Someone’s been fucking with your masturbation spot!
The indignity of it - all you wanted, all you needed, was somewhere private and out of the way to use just once a day, maybe twice… okay three times but that only happened once! And is it too much to ask that the thirty-first story bathroom, which NO-ONE USES since the floor’s entire company folded, could remain that way - private, out of the way, and not fucked with?! Apparently it is.
And everything was going so well too. You’d been fantasizing about this all day, and then your lunch break had arrived you finally had the time to go to your private spot - your own, private, thirty-first story bathroom. Everything was going just as it should - you’d gone through your usual routine without missing a beat. One-minute to calmly walk from your desk to the lift, the picture of innocence. Two minutes to nonchalantly pace out a lap of the thirty-first floor, making sure it was indeed still abandoned. Ten-seconds to rush back to the bathroom and lock the door behind you, the echoes of the thud filling your white-tiled, private, secluded room, alone at last.
Five minutes to stand before the mirror, regarding your own smiling face. You liked to imagine you were someone else, seeing yourself from the outside, pretending the neat, shoulder-length red hair belonged to someone else, someone secretly exciting. Someone whose full lips smiled back at you, whose freckled face and excited blue eyes knew something you didn’t. You liked to watch, as your left arm came out to one side, holding your glossy red handbag at arm’s length, releasing it to a meaningful thunk. You watched as both hands rose together up your grey business blazer, undoing one button, two, the fingers tracing the red tie all the way up to the neck, loosening it out the way to nimbly find the white shirt-buttons below. One button, two, three, and then a hint of red beneath, the shirt falling apart to reveal a vibrant red bra below, the suit falling free as the shirt widened to reveal the clear cleavage and firm curves of breasts held by the red bra you pretend you were seeing for the first time.
Even more, you liked to imagine you were being watched, that the figure standing in the mirror was watching you as shirt, tie, bra and trousers all fell one after another, until you stood bare before the mirror, your freckled arms hiding your pale breasts from sight, feeling the shy frown on your face and seeing the excitement in your mirrored eyes. Your eyes descended down, all the way down to where the long groove of stomach and inward curve of hips collected to a band of red material, the thin underwear pulled tight against your hips by the obvious, growing bulge between them.
Here you could barely pretend to be the watcher, you were so caught up in being watched - in having your most intimate secret seen by another person, only a thin red piece of fabric hiding you from the undeniable sight of someone else. Slowly, as if they weren’t under your control, your hands lowered, revealing the pink of nipples already hard, the hands tracing coyly town your own sides, fingertips meeting the edges of the red fabric, pushing, the garment slowly slipping an inch, two… falling free. Leaving you standing there, bare from breasts to hard, exposed cock, everything and every part of you seen by the watcher in the mirror. The watcher, that was only you.
You tried not to be disappointed. Tried to hold onto the thrilling excitement of someone else seeing you, someone else seeing all of you, wanting all of you.
Thirty seconds to step free of your clothes, left in a pile in the middle of the floor, just in case someone walked in through the locked door - and make your way to the white-lacquered door of the shower cubicle, and step inside.
And then, you found someone had ruined everything!
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