There were always rules. Even though they were very specifically designed to be broken.
There were also unofficial recommendations, agreements – things that were just common sense really. Not wearing neck jewellery was a good example, as short a skirt as possible. Things like that prevented us from going completely off the wall. You have to have something to cling to.
Then there was the effect of time. We just got better, little things make a difference. I remember the first time the lift doors opened and she was nervously standing right in the middle. No bra, as arranged, no underwear.
The next time she was against the wall, leaning provocatively against the side mirrors. By the third time the doors slid back she was already in the corner. ‘No bra’ stayed with us but the effect of my elbow on her chest was entirely secondary.
The main thing is the pressure. How hard, and where. The thumb, the centre of the palm and the index finger are everything. There’s a subtle and so important level of strength – a crushing weight.
By the fifth or sixth time we had it down perfect. This is the seventh.
Incoming text. I reply with a single letter. That is the end of all communication, that’s part of the rules. Everything has to be done by instinct and in silence.
The light flashes and the ping identifies which lift it would be. I cross over and stand outside the doors. They start to slide open. She is leaning against the back right corner – on her left side are mirrors, behind her dark glass.
I look her over. That was a recent improvement – not turning around. So I just walk in, staring at her and keep watching her with my back to the open doors, waiting for them to close behind me.
I watch her breathe out, gaining us long, precious seconds. She exhales completely and holds it. Her mouth is slightly open, as she forces the air from her lungs she slowly bends over and flattens a hand against the mirror. We are both counting it out in our heads. Finally the doors close.
I move quickly, lifting and slamming into her, right leg between hers, left hand in the small of her back and my arm across her chest, fingers and thumb loosely around her neck. I look into her eyes, dilated pupils, a darkness that gives me complete permission. I push the palm of my hand against her throat and start slowly to squeeze. Her eyes close, she begins to shake. The effect is instant, soft moans as my grip tightens, gentle gulps as she begins to fight for air. I squeeze harder with my hand, restricting the arteries on the sides of her neck with my finger and thumb. Just 5 more seconds and she is floating, gasping. I place my mouth over hers and exhale into her, filling her with the wetness and scent of me. She can’t breathe. She doesn’t fight or resist, she looses all control. She is spinning now – her head shaking and her knees give so that I am holding her up by the throat. Slightly harder, I force my chest against hers and her head bends backwards. With 3 seconds to go she shakes with pleasure. I squeeze, making sure that the brain is starved of as much oxygen as possible and slowly lick the inside of her lips. She moans and splutters, I press all the weight of my body against her, crushing her against the mirror.
Her eyes are completely shut and I know she cannot hear me, but I whisper into her mouth, promising to fill her. The ping of the lift arriving is our signal and as I immediately let her go she drops helplessly into a crouch, gulping for air and fighting to recover her senses.
I walk out and back down one flight of stairs to my desk, wiping at the wet stain from her.
This is an assignment in my current creative writing course. We had to write a sex scene between two office workers who have an existing relationship, taking place in a lift as it travels between two floors. 11 seconds.
The exercise is really interesting because sex is damn hard to write about… the challenge was to write something immediate, in your face and that the reader feels enaged with.. did I succeed?