Secret Santa’s Forbidden After-Party

I should have known something was different about the marketing department's holiday party when I caught Marcus in the supply closet at three-thirty, changing into a dress shirt that probably cost more than my rent. He usually wore cheap polos and had the fashion sense of a colorblind accountant—which, technically, he was.

"You clean up nice," I teased, leaning against the doorframe.

He startled, nearly dropping the cufflinks—actual silver ones, I noticed. "Olivia. Didn't see you there." His fingers fumbled with the tiny mechanisms. "Here for the good toner?"

"Just hiding from Henderson's year-end projections." I watched him struggle for another moment. "Need help?"

Marcus hesitated, then extended his wrist. His pulse jumped under my fingertips as I fastened the cufflink. Up close, he smelled like cedar and something darker—whiskey, maybe. "Thanks. You look... different too."

I glanced down at my usual work outfit: black slacks, silk blouse, sensible heels. "Different how?"

"Like you're going somewhere special after." His eyes held something I couldn't read. "Are you?"

The question hung between us, weighted with meaning I didn't understand. Before I could respond, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Marcus stepped back quickly, almost guiltily, and grabbed his jacket.

"See you at the party," he said, brushing past me.

I stared after him, my fingers still tingling from the brief contact.

The main party was standard corporate fare. I made my rounds, exchanging pleasantries while scanning for Marcus. He was nowhere in sight, but I noticed other oddities—Jennifer from accounting disappearing for twenty minutes and returning with her lipstick freshly applied but her hair slightly mussed. David from IT, usually in graphic tees, wore a tailored button-down with the sleeves rolled to reveal forearms I’d never noticed were so defined. They weren’t just dressed up; they were dressed for something specific.

I overheard snippets that made my skin prickle. By the punch bowl, Tom from sales murmured to Claire from legal, “...told me the venue changed this year. More private.” Claire’s response was a low laugh. “As long as the rules stay the same. Discretion is everything.” They noticed me listening and offered bland smiles before drifting apart.

Near the restrooms, I almost walked into Jennifer. She was leaning against the wall, speaking quietly into her phone. “...yes, she’s here. No, I haven’t asked yet. It has to feel organic, you know that.” She saw me, ended the call abruptly, and flashed a bright, normal-Jennifer smile. “Olivia! Having fun?”

The pieces didn’t fit together until I went to retrieve my coat early, hoping to beat the rush. Tucked into the sleeve, not where I’d left it, was a thick, cream-colored envelope. My name was written on it in elegant, unfamiliar script. Inside was a single, heavy cardstock note.

The party after the party. If curiosity compels you, be at the service elevator (B floor) at 10:35 p.m. precisely. Come as you are, but perhaps dress for what you might become. Discretion is not a preference; it is the price of admission. Leave your phone. —The Hosts

My heart hammered. This wasn’t Jennifer’s doing; the formality was different, the secrecy more profound. I spent the next hour in a daze, the note burning a hole in my clutch. At ten-twenty, I excused myself to the bathroom. My hands trembled as I locked the stall door. Under my sensible blouse and slacks, I’d worn the lingerie set I’d bought on a whim months ago—black lace, a garter belt, sheer stockings. I’d told myself it was for confidence. Now, peeling off my work armor, I felt terrifyingly exposed and thrillingly alive.

I reapplied lipstick and studied my reflection. My eyes were wide, my cheeks flushed. You can still go home, a sensible voice whispered. But a louder, hungrier voice answered, When will you ever get this chance again?

The service elevator on B floor was isolated, lit by a single flickering fluorescent light. It was 10:34. I was alone. For a panicked second, I thought it was a cruel joke. Then, at 10:35 exactly, the elevator door slid open silently. Jennifer stood inside, but a transformed Jennifer. Her conservative dress was gone, replaced by a crimson silk wrap dress that left little to the imagination. David was with her, wearing the same shirt but now open at the collar, his usual friendly grin replaced by an assessing calm.

“You found your invitation,” Jennifer said. It wasn’t a question. She held out her hand. “Phone.”

The demand was so blunt it stalled my thoughts. “What?”

“The note said leave your phone. That means here, with me. It’ll be in my locker, safe and sound. No pictures, no recordings, no accidental dials. That’s the first rule.” Her voice was kind but firm. “It protects everyone. Especially you.”

