Service corridor

He was a guest on four. Polite until he wasn't, and then polite again when I made the terms. I get a break at 1:15. If you want to fuck me, service elevator. You don't use my name where a camera might catch your mouth. You can also go to sleep. He met me.

The corridor smells like detergent. I put his hands on the rail, pulled my underwear to the side, and told him to be quick. He was quick and thick and a little shocked that I was already wet. You do this, he said. I do this, I said. Come in me. I have to be back on the desk. He came with his forehead on my shoulder, trying to be quiet, failing a little. I felt it slide when I fixed the skirt.

At the desk I checked a couple in and felt him cooling on my thigh. I didn't go to the bathroom. I wanted the dry itch of it while I answered the phone. A woman asked for extra towels. I said of course, in the night-manager voice. My cunt was a mess under a uniform. She thought I was just overworked. She wasn't wrong. She also wasn't holding the whole file.