Every Buzz a Promise Unspoken

The first message came at 9:17 AM, right as I was settling into my ergonomic chair with my lukewarm coffee. I’d just powered up my dual monitors, the blue glow reflecting off my glossy lipstick, when my phone buzzed against the walnut desk.

Good morning, beautiful. Slide your heels off under your desk. Feel the carpet with your toes.

My pulse stuttered. I glanced left, then right—open-plan office, low partitions, the usual Monday-morning murmur of keyboards and small talk. No one was looking at me. Still, my fingers trembled as I toed off the black patent pumps, letting them drop silently. The cheap office carpet was scratchy against my stockings, the sensation unexpectedly raw, like he’d stripped away more than just my shoes. I curled my toes, breath shallow, and typed back:

Done.

Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. Then:

Such a fast learner. I’m proud of you already.

Heat flared under my silk blouse, settling low in my belly. I squeezed my knees together, just once, like a secret handshake with myself. The coffee tasted sharper suddenly, metallic with adrenaline. I tried to focus on the quarterly spreadsheet, but numbers blurred into obedient little soldiers marching at someone else’s command.

It had been six weeks since I’d met him at that gallery opening, drawn first to the stark black-and-white photographs of urban decay, then to the man studying them with the intensity of a translator deciphering a lost language. He’d caught me staring at his hands—broad, capable, with a thin silver scar cutting across the back of his right thumb like a misplaced accent mark. When he offered me champagne, his voice was a low rumble that bypassed my ears and vibrated straight in my chest. We’d talked about shadows and light, about what remains when structures fall. He’d said, “Control isn’t about holding something tight. It’s about creating a space where letting go is safe.” Two weeks later, over whiskey in his loft, I’d whispered, “Show me,” and he had, with ropes that felt like embraces and commands that sounded like prayers. The trust wasn’t given; it was built, brick by brick, in the quiet space between a question and my “yes.”

By 10:02 I’d almost convinced myself the morning’s text was a one-off—flirty, harmless—when the phone lit again.

Go to the restroom. Remove your panties. Put them in your purse. Return to your desk as if nothing happened.

My stomach swooped like I’d missed a step on the escalator. I stared at the glowing string of words until they rearranged themselves into a drumbeat: remove, return, nothing happened. Across the aisle, Megan from accounting was humming along to whatever played through her earbuds, highlighting rows of figures in cheerful yellow. She wouldn’t notice if I stood. No one would.

I shut the spreadsheet, pushed back from the desk. Each step toward the corridor felt overdramatic, like walking onto a stage where the audience was hidden in darkness. Inside the handicapped stall I locked the door, leaned against the partition, and slid my hands beneath the pencil skirt. The panties were dove-gray lace, already damp from that single proud sentence. I rolled them down, the elastic snapping softly against my skin. The air in the stall was cool, artificially citrusy; it kissed the exposed curve of my ass with corporate indifference. I folded the lace into a tiny square, tucked it between my wallet and lipstick, then washed my hands twice because they wouldn’t stop shaking.

Back at my cubicle, I sat carefully, hyperaware of the absence of fabric, the way the skirt’s lining whispered against bare flesh when I crossed and uncrossed my ankles. My phone buzzed immediately.

Good girl. Feel that draft? That’s my breath between your legs.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to smother a whimper. The HVAC vent above me chose that moment to exhale a chilly stream directly onto my exposed skin. I felt my labia swell, the slick glide of arousal betraying me. I typed with one thumb:

You’re killing me.

His answer was instant. Only a little death. More tonight.

I stared at the word “tonight” until the letters blurred into a promise. We’d circled this date for weeks—dinner reservations at the chef’s table, then back to his loft where the ropes lived in a cedar chest that smelled of orange peel and smoke. We’d played before, sure, but always in the same room, his voice low and steady in my ear. This—this remote seduction—was new territory, a tin-can telephone strung between my corporate life and his darkened world. Why him? Because when he’d first tied my wrists, his fingers had checked my pulse point, a silent question. Because he remembered I take my coffee black but my whiskey with one ice cube. Because his dominance wasn’t a performance; it was an architecture, and I wanted to live inside it.

