It started as a harmless lunch break.
Sophie had just joined the design team a few months ago. Tall, with soft curls and sharp green eyes that always seemed to read deeper than what was said, she was friendly to everyone—but had a special way of teasing me. A lingering glance. A question asked just a bit too close. A smirk when I stammered.
I never thought much of it—until that Wednesday afternoon.
We both stayed late. A product presentation was due, and everyone else had gone. I was fidgeting at my desk when Sophie appeared at the doorway, holding two takeaway cups.
"Coffee?" she offered with a grin. "Or something stronger?"
"God, yes," I chuckled, taking the cup.
She leaned casually against my desk, crossing her arms beneath her chest in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else. "You always stay this late?" she asked.
"Not always. Just… had things on my mind."
"Oh?" She sipped her drink. "Stress? Or something more… personal?"
There was something in the way she said that. And I felt a flush creep up my neck. She tilted her head.
"You know, Mark…" she said, voice lower now, "you're not very good at hiding secrets."
My breath caught. "W-what do you mean?"
Her lips curled. "That glimpse of pink waistband last week when you bent over? Not the standard boxers, I assume."
My stomach dropped. I went cold and hot at once. "That… that's not what you think—"
She stepped forward, close enough to make me back into my chair. "Relax," she said. "I'm not judging. I'm… intrigued."
"Sophie—"
"Do you wear it now?" she whispered, eyes fixed on mine.
I swallowed. My heart pounded in my chest. "Yes."
She inhaled, slow and deliberate. "Show me."
My hands trembled. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious."
My breath hitched. I stood slowly, hands reaching for my belt. She watched, unmoving. When the waistband of my trousers dipped low enough to reveal the black lace band of my panties, her eyes lit up.
"Gorgeous," she breathed.
She reached out and touched the edge of the fabric. I flinched, arousal and shame mingling in a dizzying rush.
"You feel beautiful in these, don't you?" she said softly.
I nodded.
"Let me make you feel even more beautiful."
Sophie's fingers traced the lace edges lightly, like sparks skipping across dry tinder, igniting the space between us.
"Black lace. You've got taste," she murmured, her voice a teasing whisper. "You in this… even better than I imagined."
I looked at her, not backing down. The shame was still there, lingering like smoke, but something deeper—hotter—was overpowering it. A thrill I hadn't felt before: the thrill of being seen, and maybe… understood.
"You always knew?" I asked quietly.
"I figured you had a secret," she said, brushing her hand over my chest through my shirt. "But I didn't think it would be this fun." Her lips curled. "Do you wear bras too?"
I nodded, my cheeks burning, but I didn't look away.
"Ever wear one to work?"
I hesitated. "No… but I brought one today."
A flash of delight crossed her eyes. "Show me."
I turned to the drawer, pulling out the soft pink bra I'd stashed earlier—delicate lace, lightly padded, silky to the touch. I had only ever worn it in the safety of solitude, letting it hug my skin, make me feel… right. But now it was out in the open.
"Put it on," she whispered, her voice low, commanding.
I unbuttoned my shirt slowly and slipped the bra around me, my hands moving almost on instinct. The familiar snap of the clasp was grounding. As the cups pressed against my chest, I felt a surge of warmth and comfort mixed with raw, nervous arousal.
Sophie watched intently, circling behind me. Her body pressed against my back, hands gliding around to trace the fabric across my chest.
"You have no idea," she murmured into my ear, "how badly I want to kiss you like this."
My pulse thudded in my throat. She turned me toward her, grabbed my collar, and kissed me—hard.
Not tentative. Not polite.
Her tongue slid against mine, her hands roaming down my sides, pausing to toy with the straps of the bra. She pulled one slightly off my shoulder, letting it snap back gently.
"So soft," she whispered. "So fucking beautiful like this."
I moaned softly into her mouth, lost in sensation. She eased me down into the office chair, straddling me, keeping our bodies locked close.
