him back until he’s sitting on the couch again. She bends down over him, caressing his cheek, and Mark leans into her touch.
Before they got married, Mark had a secret little fear in him after everything he heard about married couples falling out of love, their sex life becoming a dull chore. Would that happen to him and Gemma? Or, even worse, would their relationship turn completely sour, love replaced by resentment and hatred? He remembers his own parents’ unhappy marriage, their screaming matches, the time his drunk father threw a glass ashtray at his mom.
But here he and Gemma are, five years married, eight years together, and Mark’s love for her has only solidified. And by some miracle, Gemma still looks at him with that warmth in her eyes.
“Love you,” Mark murmurs.
Gemma smiles and strokes his brow, tracing its arch with her thumb. “What did I do to deserve you?”
Mark scoffs, self-deprecating. “I think you got it backward, honey, I’m the underserving, insanely lucky one in this equation. Everyone knows it.”
Gemma frowns a little, still caressing his face. “You know I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”
Mark lowers his gaze apologetically. Even after all this time, he still hasn’t managed to conquer those warring impulses inside him — that needy desperation to be loved clashing with the ingrained belief he doesn’t really deserve it — leaving him all messed-up and pulled in two different directions.
Thankfully, Gemma doesn’t pursue it anymore. Mark feels her lips at his temple, right by his hairline, and then she withdraws to retrieve her bag.
Mark’s arousal returns full-force as he watches Gemma pull out her harness and the dildo attachment.
“I can’t believe you were carrying that around all day.”
Gemma winces. “Yeah, I had a near-miss in one of my lectures. Remind me to tell you later. God, do you remember that time when Ricken —”
“God, don’t remind me,” Mark groans. “That still haunts me.”
“In my defense, I didn’t know he would go looking through our dishwasher.”
Mark shudders. “Can we please stop talking about it? Jesus. I need a memory wipe so I can forget about that.”
“Well, we learned our lesson, right? We need to handwash the dildo if we have people coming over the next morning instead of forgetting it in the dishwasher.”
“Gemma …”
“Right, right, I’ll stop talking about it.” Gemma giggles. “Your face is so red.”
Mark pouts but quickly jumps to help her step into the harness and secure the strap into place. The dildo is green, which makes it look kind of ridiculous, but Mark found that less intimidating than the bright red one and definitely less intimidating than the ridged one with fake veins.
Either way, Gemma looks so good with it on that Mark can’t complain. He plops back down, pulling her toward him by the hips, as she carelessly throws the bottle of lube onto the couch. This way, him sitting and her standing, the dildo is in the perfect place, positioned right above his mouth.
“Okay,” Gemma whispers, petting his hair, and Mark wraps his lips around the tip of the dildo.
He has a moment to adjust and then Gemma juts her hips forward, filling his mouth. The movement must have pressed the end of the dildo against her clit because she suddenly moans and her hips stutter forward even more. Mark doesn’t pull away, just lets his mouth fall slack to allow her in. As he does so, he can’t help but glance over at the door, like someone will bust in without warning.
“Don’t worry about that,” Gemma says, because she can read his mind.
Mark would answer, but his mouth is kind of occupied right now. To be honest, he’s not crazy about the taste of silicone (although it’s better than the rubber dildo they used before), but he really does like the weight on his tongue, the way Gemma gently pulls him around as she fucks into his mouth. So he focuses on breathing through his nose as Gemma presses more of the dildo past his lips.
Gemma strokes the back of his head. “Good boy, just breathe.”
Mark feels himself flush at the praise even as he flicks her an exasperated look that makes her laugh, but he takes a deep breath through his nose and tries his best to relax his throat. His eyes water, but the way her eyes widen when the strap slides several more inches down his throat is totally worth it.
“Oh, shit,” Gemma murmurs, hand tightening in his hair. “How are you … have you, uh, been practicing?”
Mark pulls off with a very unsexy spluttering sound and gulps down a lungful of air. “Practicing? As in, secretly when you’re not home?”
“I don’t know!” Gemma slides a hand down the strap, now slick with his spit, which shouldn’t be hot but kind of is. “I just feel like you’ve gotten better at sucking my cock. Definite improvement curve.”