11:30 AM. Outlook reminded me of the budget meeting. I gathered my folders, phone tucked into my palm like a rosary. Conference Room B was glass-walled, a fishbowl of middle management. I took the chair closest to the corner, legs demurely together, and set the phone face-down. Within seconds it vibrated against the laminate.

Sit with your knees apart. Four inches. Count them.

I swallowed. The department head was projecting bar graphs in retina-searing colors. I shifted, letting my thighs part exactly four inches—enough for the conditioned air to find me again, for the skirt to stretch taut across my hips. My cheeks burned as if every colleague could somehow see the seam of my zipper strain, the shadowed hollow where fabric no longer shielded me.

Picture my hand under the table, palm against your mound. Still. Waiting. If you move, I stop.

I gripped my pen until the plastic groaned. The meeting dragged through variances and forecasts. Each time I shifted, the chair’s upholstery rasped my bare ass, reminding me of the invisible hand. I became intensely aware of my own heartbeat in my clit, a tiny metronome counting down to…what? The next message? Midnight? I tasted copper and realized I’d bitten my lip.

When the room finally clapped shut their portfolios, I stayed seated until the glass emptied. My phone buzzed.

Lunch. Buy something cold. Eat it at your desk. Slowly.

The cafeteria’s salad bar was a kaleidoscope of wilting spinach and cubed cheese. I chose a peach yogurt instead, the foil lid snapping as I peeled it back. At my desk I dipped the spoon, let the creamy swirl linger on my tongue before swallowing. The yogurt was almost too cold; it sent a shiver straight to my nipples, tightening them against the lace bra I still wore—so far untouched by his instructions. I took another slow spoonful, imagining his thumb tracing my lower lip, collecting the drip, feeding it back to me.

A new message. Tell me what you’re thinking.

I hesitated, then typed: That you’d make me finish the cup even if I hated it. That you’d find a way to make me love it.

His reply came with a wink emoji. I’d make it a game. A point for every bite without a complaint. You’d be begging for the last spoonful.

I smiled, the private joke warming me. He had a way of threading humor through the tension, a lightness that made the weight of submission feel like flight, not an anchor. I remembered him laughing as he’d once knotted a rope, calling it a “granny knot with aspirations.” The memory loosened something in my chest even as it tightened something lower down.

1:14 PM.

Unbutton your blouse one button. No more. Let the air taste your skin.

I glanced around. The cubicle farm felt emptier now; some people lunched outdoors, chasing rare October sunshine. I slipped the tiny mother-of-pearl disk through its hole, revealing the scalloped edge of my bra, the hollow where collarbone met throat. My reflection flickered in the monitor—disheveled, bright-eyed, a woman who looked like she might bolt or beg. I took a selfie from collar to chin, just the suggestion of cleavage, and sent it before courage failed.

He replied with a single emoji: 🔥. Then:

Send me the next sound you make when no one’s listening.

I waited until the copier spat out reams near my pod, then let a soft sigh escape, half-whisper, half-moan. I recorded the tiny breath, the rustle of my sleeve as I lowered the phone. Send. Delivered. Read.

Three dots pulsed. I’m hard from that sigh alone. Keep it wet for me.

My thighs clenched involuntarily. I could feel the slick pooling, threatening to mark the skirt’s lining. I grabbed my emergency cardigan and draped it over my lap like a picnic blanket of plausible deniability.

The afternoon stretched, a taut wire. I tried to lose myself in work, but every task felt trivial, a cardboard set against the vivid theater in my body. At 2:00 PM, a wave of rebellion crested. This was insane. I was a senior analyst, for God’s sake. I had a performance review next week. I could stop this with one text: Enough. I could re-dress, walk out, and meet him for a normal dinner. The thought felt like putting on a coat two sizes too small. The truth was, I didn’t want normal. I wanted the wire. I wanted the exquisite pressure of his attention, the way it made the mundane feel sacred. My fingers hovered over the phone, but I didn’t type the word. Instead, I placed it face down and took a long drink of water, letting the internal mutiny pass. Submission, I was learning, was a series of choices, not a single surrender.

