Bumper to bumper on the 405, I couldn’t stop thinking about my boss, and I couldn’t stop touching myself.
So there I was. Bumper to bumper on the 405, barely moving an inch in forty minutes. I was trapped with nothing but the red brake lights ahead and the phantom sensation of my boss, Mr. Callahan’s hand from this morning, a brief brush when he’d reached past me for the printer, his cufflink cold against my wrist, his cologne something expensive and woodsy that was still stuck in my throat hours later.
Now I was stuck in traffic, my thighs pressed together under the steering wheel, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he’d just pushed me over that mahogany desk. If he’d lifted my skirt and fucked me right there with his tie still on. The thought made my clit throb so hard.
I looked around. Total standstill. The sedan to my left had a guy in sunglasses, scrolling his phone. My windows were tinted, but not limo-dark. If someone really looked, they could probably make out shapes. The risk of it sent a hot rush down my spine. I glanced over. The driver was staring ahead now, traffic still dead.
My hand moved before my brain caught up. I unbuttoned my slacks and slipped my fingers beneath the waistband of my panties. I was already wet, my pussy lips slick and swollen from fantasizing about Callahan’s cock stretching me open on his leather chair. I started rubbing slow circles on my clit, keeping my hips still, trying to look like I was just adjusting my seat or scratching an itch. But inside, I was burning up. I imagined him gripping my hips, his slacks rough against my bare ass as he slammed into me, his hand over my mouth so his secretary wouldn’t hear me moan.
A car inched forward in the next lane. The driver glanced over. I froze, my finger still pressed against my clit. He looked away, back to his windshield. I waited three seconds. Four. Then I started moving again, faster this time, dipping lower to coat my fingers in my wetness before dragging them back up to my aching clit. I was being reckless. The thought that he might look again, that he might actually see my arm moving under the steering wheel, my face flushed and mouth slightly open, it made my pussy clamp down hard.
I spread my legs wider, risking everything, and fucked myself with two fingers while my thumb worked my clit. The fantasy shifted. Callahan had me against the glass window of his corner office, twenty stories up, everyone on the street able to see my tits pressed against the glass while he railed me from behind. I was getting close, my breath coming in short, silent pants, trying not to rock the car.
The driver looked again. This time his head turned slower, and I swear his eyes dipped toward my lap. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I stared straight ahead like I hadn’t noticed, but I angled my hips just slightly toward him, my fingers moving in tight, desperate circles. The danger of it, the filthy reality that some stranger might be watching me rub my pussy in rush hour traffic while I fantasized about my boss using me like a fucktoy—it pushed me over. I came hard, my thighs snapping shut around my hand, my body jerking once, twice, as I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. I kept my face neutral, eyes fixed on the brake lights ahead, even as my pussy pulsed and clenched around my fingers.
When I finally risked a look to the left, the driver was facing forward again, smirking slightly at his phone. I pulled my hand out, wiped it on my thigh, and buttoned my pants with shaking fingers. Traffic still hadn’t moved. But I felt better. Way better.
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