“Thanks, honey,” Mark says wryly. “I feel like if the strap was attached to you with nerve endings, you wouldn’t be quite as complimentary.”
Gemma hums. “You using too much teeth?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, no complaints on this end.” Gemma pulls him down by the hair. “Now, back to it.”
Mark obediently lets her manhandle him until the dildo is filling his mouth again, pressing against his tongue. He’s starting to feel a little floaty now, a pleasant buzz beneath his skin, and he puts his hands on her hips to encourage her to fuck his mouth. She obliges with shallow thrusts, and Mark lets his eyes slide closed, lets himself become just a mouth to be used.
“Look at you down there,” Gemma breathes, admiring. “My baby sea turtle, swallowing plastic.”
Mark is forced to pull off the strap again to laugh in disbelief. “Sea turtle? What?”
“You know, I saw a doc last week about turtles eating plastic bags because they think they’re jellyfish. So sad.” Gemma frowns. “Should we be more environmentally conscious?”
“We recycle,” Mark offers. “And also, this is terrible dirty talk, Gem. I don’t want to think about turtles choking on plastic, it’s gonna ruin the mood.”
Gemma reaches down and teasingly cups his cock, straining though his boxers. “Really? Doesn’t seem like a mood killer for you.”
Mark whines and squirms, trying to grind against her hand. “Gemma —”
“I know, baby, I know,” Gemma whispers, climbing on the couch and guiding Mark down onto his back. “I got you.”
She traces a finger down his happy trail, sucks a hickey into the skin just below his navel. Mark eagerly lifts his hips to help her tug his boxers down, cock springing free. She fists him, thumb smearing through the pre-cum beading at the tip, and Mark’s hips buck.
“Easy there, turtle,” Gemma murmurs.
Mark grimaces. “Ugh, is this gonna be a thing now? Do you have some kind of reptile kink I didn’t know about?”
“Shh, no talking.”
Mark looks around. “Shit, where’d the lube go?”
Gemma draws back to fumble around, eventually retrieving the bottle from where it became wedged down the back of the couch. “Bingo.”
“What would I do without you?” Mark says, and he means it.
Gemma smirks. “Have worse sex, probably. Now, I’m serious, babe, no more talking. Just relax.”
She wrings out the remainder of the lube on her fingers. Mark leans back on his elbows to watch her, knees bent, heat rippling in his stomach.
Gemma gently nudges his legs apart before leaning in to give him a kiss, and Mark feels himself being drawn closer to her, like the pull of attraction between opposite magnets. If her plan was to help him relax even more, it works, because he barely even realizes that she’s touching him until she’s slid a finger fully inside him, other hand gliding over his cock.
Time gets kind of hazy. Gemma adds another finger, then another, and Mark rocks his hips, hand pressed over his mouth to try and stifle the embarrassing whimpering sounds escaping him. They’re technically in a public place, after all, and these office walls are thin.
But Gemma says, “No, you don’t,” and takes his hand away. “I wanna hear you.”
“I thought you said no talking,” Mark pants.
“I didn’t say you should talk. Just keep making those cute sounds.”
Gemma slides her fingers out and Mark lets out something between a groan and a cough; it’s hardly a pornographic sound, but Gemma still seems into it, so whatever.
Her fingers are quickly replaced by the head of the dildo, and Mark grits his teeth against the pain and pleasure of it as Gemma pushes in, gentle and slow — too slow. But then she’s finally in all the way, her hips stilling. Mark doesn’t move either, just stares up at the ceiling and takes deep breaths. There’s a water stain above him that’s kind of shaped like a bird.
“You good?” Gemma asks.
Mark blows a breath out. Speech seems beyond him right now. His mind swims in the light, surrounded by the warmth of the room. He feels every point of contact with Gemma: her hand braced against his chest, her hand in his hair, her hips flush against him, their legs tangled together.
Finally, he croaks out, “Yeah. ’M good.”
Gemma arches her brows. “Can I move? Or you wanna just stay here and warm my cock for a bit?”
“Hilarious,” Mark mumbles, but he rolls his hips, grinding down onto the strap. Gemma takes the cue, rocking into him, both hands on his hips now as she tries to coordinate their clumsy movements. It doesn’t take long for her to find that perfect angle to hit his prostrate, and Mark feels his dick twitch as he claps a hand over his mouth to stifle a loud groan.