The stakes crystallized. This was real. Breaking the rule meant exclusion, probably firing if it ever got out. I thought of Marcus’s intense look in the closet, of the whispered conversations. After a final hesitation, I pulled my phone from my clutch and handed it over. The weight of its absence was immediate.

“Good,” David said, his voice a low rumble. “Now, for the journey.” He produced a black silk scarf. “A tradition. The location is a closely guarded secret. It protects the society.”

“Society?” I echoed.

“A dramatic word for a group of people who share certain… appetites, and a commitment to keeping them separate from their nine-to-five lives,” Jennifer explained as David gently tied the blindfold over my eyes. The world vanished. “It started years ago, before any of us. The story goes a VP and a junior analyst hooked up at a holiday party, realized they had chemistry nowhere else, and decided to create a space where titles and org charts didn’t matter. It grew from there. Very, very carefully.”

The elevator descended. My other senses sharpened. I heard the rustle of Jennifer’s silk, smelled David’s clean, spicy cologne. The car stopped, and they guided me out. The air changed—cooler, smelling of concrete and distant city smells. A car door opened. I was helped into a plush backseat. The door closed, and we began to move.

No one spoke during the drive. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was thick with anticipation. I could feel it radiating from my companions. After a series of turns, the car stopped. Strong hands—David’s—helped me out. My heels clicked on what felt like polished stone, then thick carpet. We walked through spaces that echoed, past whispers of music that grew louder. I heard a faint laugh I almost recognized, cut short.

A door opened. The music swelled—a deep, pulsing electronic beat that felt like a heartbeat. The air was warm, scented with sandalwood, amber, and the faint, sweet tang of sweat and perfume.

“Welcome,” Jennifer whispered, her lips close to my ear. Then the blindfold was gone.

I blinked in the low, amber light. We stood in an opulent lounge—exposed brick, dark velvet furnishings, a bar glowing with backlit bottles. And everywhere, bodies.

My brain struggled to reconcile the scenes with my mental employee directory. On a wide Chesterfield sofa, Marcus, his expensive shirt now open, was kneeling between the spread thighs of Sandra from Payroll. His head moved with deliberate focus, and Sandra’s fingers were tangled in his hair, her head thrown back in silent ecstasy. Near the bar, our stern CFO, Mr. Henderson, had his dress shirt unbuttoned, his eyes closed as the new intern from Marketing, Chloe, trailed kisses down his chest. In a shadowy alcove, two married women from HR were a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses.

It was an orgy. A beautiful, shocking, professional orgy.

A visceral wave of fear—cold and sharp—clamped down on my arousal. What the hell are you doing, Olivia? This wasn’t a fantasy; this was real people, real consequences. My professional identity—meticulous, reliable Olivia from Strategic Planning—screamed at me to turn and run. These were people I had to face in budget meetings, at the coffee machine. The cognitive dissonance was paralyzing.

“First reaction is always the hardest,” a calm voice said. David had come to stand beside me, holding two glasses of dark liquor. He handed me one. “It’s okay. The fear means you understand the stakes.”

I took the glass with a trembling hand and drank. The whiskey burned a path of courage down my throat. “How… how does this not blow up everything?”

“The rules,” he said simply, leading me to a quieter corner. “One: Absolute discretion. What happens here is never, ever discussed elsewhere. Not a hint, not a look. Two: Enthusiastic, ongoing consent. You say ‘stop’ or ‘no’ at any point, everything stops. Three: No phones, no evidence. Four: We vet carefully. It’s not about rank; it’s about trust. Jennifer nominated you. Marcus seconded it. The rest of us voted.”

“Voted?” I felt oddly touched, and more exposed.

“We protect this space fiercely,” Jennifer said, joining us. She’d undone her wrap dress, revealing a lace corset beneath. “Because it’s the only place we can be this free. Out there, I’m a divorced mom of two who does payroll. In here…” She gestured around, her smile turning wicked. “In here, I’m whatever I want to be. And so are you. You can just watch, you know. All night, if you like. No one will touch you without explicit permission.”

I looked past her, my eyes finding Marcus again. He had pulled Sandra up into a deep kiss, sharing her taste. As if feeling my gaze, he turned his head. Our eyes locked across the room. He didn’t smile. He just looked at me with a raw, unveiled hunger that stripped away my last pretense of hesitation. The fear didn’t vanish, but it fused with a desperate wanting, creating something new and potent: abandon.

