After Hours
by Sandra Alek
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Erotica Sex Story: What starts as a risky late-night indulgence on the twenty-seventh floor quickly spirals into a sophisticated game of voyeurism and shared secrets. But some secrets are too hot to keep—and even better when they’re shared.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Workplace Cheating Cuckold Sharing Group Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism AI Generated .
The twenty-seventh floor was a graveyard after ten.
Only the emergency lights glowed red along the baseboards, the endless rain streaked the windows, and the air-conditioning hummed like a sleeping animal. Lena sat alone in the open-plan audit bay, legs crossed under the desk, heels kicked off hours ago. Her husband thought she was reconciling ledger lines. Technically she was. Technically.
11:47 p.m.
The numbers blurred. She rolled her neck, opened an incognito tab, and typed the address she knew by heart.
The video loaded instantly: a woman in an office exactly like this one, skirt rucked to her waist, bent over a conference table while a silent man took her from behind. No dialogue, just wet sounds and the slap of skin. Lena’s pulse kicked. She slipped her wireless earbuds in, turned the volume low enough that the rain almost covered it, and let her knees fall open.
First it was just watching.
Then it was the slow drag of her own fingertips along the inside of her thigh, tracing the lace edge of her panties. She wore the black ones tonight (the pair Marco liked to peel off with his teeth). The lace was already damp. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been aching.
She clicked full-screen.
On the monitor the woman’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the man bottomed out. Lena’s breath hitched in perfect sync. She slipped her hand fully under her skirt, pushed the lace aside, and found herself slick, swollen, ready. One slow circle around her clit and her hips lifted off the chair.
She closed her eyes for a second, imagined it was her bent over that table, imagined strong hands gripping her hips, imagined the stretch and burn of being filled while the city watched through the glass. Her wedding ring caught the blue laptop glow every time her hand moved (a tiny, cold reminder that made her even wetter).
She was close already. Embarrassingly close.
That was when the elevator dinged.
The sound cut through the rain like a blade.
Lena’s eyes snapped open. Her fingers froze against her clit. She yanked the earbuds out, slammed the laptop halfway shut, and spun the chair toward the door just as it slid open.
Alex.
Of course it was Alex (tall, dark hair still damp from the storm, white shirt clinging to his shoulders, tie gone hours ago). The one person in the entire building who also pulled random night shifts. The one person she joked with, vented to, sometimes flirted with in that safe, married-woman way.
He stopped two steps inside, umbrella dripping on the carpet. His gaze flicked from her flushed face to the half-closed laptop (where the video was still playing, volume low but unmistakable), then lower: skirt bunched high, knees apart, her right hand still trapped between her thighs, fingers shiny.
Time stretched like taffy.
Lena’s heart slammed so hard she felt it in her throat. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even close her legs.
Alex’s eyes came back to hers.
He didn’t say a word.
He let the door click shut behind him. Set the umbrella against the wall. Took three slow steps forward until he stood on the opposite side of her desk.
Then he unbuckled his belt.
The soft clink of metal made her clit throb. She watched, frozen, as he opened his slacks, reached in, and drew himself out.
He was beautiful. Thick, heavy, flushed dark with need, a single bead of pre-cum already pearling at the tip. He wrapped his fist around the base and gave one slow stroke, eyes locked on her the entire time.
Lena’s breath left her in a shudder.
Alex tilted his head (barely a nod) toward her lap.
Permission. Invitation. Command.
Her hand started moving again before her brain caught up. Slow circles at first, matching his rhythm. The lace scraped her clit and she whimpered (small, helpless).
On the laptop the woman on screen was coming, back arched, mouth open. The sound leaked out like a secret.
Alex’s strokes grew longer, surer. His thumb swept over the head on every upstroke, spreading the slickness, making it glisten. Lena watched the motion like it was the only thing in the universe.
She pushed two fingers inside herself without thinking. The wet sound was loud in the quiet room. Alex’s jaw flexed. His fist tightened.
They moved together (no touching, ten feet of carpet and twenty-seven floors of city between them, yet closer than she’d ever been to anyone).
Lena’s skirt rode higher. She spread her thighs wider, planted one bare foot on the desk, and fucked herself with her fingers in earnest. Her palm ground against her clit on every thrust. Her wedding ring flashed with every stroke (cold metal, hot skin).
Alex’s breathing turned ragged. He stepped closer (one step, two), until he was directly across the desk from her. Close enough she could smell rain on his shirt, could see the tremor in his thighs.
She wanted to speak. Wanted to say stop, or don’t stop, or touch me, or God, I’m so close.
Instead she just whimpered again and curled her fingers inside herself, hitting that spot that made her vision blur.
Alex’s eyes dropped to where her hand disappeared under black lace. His fist sped up (short, rough strokes now, hips rolling forward like he was fucking his own hand). A low groan rumbled in his chest.
Lena felt her orgasm rising fast, unstoppable. She locked eyes with him and nodded (small, frantic).
He understood.
His head fell back for a second, throat working, then his gaze snapped to hers again. His cock jerked once, twice (thick ropes of cum shooting across the desk, splattering spreadsheets, her keyboard, one perfect stripe landing on the back of her hand where her wedding ring gleamed).
The sight wrecked her.
She came hard, hips bucking off the chair, a broken cry tearing out of her throat. Her pussy clenched around her fingers in waves so strong her vision went white at the edges. Wetness soaked her palm, dripped onto the leather seat.
They stayed like that (him breathing hard, cock still in his fist, her trembling through the aftershocks, fingers still buried deep).
Finally Alex tucked himself away, zipped up, and grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the printer. He cleaned the desk in slow, deliberate swipes (never taking his eyes off her).
When he reached her hand (the one still resting on her thigh, sticky with both of them), he paused. Used a fresh tissue to gently wipe her wedding ring clean, then the inside of her wrist, then the lace that was now ruined.
His voice, when it came, was rough velvet.
“Next time,” he said, “text me when the video starts.”
He leaned over the desk, kissed her forehead (soft, almost chaste), and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Lena sat in the humming dark, thighs still shaking, skirt still rucked to her waist, the taste of rain and forbidden things on her tongue.
She smiled, slow and wicked, and opened the laptop again.
The night shift had never felt so short.
After Hours: Part 2 – The Touch
Two weeks later.
Same floor, same rain, same graveyard shift.
Only tonight Lena isn’t alone.
She texted him at 11:03 p.m.
Just a peach emoji and the words “server room – now.”
Alex is there in four minutes flat, tie already gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes dark with two weeks of pent-up hunger.
The second the glass door clicks shut behind him, the pretense is over.
Lena meets him halfway across the carpet. No words. She grabs his shirt, yanks him down, and kisses him like she’s starving. He groans into her mouth, hands sliding straight under her skirt to grip her ass hard enough to bruise.
They stumble backward until her spine hits the cold window. Twenty-seven floors up, city lights glittering below like spilled diamonds. Rain lashes the glass.
Alex drops to his knees without being asked.
He shoves her skirt to her waist, rips her lace panties down her thighs, and buries his face between her legs like a man who’s been dreaming of this exact moment every night for fourteen days.
Lena’s head thunks against the glass. Her fingers tangle in his wet hair.
His tongue is merciless (long, slow licks from her entrance to her clit, then tight circles that make her knees buckle). He sucks her clit into his mouth and hums. She comes in under a minute, thighs clamping around his head, a choked scream swallowed by the storm.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.