Every day begins the same; his scent, lightly musky, a little spicy, filling my senses. Watching the short hairs at the nape of his neck start to curl when it’s humid outside.
We share the elevator together every single morning, and for those ten minutes I can let my fantasies run free.
I don’t know when it started, exactly, or when I became aware that he was my faithful companion on these interminable trips in the elevator. It began like the faint scent he wears, a tickling around the senses, so vague you’re unsure whether you smell it at all or if it’s just a phantom.
I don’t know his name. I don’t know what he does for a living. I don’t even know the sound of his voice. But I’ve memorized every curve, every line of his profile, his shoulders and arms, the sensual curve of his ass. I covet in secret and make love to him in my mind, every morning.
Some people have their morning coffee.
I have my morning mystery lover.
With seventy floors, the elevators are all by necessity crowded during the morning rush to work. A few heart-stopping times, the closed quarters have forced him back against me, rubbing breathtakingly close. More than once I’ve arrived at my office on the 69th floor moist and trembling from this light contact.
So many times, too many to count, I’ve found myself imagining what it would be like to slide my hands forward, into the pockets of his dress slacks, and rub against his cock. Would he step away? Would he turn to me, shocked, and deliver a scathing comment? Or would he press himself into my hands, a delicious counterpoint to the pressure and heat of my palms?
Would he let me stroke him, rub my sensitive fingertips over the head of his cock? Would he take a half-step backward, pressing himself into my body, giving me the freedom to wrap the lining of his pocket around his cock and stroke him?
Would he let me taste the skin on his neck, always so close to my lips, as I rubbed him? The tiny hollow beneath his ear fascinates me. I’m forever tempted to slide my tongue against it, to breathe into his ear how much I want him, right here, right now. Would his skin be spicy beneath my tongue, or salty, or freshly-showered soap-and-water clean?
Would he tense against me as my hands worked him closer and closer to orgasm? I imagine I’d feel the muscles in his stomach clench as I mercilessly played with him. I wonder how hard it would be for him to remain quiet and still, so that no one else in the elevator would suspect. Was he a noisy lover? Would it be torture to stay silent?
The most tantalizing question of all was, how would he react if he knew I thought about him this way every morning?
My heart is pounding in anticipation this morning as I near the elevators. I sense him before I see him, an elemental awareness that lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. I work my way through the crowd that stands waiting until I am nearly in front of him, ready to take my place at the back of the elevator.
Today, something new. He turns his head to me. Smiles.
My heart pounds as I look at those full lips, those dark, sexy eyes.
The bell sounds on the elevator and the doors swoosh open. I step forward and head to the back left corner of the elevator.
There. That scent. I close my eyes and inhale as he positions himself just in front of me. Scent is such a wonderfully powerful aphrodisiac. I have no idea what cologne he wears, but it calls to my senses and reminds me of the delicious differences between a woman and a man.
As people continue to pile on the elevator, he’s forced to move closer to me, his shoulder blades brushing the tips of my breasts. I let out a tiny gasp before I’m even aware of doing so. I know he must have heard it – his ear is so close to my lips, there’s no chance he could have missed it.
Rather than step forward slightly or shift to move away, he leans back a fraction of an inch and moves his upper body slowly. The slightly nubby fabric of his sports jacket rubs against my breasts. My nipples stand up, begging for attention.
I am standing in an elevator, dying.
Was it on purpose?
My heart speeds up as my breasts begin to ache from the light contact.
He moves his upper body again, just an inch in either direction, enough to brush my nipples. He’s now so close in front of me that I’m nearly breathing in his ear.
My mind is whirling. I can feel my pussy moisten as the brushing of his body over mine begins to have a greater effect.
Oh, God! Does he know?
Has he been thinking the same things all this time?
As the doors open to let the first of the passengers out, I feel him start to move. I realize he’s setting down his laptop. In order to do so, though, in these cramped quarters, he’s forced (or is he?) to bend slightly forward, pressing his body back against mine, pushing his ass against my pelvis.
It’s over too quickly for anyone else on the elevator to have noticed.
Except for me, and I’m now trembling so hard I can barely keep myself still. I’d do anything, anything at this point for him to repeat that motion, even just the slightest pressure against my pelvis a balm for the aching between my thighs. I can feel my pussy getting slick.
He pushes back against me slightly, turning his body a little so that our companions on this elevator ride cannot see my body at all.
Suddenly, I feel fingertips against my bare thighs.
I close my eyes, wild thoughts tumbling through my brain:
Thank God I wore a short skirt today.
What… oh, my… what is he doing?
Am I out of my mind?
His hands move between us as his fingertips move featherlight between my thighs, brushing higher.
I can’t help myself. I slide my legs further apart, slowly.
This teasing is maddening, delicious, heart-pounding.
The fingers discover my panties, the wetness having soaked through the front. I’m on fire and light-headed and perched on the edge, every cell in my body wholly focused on the movements of his fingers.
He slips his hand beneath the elastic between my thighs and slides a finger between my lips.
I tense at that first touch, my entire body tightening. My clit is pounding as his fingers brush wetly against it, covered in my pussy juice.
He rolls small circles around my clit. My knees feel like they’re going to buckle. I lean my upper body forward, using his back as a brace. My body is trembling like a leaf in the wind.
A lone finger travels down and slips inside me.
My breath whooshes out beside his ear. I clench around him, pussy muscles pulling at him as he slides in, and out, and in again.
His thumb moves up to brush against my clit, harder now, sliding so wetly against me it’s a miracle it makes no sound.
Oh, my God.
The twin assaults make my knees buckle.
I want to buck against him.
Every muscle in my body wants to writhe.
I’m going crazy in a elevator full of strangers!
Slowly, I slide my left hand into his trouser pocket. Partly to distract myself. Partly because I have to touch him or go crazy.
I feel his fingers pause their ministrations as my hand inches closer to his cock.
As I take him in my hand, just as I’ve always imagined, he shoves two fingers deep inside me.
I’m not going to make it.
I will simply shatter into a million pieces.
I massage the head of his cock with my fingertips as his thumb steps up its assault on my clit, flicking it from side to side until I have to bite my lip against a moan.
My pussy is clenching and gripping his fingers as he slides them between my lips again and again. My every muscle feels like steel.
I’m starting to panic.
I’m getting so close to orgasm.
God, how am I going to do this without letting anyone know?
Before I can even form a plan, his thumb begins a series of tight little circles against my clit, fully designed to make me crazy.
I grip his cock firmly in my palm and squeeze and release and squeeze and release as my orgasm builds, and builds, and suddenly it’s cresting and my pussy clenches, hard, around his fingers as my clit throbs and throbs and throbs against his thumb.
Oh, my God.
It takes everything I have not to moan out loud.
By the time I come back to myself, we are nearly at the 67th floor – his stop. By some miracle, we’re alone in the elevator.
He leans over to pick up his laptop and turns to me, a devilish smile on his face. His lips brush mine lightly.
“See you tomorrow.” he whispers, and exits the elevator.
I can’t picture elevator sex without thinking of Aerosmith, whose song “Love in an Elevator” has inspired and intrigued me for many years. I could hear it playing through my head as I wrote this scene, and the chorus never fails to bring a smile to my face. Go ahead, play the song through your mind – you’ll find it fits in with the story rather well (I hope).