I set my glass down. “I don’t want to just watch.”

The words hung between us. Jennifer’s smile softened. “Then don’t.”

Marcus disentangled himself from Sandra, who sighed but was quickly drawn into the arms of another woman. He walked toward me, and the crowd seemed to part for him. Up close, I could see the flush on his skin, the dampness at his temples, the dark desire in his eyes.

“You came,” he said. His voice was rough.

“You knew I would.”

“I hoped.” His gaze traveled down my body, as if he could see through my clothes to the lace beneath. “Since the supply closet. Since you fastened that cufflink and your breath hitched. I’ve been thinking about what that hitched breath would sound like in my ear.”

His words were specific, personal, rooted in our shared moment. It wasn’t generic dirty talk; it was a continuation. “And what did you decide it would sound like?” I asked, my own voice lower than I’d ever heard it.

“Like focus,” he murmured, stepping into my space. The heat from his body was immense. “Like the moment in a quarterly review when you find the error in the data that changes everything. Total, perfect focus.” His hand came up, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “I want to hear that focus turn into chaos.”

He leaned in, his mouth a breath from mine. “May I?”

I closed the distance.

The kiss was not gentle. It was a claiming, a release of three years of sidelong glances and professional distance. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of whiskey and Sandra and pure, male want. I met him with equal hunger, my hands fisting in his open shirt. A low groan vibrated from his chest into mine.

When we broke apart, we had an audience. Jennifer watched, one hand stroking David’s arm. Sandra observed with a curious, approving smile. Others had paused their own trysts, drawn by the new energy.

“They’re watching,” I breathed against his lips.

“I know,” he said, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. “They’re watching because you’re new. Because you’re beautiful. And because they want to see what you choose to do next.” He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes. “What do you want, Olivia? Right now. In this room. No titles, no reports. Just want.”

The directness was exhilarating. “I want you to touch me. I want them to watch you do it.”

A sharp, approving inhale came from Jennifer. Marcus’s eyes darkened further. “Where?”

“Everywhere.”

He spun me gently, pressing my back against a cool brick pillar. His body caged me in, shielding me from the full view of the room, but I could see over his shoulder. I saw David whispering something to Jennifer, his hand on the small of her back. I saw Tom from sales guiding Claire to her knees before him, his fingers gentle in her hair. I saw a tableau of liberated desire, and my own burned brighter.

Marcus’s mouth found my neck, sucking hard enough to mark. His hands slid under my blouse, his warm palms skimming up my ribs to find my lace-covered breasts. “This,” he growled, his thumbs circling my nipples through the fabric, “has haunted me. That time you leaned over the conference table to point at the flowchart, and this lace peeked out from your collar. I spent that whole meeting wondering if it was a coincidence or an invitation.”

“What was the verdict?” I gasped as he pinched gently.

“I’m still deciding.” His hand left my breast, trailing fire down my stomach to the waistband of my slacks. He popped the button, slid the zipper down. His fingers dipped beneath the fabric, beneath the lace of my panties, and found me soaking wet. “Fuck, Olivia. This is all from just looking? From just thinking about it?”

“From you,” I admitted, pushing my hips against his hand. “From knowing you were thinking about it too.”

He pressed two fingers inside me, and I cried out, the sound swallowed by the music and the ambient moans. He curled them, finding a spot that made my vision blur. “You feel that? That’s the focus. Now let’s break it.”

He began to move his fingers, a ruthless, perfect rhythm, his thumb circling my clit. My world narrowed to the pillar at my back, the heat of his body, and the building coil of pleasure. My breaths became ragged sobs. Over his shoulder, I saw Jennifer had moved closer, her eyes glued to Marcus’s hand working between my legs. David stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, watching me with intense fascination.

“They see you,” Marcus whispered, his lips against my ear. “They see how badly you need it. David’s wondering if you taste as good as you sound. Jennifer’s imagining what it would feel like to have your nails digging into her back instead of this brick.”

The images his words painted, combined with the expert motion of his fingers, pushed me to the edge. “Marcus, I’m going to—”

“Not yet.” He withdrew his hand abruptly.

The denial was a physical ache. I whimpered, my body trembling with unmet need.