2:47 PM. My manager pinged me: client needed a last-minute deck. I spent an hour rearranging slides, hyperconscious of every swivel of my chair, every brush of fabric. The phone stayed dark, ominously patient. I began to crave the buzz the way some people crave nicotine—mouth dry, foot jiggling, eyes flicking to the black mirror of the screen. When it finally vibrated, I almost cried out.

Restroom again. Third stall. Edge yourself. Two fingers. No climax. You have four minutes starting NOW.

I stood so fast my headset clattered. The corridor stretched like a hallway in a dream. Inside the stall I yanked the cardigan aside, shoved my skirt up. My pussy was slippery, lips swollen, the scent of my own arousal heady in the small space. I slid two fingers along the slit, circling my clit once, twice—electric sparks shooting up my spine. I bit my sweater sleeve to stay quiet, hips rocking. The toilet paper dispenser dug into my back, a cold counterpoint to the furnace between my legs. My pulse pounded in my ears, counting seconds—thirty-eight, thirty-nine—pleasure coiling tight, threatening to snap. I yanked my hand away, panting, fingers dripping. My clit throbbed angrily, denied. I licked my fingers clean out of pure defiance, tasting salt and want.

Back at my desk with thirty seconds to spare, I typed:

Mercy.

He answered: Denied. But I’m smiling. You taste like greed.

I laughed under my breath, a shaky sound that earned a sideways glance from Megan. I mouthed “cat video” and pointed at my screen. She rolled good-natured eyes.

The final hour of the workday was a study in exquisite agony. Every shift in my chair, every crossing of my legs, sent fresh awareness humming through my neglected nerves. I was a live wire wrapped in wool. At 4:06 PM, as the office tilted toward late-afternoon languor, my phone delivered its next command.

Write me a filthy sentence on a Post-it. Hide it in your bra. Bring it to me tonight.

I uncapped a felt-tip, heart hammering. What could possibly be filthier than the truth of this afternoon? I wrote: My cunt is a drum you’ve been beating all day and I need your hands to finish the song. I folded the yellow square into a tiny tent, slid it under the left cup. The paper crackled softly every time I breathed, a secret note against my nipple.

Now describe the exact shade of pink you are for me. Be precise.

I closed my eyes, calling on the memory from the stall. The inside of a seashell at sunset. Blush wine. The first stripe of dawn.

Poet, he replied, and the single word felt like a caress.

5:29 PM. Outlook chimed: timesheet reminder. People began shutdown rituals—stretches, gossip, purse zippers. My phone buzzed one last time.

Pack up. Heels on. Meet me at the elevator bank. If your legs shake, I’ll carry you.

I shut the computer, the monitors blinking to black. My reflection stared back: hair still smooth, lipstick bitten off, blouse re-buttoned but gaping slightly where my breasts pressed. I stepped into my heels, the arch of my foot aching in the best way, as if my body had been recalibrated to his frequency.

The elevator lobby was dim, city lights glittering through floor-to-ceiling glass. He stood facing the skyline, hands in the pockets of his charcoal coat, the same coat that had wrapped around my shoulders the first night he asked if I trusted him. He turned as my heels clicked across the tile. His eyes—storm-gray, laughing—took inventory: the cardigan folded over my arm, the slight tremor in my knees, the secret in my bra. The scar on his thumb was a pale slash in the low light.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, voice low enough for only me. “How was your day?”

I exhaled a laugh that tasted like surrender. “Long. Loud. You were everywhere.”

He stepped closer, brushed an idle knuckle along my collarbone, right where the bra strap peeked. “And now?”

“Now I’m a drum,” I whispered.

His smile curved, wicked, delighted. He pressed the down button. The elevator arrived with a soft ding. We stepped inside alone; doors sealed us in glass and steel. He hit P for parking, then hit stop between floors. The car lurched, steadied. Fluorescent light hummed.