As we kissed, her hands kept exploring, mapping every inch of my body wrapped in lingerie. She reached the band of my lace panties and tugged playfully, smirking.
"You're completely dressed for me, aren't you?"
I nodded, breathless. "Yes."
She bit her lower lip. "Good. Because I'm not stopping."
She pulled off her blouse, revealing a deep wine-red bra—lace, elegant, sensual. She leaned in, pressing her chest against mine, both of us clothed in delicate lingerie. The sensation of lace against lace, her warmth through the layers, drove me dizzy.
"Who's prettier right now?" she asked, brushing her lips over my cheek.
"We both are," I whispered.
She smiled—and kissed me again, slower this time. Deeper.
That evening, the office door stayed locked. The warm light from the desk lamp threw soft shadows as the air filled with the scent of paper, perfume, and desire.
She didn't strip the lingerie off me. Not the bra. Not the panties.
"I want to see you like this. Stay like this," she said, holding my face.
And I did. Because being in her arms, in lace and silk, wasn't just erotic—it was freeing. It was the first time I didn't want to hide.
Afterward, she lay against me, fingers lazily tracing my bra strap.
"You know you're getting married," she murmured.
I said nothing, the words like lead in my throat.
"But you don't belong to her," Sophie whispered, pulling the strap gently. "You belong in this. With me."
The week that followed blurred into silk and heat.
Each day at work, Sophie and I grew bolder. Whispered meetings behind locked doors. Lingering touches in the hallway. And always—always—the soft press of lace beneath my clothes, a quiet rebellion no one else could see.
She brought me new sets, elegant and daring—burgundy satin with scalloped trim, icy blue mesh that barely held its shape. Each morning, I'd choose one, slipping it on with trembling fingers, thinking only of her.
But the closer my wedding came, the louder reality whispered.
"You're quiet," Sophie said one afternoon, pulling me into the supply room. She ran her hands beneath my shirt, fingers ghosting over the straps of the bra I wore.
"I have to make a decision," I admitted.
She leaned in, kissing the spot just beneath my ear. "You already did. Every time you wear this… every time you moan my name."
I closed my eyes. "It's not just about sex."
"I know," she whispered. "It's about being seen."
That night, alone in my apartment, I sat on the bed holding a garter belt she'd left in my briefcase. Black. Soft. Delicate. I couldn't help it—I put it on over matching lace panties, slid the straps snug against my thighs, and looked at myself in the mirror.
Not as a joke. Not as a fetish. As something that felt… honest.
Then my phone lit up.
"Babe, just landed! Can't wait to see you! 💕"
It was my fiancée.
Reality crashed like glass.
The doorbell rang ten minutes later. Sophie.
She stepped inside, wearing a long beige coat over black heels. When she unbuttoned it, she revealed an intricate red lingerie set—lace and underwire, smooth silk high-rise panties, matching garters clipped to sheer thigh-highs.
"Say the word," she said. "Say it, and I'm yours."
I stared at her—this vision of seduction, danger, freedom.
"I love this," I whispered. "I love how I feel when I'm with you. When I'm in this."
She walked closer, lifting my chin.
"But?" she asked.
I swallowed. "But I can't break her heart. I won't."
Tears gathered in her eyes, but she nodded slowly.
She stepped back, her fingers trembling slightly as she re-buttoned the coat.
"You looked so beautiful in that pink bra," she said, voice cracking. "I hope you still wear it. Even if it's never for me again."
And then she left.
I stood there in lace and garters, half dressed, half undone.
The silence settled like dust.
Epilogue
The wedding came. We smiled, posed, said our vows. But some part of me had shifted permanently. A truth I couldn't unlearn.
Every so often, when I'm alone, I still open that drawer—the one with the hidden lingerie Sophie gave me. I hold a bra up to the light, feel the soft stretch of lace, the ghost of her touch.
And sometimes, late at night, I wear it again.
Not for her. Not for my wife.
For me.
Because what Sophie gave me wasn't just sex, or temptation, or chaos.
She gave me permission.
To feel.
To want.
To be.