“You don’t come until you’re full of me,” he said, his own control seeming to fray. “Until you can’t tell where your pleasure ends and mine begins.” He took my hand and led me, on unsteady legs, to a large, low ottoman piled with velvet cushions. It was clearly a centerpiece. He sat and pulled me onto his lap, straddling him. Our audience shifted, forming a loose, respectful circle. They weren’t crowding us, but they were present, watching, their own arousal a palpable force in the air.

Marcus looked past me, his gaze scanning the circle. “She’s close. And she’s greedy for it. Who wants to help?”

Jennifer stepped forward first. “I’ve been wanting to taste her since I saw her walk in.” It wasn’t just participation; it was a stated desire, a motivation. She wanted me, specifically. She knelt beside the ottoman, her hands coming up to frame my face. “Is this okay?”

I could only nod. She kissed me, her mouth soft and exploring at first, then deeper, her tongue stroking mine. It was different from Marcus’s kiss—softer, more persuasive. While she kissed me, her hands went to the buttons of my blouse, opening them one by one until it fell open, revealing the black lace bra. A murmur of appreciation rippled through our watchers.

David moved to my other side. “My turn,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He’d removed his shirt, revealing a surprisingly sculpted torso adorned with intricate geometric tattoos. This was the IT guy who fixed my printer. The dissonance was dizzying. “I want to hear what she sounds like when she’s being pulled in two directions.” He leaned in and took one lace-covered nipple into his mouth, sucking hard through the fabric.

Sensation overloaded me. Jennifer’s mouth on mine, David’s on my breast, Marcus’s hard arousal beneath me, the hungry eyes of a dozen colleagues. I was the nexus of all this want, and it was the most powerful I had ever felt.

Marcus’s hands went to my hips, grinding me down against him. “See this?” he said, his voice strained, addressing the room but looking at me. “See how she takes it? How she leans into David’s mouth and kisses Jennifer back like she’s trying to drink her soul? This is what happens when you unlock the door.”

His words weren’t cliché; they were a narrative of my own liberation, and they shattered my last inhibition. “Please,” I begged, not knowing who I was talking to. “I need more.”

“What do you need?” Jennifer asked, pulling back, her lips swollen.

“I need to feel all of you.”

That was the invitation. Jennifer’s fingers made quick work of my bra clasp. David peeled the lace away, replacing his mouth on my now-bare skin, his stubble a delicious abrasion. Jennifer’s mouth traveled down my neck, my collarbone, then lower, replacing David’s mouth on my other breast. Marcus held my gaze, his hands tightening on my hips.

“Now,” I demanded.

He fumbled between us, his fingers tearing open a condom packet that seemed to appear from nowhere. I rose slightly on my knees, helping him roll it on, the intimate act somehow more exposing than anything else with our audience watching. Then I sank down onto him, slowly, taking every inch until I was fully seated, stretched and filled so completely I saw stars.

A collective, soft sigh came from the circle. Marcus’s head fell back, a tendon in his neck standing out. “God. You’re perfect.”

He let me set the pace at first, and I rode him, my movements growing more confident as Jennifer and David continued to worship my upper body with their mouths and hands. But soon, Marcus took over, driving up into me with deep, powerful thrusts that stole my breath. The ottoman creaked beneath us. The sounds I made were unabashed, loud, pure expressions of pleasure.

“Look at her,” David growled against my skin. “Look how she fucks him. I want her to do that to me next.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn,” Jennifer purred, her hand sliding down my stomach to where Marcus and I were joined. She circled my clit with deft fingers, syncing with Marcus’s rhythm. “I want to feel her come first.”

The coordination of their efforts—Marcus’s deep penetration, Jennifer’s clever fingers, David’s mouth and hands—built a pressure in me that was beyond bearing. The watching eyes, far from making me self-conscious, fed the fire. I wanted to give them a show. I wanted to be the most wanton, most beautiful thing they’d ever seen.

“I’m… I can’t…” I chanted.

“Let go,” Marcus commanded, his thrusts becoming punishing. “Let them see you break. For me. For them. For yourself.”

The orgasm detonated. It wasn’t a wave; it was a supernova, tearing through every nerve ending. I screamed, my back arching violently, my inner muscles clamping around Marcus in rhythmic pulses. He shouted my name, his own release triggered by mine, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into the condom.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the relentless music. Then, soft applause broke out—not mocking, but celebratory. I slumped against Marcus’s chest, boneless, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Jennifer pressed a kiss to my shoulder. David stroked my hair.

