Number 46

I grabbed his hand and led him out of the club. We didn’t even say goodbye to the coworkers we were partying the night away with. They probably knew where we were going and what we were about to do anyway. How could they not? It’s not like it hadn’t been obvious for most of the night … and for the almost-three years we’d known each other.

It was only a short distance to my house from the club, perhaps about ten minutes or so, but that’s all the time he needed to doubt his decision.

“I don’t know if I’ve got the balls to do this,” he said, as we stumbled down the street, hand in hand, almost falling off the path and into the road along the way.

“What if I’m not good enough for you?” he kept going. I’d never seen this side of him before. I’d never actually heard him doubt his own ability to do anything, so this was certainly an eye-opening experience.

“What if I can’t satisfy you?” It was surprising just how much self-doubt one man could fit into a ten-minute journey, but there was plenty of it. It’s a good job I’m not the kind of woman to be turned off by such drivelling behaviour.

In case you’re wondering, I’m talking about the same man I first spoke about in Dipping Your Pen In The Office Ink? And, well, now he’s not just a coworker. He’s now a man I’ve slept with. Number 46 — The Work Colleague. Yes, that’s right, you left me alone for five minutes and I let my vagina rule my life. I have now officially crossed the line into unprofessional and fucked one of my coworkers. Ish. We were drunk and at the club because it was his early leaving party. We’d only be coworkers for a week or so more. Did it still even count?

Most of the night is a complete blur, a mix of getting drunk, dancing, getting more drunk, and stumbling around a lot. I remember him getting quite emotional with me at times, opening up and pouring his heart out, revealing all the struggles I didn’t already know about. I shed a tear or two along with him, hugging him in the club and on the way home, reassuring him that he was “normal” because we were all battling the same or similar mental health challenges. And then I saw the previously unseen nervous side of him. Unsure. Cautious. Shy. It was as though a completely different man was stood right in front of me even though I’d seen more of him over the last two-to-three years than I had my own boyfriend. Sorry, now ex-boyfriend. But I thought I’d seen all of the sides to my friend and coworker. We’re close. He tried to pretend he hated me at first, and probably the same a bit right back, but we managed to worm our way into each other’s affections by accident. Yet still, in almost three years, I’d never seen that man once look unsure of himself. I guess there really is a first time for everything.

I remember little things about my drunken adventure. On the way home, halfway through his emotional breakdown, I remember stopping in the middle of the street, making a ssshh sign with my finger over his mouth, handing him my shoes, and taking my panties off before placing them in his hands. Then, I looked him right in the eyes and said: “We’re almost there!“

I also remember when he made a very appreciative noise as I straddled him on my bed, still wearing my dress and heels, and slid down on to him for the very first time. I’m fairly certain I made a similar appreciative noise, and I’m also fairly certain he told me to “Go slow” because he was worried about not lasting very long.

And I remember him breathing “Wow” as I took his cock in my mouth for the first time, grabbing at my bedsheets with both hands and throwing his head back at the same time. I could hear the word, but he didn’t say it. Not really. Not out loud. He just kinda exhaled it.

As I directed his hands around my body, guiding him to all the places I liked to be touched, his earlier shyness and nerves were replaced by the more authoritative man I knew. I showed him how to bring me to orgasm, using my fingers intertwined with his to smear my wetness around my cunt before then lapping my fingertips around my clit. Smear, circle, smear, circle, smear, circle. He repeated the action over and over again on his own, studying me as I got closer and closer to the end, watching my body as it writhed and reacted to the movement of his fingers. And as I struggled to keep my eyes from closing in that way that orgasms do, to keep my gaze on his, I saw a little, smug smile creep across his face. An accomplished smile, and a proud one. 

I absolutely remember the way he groped and grabbed at my tits as I rode him to his finish, his eyes wide with an almost-innocence that made me want to completely destroy him. I wanted to leave him as much of a crumpled mess as I’d been by the best lovers in my history, to be the girl that he would always remember because of that night with the mind-blowing sex. If this was going to be a one-time thing, it was going to be an explosive one-time thing. And it was. He exploded deep inside me as I bounced up and down on his cock, placing my hands flat on his chest and watching his face in the same way that he’d just watched mine. I wanted to memorise it, how it looked when he came, what his body did and what little sounds he made. I might not remember much about the night,  but I will always remember the noise he made when he came.

I kicked him out when we were done. As in, actually kicked him out. Thanks, it was great, call yourself a cab now, thanks, byeeeee. He’s been texting me a lot since, and he told me about the scratch marks I left all over his torso from my pointed, black nails. I made him aware of the massive lovebite he deposited on my neck like some overzealous teenager. How the fucking hell I’m going to hide it, I don’t know. It’s not exactly small and/or coverable. Our work colleagues are already fairly certain what we got up to, but if they see that, they’re definitely going to know. We’re going to be work gossip. I’ve never been work gossip before, but I’m not looking forward to it.

Of course, this all presents me with one more very large problem … Jock. I messaged him in my hungover, needy state. It’s not like I can tell him what I did. I mean, I slept with someone else, it’s a pretty big deal. I just put an end to a couple of years of monogamy. (And I thoroughly fucking enjoyed it.) But I want him back. I really do. I told him I was sorry for the way it all ended and we talked for a while. Maybe we’ll just see what happens? I don’t know what I need from him, or what exactly needs to change for us to work, but I’m am prepared to give it another chance. As fun as my night of exciting sex with someone brand, spanking new was (and it really fucking was), I can’t help but pine for the hands and lips of Jock. I pined for the warmth of his arms around me when I woke up, hungover.

But I can’t tell him about Number 46, and I can’t not tell him.

I love how I’ve just made my own life a million times more difficult.

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