Gemma smirks. She knows exactly what’s she doing, that asshole. “Careful, baby, someone might hear you.”
“Fuck,” Mark breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. He can already feel his orgasm barreling toward him, that pressure growing, way quicker than normal. Something about the unlocked door, the threat of being caught — of someone seeing him like this, splayed open and already fucked out — is really egging him on. He doesn’t really care to analyze that much further, just tries to stay in his body and in the moment with Gemma.
Gemma drives forward into him a few more times, hitting his prostrate with every other thrust. Mark can feel that white static in his brain growing and growing, his whole body strung tight, and he opens his mouth to warn Gemma — but then she pumps his dick twice, and Mark comes before he can get the words out.
When he returns to himself, Gemma is still moving with minute thrusts, grinding her clit against the other end of the strap, trying to get more friction for herself. Mark’s eyes tear up and he twitches away, the overstimulation too much, and she stills. Her cheeks and chest are flushed, sweat sticking her hair to her neck. He loves her so much, Mark thinks, thoughts still hazy.
He must’ve said it out loud because Gemma gives him a soft smile. “Love you too, honey. You okay?”
Mark gives her a wobbly thumbs-up and she laughs, climbing off him. Mark hears, rather than sees, her wiggle out of the strap and harness, throwing them to the floor.
Mark struggles to sit up, but his stomach muscles protest and he flops back again. Fucked-out, he offers, “You wanna sit on my face?”
Gemma perks up, leaning forward to press her lips loosely against his collarbone, his throat, his mouth. And then she’s climbing onto him, Mark keeping her steady with his hands. It doesn’t take her long to come like that, one hand on her clit, fucking herself on Mark’s tongue — Mark lets slip a plaintive whine when her free hand clenches in his hair and the vibrations push her off the edge.
She clambers off to sit on the edge of the couch, leaning against his knees. For a few minutes, they stay in a comfortable silence, both of them catching their breaths. Mark feels like some kind of boneless creature, like a jellyfish drifting in the ocean.
Gemma presses a kiss to his kneecap. “Come on, superstar. We need to get out of here before they lock up for the night.”
Mark just groans, still in the afterglow.
Gemma snorts. “C’mon, you’re not actually stuck there like a —”
“— I know where this is going —”
“— like a beached whale. Where’d you think I was going with that?”
“I thought you were gonna say like a turtle stuck on its back, after all that talk about dying turtles.”
“Oh, shit,” Gemma says, “that’s way better. Mark, pretend I said that instead.”
Mark hauls himself up with herculean effort, kissing Gemma’s shoulder as he helps her slip her bra back on. They fumble around, trying to find where they threw their clothes, folding up the towels on the couch, making sure the office is presentable. Mark goes through a lot of wet wipes, first cleaning Gemma’s wetness off his mouth and chin, and then his own cum off his stomach.
In the end, they wind up with each other’s socks on, but any evidence of what they did here has been wiped away, the strap-on and towels stuffed back in Gemma’s bag. Mark decides this is the worst part of office sex: you don’t get to relax and enjoy the aftermath in each other’s closeness — which Mark relishes almost as much as the actual sex part — but have to quickly clean yourself up and get out of there instead. Still, he doesn’t have many complaints about what they did here. Apart from his anxiety that the fucking dean or someone would walk in on them, that is.
“Did you really think someone would walk in?” he asks Gemma.
Gemma shrugs coyly. “No, not really. No one comes down here, especially not at this time. We’re all very lonely in the Slavic department. We don’t get as much love as the history department and a certain professor who I hear so much about —”
“Gemma,” Mark protests, cheeks growing hot.
“It’s true!”
Mark shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. You had me so stressed, I really thought you didn’t care about someone seeing us.”
“I would never,” Gemma says, very seriously. She leans into him, her lips brushing his in an almost-kiss, her eyes full of pure fondness. Mark gets that squirmy, pleased feeling in his stomach again — it’s a feeling he’s become addicted to with her now, a feeling he’s been chasing since the day they met, even if he didn’t know it at the time.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Gemma smiles. “I like having you all to myself too much.”