“Show me,” he said.

I handed him the Post-it. He unfolded it, eyes scanning, pupils flaring. “Poetry,” he murmured, his tone holding a genuine note of appreciation that made my chest tighten. He tucked it into his breast pocket, patted it like a promise. Then: “Skirt up. Now.”

The command hung in the air, stark and simple. My mind flashed with a dozen images: the security camera in the corner, the janitor who might push a cart into the lobby, the sheer, brazen exposure of it. This wasn’t the restroom stall. This was a public box suspended in a corporate tower. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the low hum of the elevator. I looked at him—really looked. His gaze was steady, expectant, but there was no impatience in it. It was an offer, not a demand. A chance to step further into the space we’d built, to prove that my trust in his control could override every social script screaming in my head. The risk was the point. The consequence, if caught, was unthinkable. But the consequence of refusing, of stepping back from this ledge we’d spent all day approaching, felt worse. It felt like abandoning a language only we spoke. I took a sharp, silent breath, and my fingers found the hem of my skirt.

I gathered the fabric, baring myself to harsh elevator light. Cool air kissed my soaked skin. He knelt, the coat pooling around his knees, and inhaled. “Fuck, you smell like mine.” His thumbs parted me gently, exposing my aching clit. I gripped the rail, heels slipping on the polished floor. He leaned in, breath hot, but didn’t lick—just hovered, tormenting. “Remember the restroom? Two fingers, no finish?”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Same rule. Only this time it’s my tongue.” He swiped once, a flat velvet stroke that buckled my legs. I cried out, echoing in the metal box. He pulled back, eyes on my face. “Count to ten. Slowly. If you come before ten, I stop and we start again tomorrow.”

I whimpered. “Please.”

“One.” He licked again, feather-light.

“Two.” Another lick, slower, circling.

By five I was panting, thighs quivering. He inserted one finger, curling, finding that swollen spot. I bit my lip, blood metallic.

“Six.”

He added a second finger, pumping lazily, tongue flicking my clit in time with my heartbeat.

“Seven.”

I hovered on the cliff, sparks behind my eyes. He sensed it—paused, blew cool air. I sobbed.

“Eight.”

He sucked my clit gently, rhythmically, fingers still.

“Nine.”

I tasted ten approaching like a freight train. My heels scraped as I arched.

“Ten,” I gasped, and he sealed his mouth over me, sucking hard, fingers thrusting. I came with a silent scream, pussy clenching, juices coating his hand. He kept licking through the aftershocks, soft now, reverent, until I sagged against the wall.

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, eyes shining. “Still loud,” he teased, his voice a rough caress. He hit the resume button. The elevator descended with a gentle lurch. I yanked my skirt down, cheeks flaming, but he stepped close and kissed my forehead, a gesture so tender it made my eyes sting. He steadied me with a hand on my elbow. “Breathe,” he said softly. “You were perfect.”

In the dim garage, he led me to his car, opened the passenger door. Before I climbed in, he leaned close, lips at my ear. “That was the overture. At my place, I’m going to tie you spread-eagle while you read me every filthy thought you had today. And when your voice breaks, I’ll fuck you until you forget your name.”

I met his gaze, steady now, grounded in the chaos he’d woven. “Promise?”

He smiled, brushed a thumb across my lower lip. “Every buzz was a promise unspoken.”

I slid into the leather seat, the scent of cedar and orange already curling from his dashboard diffuser. He shut the door, walked around the hood with measured grace. As the engine purred to life, I finally unclenched my fists. My phone—silent at last—rested in my lap like a spent lover. I didn’t need it anymore; the next command would come from his mouth, his hands, the ropes I could almost feel kissing my wrists.

The city blurred past, streetlights smearing gold across the windshield. Between my legs, a delicious ache throbbed—reminder, promise, covenant. I smiled into the dark, thighs parting just enough for the memory of elevator air, the ghost of his tongue. Tonight would be long, loud, and entirely ours.