When I’m not doing sex work full-time, I actually miss fucking, and as a result of this, my imagination works overtime.
I occasionally work in an office, answering the phone: “Good morning, (Company Name). (My real name) speaking” and generally being a real little goody-good in front of my computer. Various people come in every day, mostly men, and I have wondered what I would do if one of my clients came to my straight place of work.
I’m not actually too worried about being outed at work, since my boss knows of my involvement in the sex industry and doesn’t have a problem with it – and I would certainly take great care to not “out” any of my clients if they did come in. I assume that anyone else that comes to my straight place of work would not imagine that I would also be a sex worker after hours. The only thing that would give me away would be my long scarlet fingernails, but as hooker-nails are not uncommon on the fingers of many office workers, it’s still not really such a give away.
I’m kept pretty busy but I occasionally have time to daydream, and besides fantasising about one or two of my favourite lovers who are current or past clients, I do notice a thing or two about men that I meet in every day life that occasionally intrigues me. Obviously I have to act professionally, so I don’t go around sexually harassing men that come into my office, although there are one or two that I would be happy to be alone in the storeroom with, to fuck behind the photocopiers (doggie-style, standing up while I grip the edge of my desk) or to pull the blinds down in my office while I quickly unzip his pants and suck his cock. And then there’s my desk which has quite a bit of space underneath it – enough room for a man to crouch there and indulge me, perhaps while I carry on with my work, for as long as I can maintain control of course. (Here’s hoping the phone doesn’t ring during that time, as the caller may be disturbed by the sound of heavy breathing, kind of like a reverse crank call scenario.)
There is also one male visitor in particular whom I have a very detailed fantasy about, but not in the office. In my favourite fantasy, he comes to my boudoir (where we could have a good chunk of time to do all the things I want to do, things which would cause both of us limitless sexual pleasure), and after greeting him I say nothing more before I ravish him like a savage, having my very, very wicked way with him during the states of various undress and beyond. And it is very wanton on a number of levels, the things I have done with him in my imagination. The next part of the fantasy is that he comes back into the office the next day and everything is as normal, nothing is said or done to indicate that we know each other in any other context.
In reality, when he does come to the office, I can almost not look him in the eye in case I give myself away, in case I get that up-for-it look on my face. However, in my imagination, I look him directly in the eye for quite some time. He has no idea how much pleasure he has given me.
The average office worker may look slightly frumpy and disinterested, but just like all the contributors to Nancy Friday’s book, Women on Top, (which many women openly read on the train on their way to their offices in New York according to a friend of mine when he lived there) beneath the surface many women harbour very well-constructed sexual fantasies, enough to make the average man’s eyes water, if only they knew. One must never judge a book by its cover, because the nice lady who works in an office by day may be less virtuous in the eyes of society by night. She may very well lead a double life, even if it is only in her fantasies.