You’ll never guess where I hide my huge vibrator at work [Exhibitionists]

In the grimy, fluorescent-lit storage room of an office supply store, hidden among the towering stacks of paper and ink cartridges, I crouch low, jeans tight around my thighs. The scent of dust and stale coffee fills my nostrils as I reach into my panties, fingers brushing against the cold, hard plastic of my secret weapon: a monster-sized vibrator, throbbing silently between my legs. Its buzzing starts slow, a gentle hum that sends shivers up my spine, penetrating the thick denim, teasing my clit until it swells, aching for more. The industrial fan above drowns out the soft moans escaping my lips, my breath hitching as I increase the speed, the vibrations intensifying, pushing me closer to the edge. I can feel the wetness seeping through my jeans, the vibrator slamming against my pussy, the sheer perversity of the situation making my heart race. The risk of getting caught, the filthy exhibitionist thrill of it all, has my juices flooding, dripping down my thighs.

Suddenly, the door creaks open, a shadow casting over me. I freeze, the vibrator still buried deep, pulsing against my swollen flesh. A pair of sneakers appear in my line of sight, the figure stepping closer, the scent of cheap cologne wafting down. “What the fuck are you doing down there?” a voice asks, rough and low. I look up, meeting the eyes of the stock boy, his gaze dropping to the vibrator still buzzing between my legs. A smirk spreads across his face as he takes in the scene, his cock already hard, straining against his pants. “Fuck, you’re dirty,” he growls, dropping to his knees, his hand reaching out to join mine, pushing the vibrator deeper, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles. The room fills with the sound of our heavy breathing, the vibrator’s relentless buzzing, the wet slapping of flesh against flesh. I’m a mess of need and desire, the exhibitionist in me reveling in the filth, the danger, the raw, unfiltered fuckery of it all.