Marcus held me close, his heartbeat a wild drum against my ear. “Welcome to the society, Olivia,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

But the night wasn’t over. As I floated back to myself, I felt other hands, gentle and curious, touching my back, my arms. The circle had tightened. Sandra from Payroll was there, offering a glass of water with a warm smile. Tom from sales looked at me with new, respectful heat. The intern, Chloe, watched with wide, eager eyes.

Jennifer stood. “My turn to have her, I think.” She extended a hand to me. “If you’re willing.”

I was. I was willing for everything. I disentangled myself from Marcus, who kissed me deeply before letting me go. Jennifer led me to the velvet sofa. This time, I was the one who knelt. This time, I learned the taste of another woman, the softness of her thighs, the way her cries pitched higher than a man’s. David joined us, his body a solid presence at my back, his hands guiding my head, his mouth on my spine.

The night became a blur of sensation and shifting configurations. I lost track of who was who, only recognizing familiar faces in moments of clarity: David moving over me, his tattoos rippling in the low light; Tom’s surprisingly tender attention; even a brief, electrifying kiss with the usually reserved Claire. Through it all, the rules held: a whispered “Is this okay?” before every new touch, a shared understanding in every glance.

Later—much later—I found myself curled in a nest of cushions with Marcus again, my head on his chest. The party had wound down to a low hum of murmured conversations and soft touches. We were both spent, slick with sweat and other things.

“That review you presented last Tuesday,” he said quietly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm. “The one on market saturation. You had a slide about breakthrough opportunities.”

I blinked, the professional reference jarring in the afterglow. “Slide nine, yeah.”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off you. It wasn’t just that you were right. It was the way you stood, so sure of yourself. I kept thinking, ‘I want to see her that sure of herself with her clothes off.’” He kissed my temple. “Now I have.”

I laughed, a low, tired, happy sound. It was the most specific, most Marcus compliment I could imagine. “You’re better with pivot tables than I gave you credit for.”

He grinned. “And you’re a hell of a lot more than your quarterly reports.”

We dressed in silence as the others did the same, the magical, suspended reality of the room slowly giving way to the practical. The transformation back was almost as surreal as the transformation out. Jennifer, back in her wrap dress, handed me my phone. David, shrugging on his button-down, gave me a friendly, familiar nod—the IT guy once more.

The blindfolded return trip was a quiet reflection. The fear was gone, replaced by a profound, humming satisfaction and a deep, humming curiosity about what Monday would bring.

Monday did come. I walked into the office, my sensible heels clicking on the linoleum. I saw Marcus at the coffee station. Our eyes met. There was no sly grin, no knowing wink. There was just a slight, almost imperceptible nod—the same kind he’d given me a hundred times before. But in the microsecond our gazes held, I saw it: a flash of the hunger, the memory of my taste on his tongue, the echo of my screams. Then it was gone, replaced by professional courtesy.

“Morning, Olivia. Henderson wants the Q1 projections by eleven.” “On it, Marcus. Did you get the data file I forwarded?” “Last night. I’ll run the analysis before the stand-up.”

The exchange was utterly normal. Perfect. But as I walked to my desk, I felt the subtle brush of the stockings against my thighs—a different pair today, simple and sheer. A secret for me alone. I passed Jennifer’s office. She was on a call, gesturing animatedly about tax forms. She caught my eye through the glass and gave a small, private smile that didn’t interrupt her conversation.

Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

I sat at my desk, my body humming with remembered sensations. The strictures of my professional life felt, for the first time, like a costume I could choose to wear. Underneath it, I now carried a core of molten knowledge: I was a woman who had been desired completely, who had taken her pleasure without apology, and who could sit in a budget meeting knowing that the man presenting the figures had once begged to hear her come.

It wasn’t about rebellion. It was about integration. The secret after-party hadn’t broken my professional self; it had completed it. I opened the spreadsheet for Henderson’s projections, my fingers flying over the keyboard with renewed focus. I had a presentation to prepare, a career to build, and a secret, glorious self to nourish. The society wasn’t an escape from my life; it was the hidden chamber where the most vital part of it could breathe. And I knew, with a certainty that warmed me from the inside, that when the next invitation came, I would be ready.