Kiss Cam
Copyright© 2026 by VelvetQuillX
Chapter 3: Strangers at the Pinecrest Bar
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3: Strangers at the Pinecrest Bar - Imogen Castellanos is 30, a razor-sharp M&A lawyer. Owen Maddox is 32 and runs IT security one floor down. Their firm fires staff who date colleagues. Nobody there knows they've been married two years. So they play a game: a secret office affair, with rules on a sticky note and points for every breach. Desk-hidden oral, a server-room quickie, a stranger roleplay at the company retreat, creampies, squirting, a glass lift and one very public kiss cam. How long can a marriage stay a secret?
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Humor Workplace Cream Pie Oral Sex Squirting Public Sex AI Generated
Still 0 to 1, still his lead, and on Monday the note came back to me with a footnote. NO TOUCHING OFF-SITE, in my capitals, IC, and underneath in his small, perfect hand: *Applies to Imogen Castellanos and Owen Maddox only. OM. I understood it on the third reading and had to shut the drawer and look out of the window for a while.
On Friday I packed for Pinecrest Lodge, Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, and I packed for someone else. A green silk wrap dress I’d never worn to work. A black lace bra and thong, new. And a gold-plated band from a mall kiosk that had cost nineteen dollars.
The coach left at noon. Owen sat four rows behind me with Marcus, talking about switches. At 1:15, past the state line, my phone buzzed.
IT Helpdesk: Names?
Legal – Do Not Reply: Nina. Married. Bored. You?
IT Helpdesk: Cal. In town for a conference. Tragically single.
Legal – Do Not Reply: Out of office still applies.
IT Helpdesk: Always.
Pinecrest is timber and antlers and plaid, with a fire the size of a car. Owen had room 118. I had 120, next door, which was the travel team’s doing. Harriet had the lake suite at the far end of the corridor. Her keynote was at five, forty minutes without a note.
“Clients pay us for what we don’t say,” she told us. “Discretion is a competitive advantage.”
Owen, three rows back, coughed once.
At ten I went down to the Lantern Bar in the green dress, the fake ring on my finger and my real one on its chain under the silk.
Dark wood, amber lamps, a pianist doing things to Billy Joel, half the firm. Tess Whitlow, thirty-five, a senior associate in litigation and the closest thing I have at work to a best friend, was three negronis in and waving from a corner booth.
“You look dangerous,” she said. “Who’s the dress for?”
“Myself.”
“Nobody wears that dress for themselves. Sit. Tell me who you’re hunting.”
“I’m not hunting anyone, Tess. I’m having one drink.”
“That’s what I said three negronis ago,” Tess said, and toasted me with the fourth.
I took a stool at the end of the bar instead. Two minutes later a man took the one beside it. Grey suit, no tie, glasses off. Cedar soap, and nothing from the server room tonight.
“Is this seat taken?” he said.
“It is now.”
“Cal,” he said, and held out a hand, and then remembered the rule and took it back.
“Nina,” I said.
“Can I buy you a drink, Nina?”
“I’m married,” I said, and laid my left hand on the bar, the cheap ring loose enough to click against the wood.
He looked at it for a long moment. “That’s a shame. What’s his name?”
I hadn’t planned this bit. “Graham.”
“What does Graham do?”
“He’s a dentist. In Evanston.”
“Of course he is.” He ordered me an old fashioned without asking, which was exactly what I wanted. “Tell me about Graham.”
“He alphabetises the spice rack. He reorganised it when I put the paprika back after the oregano.” I sipped. “He makes love on Sundays.”
“Every Sunday?”
“Like a scheduled backup.”
Owen made a sound into his whisky that I’d have given a great deal to record. When he looked up his jaw had tightened, and I realised with pure delight that he was, a little, jealous of Graham.
“And you lie there,” he said.
“I lie there and think about the indemnity cap.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Something Graham wouldn’t approve of. I’m taking offers.”
“And you stay,” he said.
“I made a promise.”
“People make all kinds of promises,” he said, and his knee came to within an inch of mine under the bar, and held there, and didn’t close it. I felt that inch all the way up.
Across the room Tess was staring at us with her mouth open. At eleven she caught my arm on the way to the bathroom.
“Is that Maddox? From IT?”
“He was asking about the data room.”
“In that dress? Imogen. Brave.” She squinted at my hand. “What’s on your finger?”
“A costume,” I said, which was true.
“Imogen Castellanos. Are you roleplaying with the IT department?”
“Go to bed, Tess.”
“I will not. I’m going to sit right there and watch you make terrible decisions.”
“Then watch closely,” I said, “because I’m about to make one,” and returned to my stool.
He’d paid. He stood as I arrived and leaned close, as if to say goodnight.
“Room 118,” he said, very low. “If Nina gets bored of Graham.”
I touched my collarbone, where the chain lay under the silk, and tapped it twice.
He left. I gave it four minutes, said goodnight to Tess, who said “sure” in a way that went on for several syllables, and went up. 118 was on the latch.
He was standing by the window with the lamp on, jacket off.
“You came,” he said.
“Nina got bored,” I said. “Of Graham, and of the bar, and of being good.”
We didn’t break character. There was nobody to perform for, and he still crossed the room like a man who’d met a woman in a bar two hours ago, and took my left hand, and looked at the ring.
“Graham won’t mind?”
“Graham’s asleep in Evanston.”
He slid the band off my finger and set it on the nightstand with a small hard click, and I felt that click under my breastbone. Nina taking off her marriage. And under the dress, on its chain, my real ring lying warm between my breasts.
He untied the wrap dress as if he’d never seen how it worked. He has; he watches me tie it. The green silk fell open. The new lace was a little stiff and scratchy on my hips, and he looked at me in it the way you look at something for the first time. He touched the beauty mark beside my lip with his thumb. He knelt and touched the small white scar on my knee.
“How’d you get this?”
“Falling off a horse in Argentina,” Nina said.
It was a bicycle on Halsted when I was twenty-four, three years before I met him. He said nothing. He kissed it. And I stood there being looked at like a discovery by a man who held my hair through the flu last February, and something in my chest turned over.
I undressed him back: the stranger’s shirt, the swimmer’s shoulders, the sandy hair on his chest. When I freed his cock I made a small surprised sound for Nina’s benefit, and then I stopped pretending, because he was harder than I’d felt him in months.
“Is that for me?” I said. “Or is that for Graham?”
“Don’t say his name in here,” he said, and meant it.
The headboard stood a hand’s breadth from the wall. Room 120 was on the other side of it.
“Quietly,” he whispered.
“Quietly.”
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