The conference room, with its frictionless glass table and chairs engineered for posture, felt like a vivarium: three senior partners, two clients, and me, all pressed into climate-controlled formality under a halogen sun. I’d spent my entire professional life cultivating a presence in these rooms. Bored, composed, immune to the male posturing and tactical blather. But that morning, as my hands flicked through the deck of contract amendments, I felt... not bored, not immune. My skin tingled, and my silk blouse itched at the nape like a bite. Under the table, my knees bounced in perfect, betraying time.

Across from me, the client’s general counsel (triple-pleated pants, chin like a compressed tennis ball) was rattling off their “must-haves” for the indemnity clause. I caught phrases, not full sentences. The drone of his voice faded and surged, overlaid by the static of my own thoughts.

Specifically: the memory of a man’s hand (Steve’s, I realized, though we’d never met) gripping my thigh just above the knee, fingertips pressing up, higher, until—

“Ms. Lamo? Your thoughts on page fifteen?” That was Janet, the senior M&A partner, snapping her custom-manicured fingers.

I snapped back. “Page fifteen. The indemnity carve-out?” I reached for the printed draft, the paper briefly sticking to my palm with a small, audible tear. I scanned the paragraph, but the text shifted, the words “reasonable care” pulsating like an artery.

It was a mercy when someone else cut in: a junior partner, jockeying for relevance. I leaned back, blinking hard. Air stung my nostrils. I tasted metal.

I tried to focus: Table. Chair. Janet’s faint gardenia perfume. The white noise of air vents. Anything to drown the images flooding my head. My body, pressed to the glass of this very conference room, skirt hiked up and hands braced against the window as a faceless man entered me from behind, each thrust threatening to tip us both through the glass and out into Market Street.

I squeezed my thighs together, a panicked attempt at composure. It only intensified the sensation. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed. My clit buzzed with electric insistence. I was wet… embarrassingly so, enough that I could feel the microfibers of my panties cling in a way they never had before.

There were voices. Legalese volleyed back and forth, deal points, timelines. I nodded when it seemed appropriate, ears ringing as I willed my body back under command.

It didn’t work.

Janet turned, eyed me with clinical suspicion. “Ms. Lamo, did you have a comment on the limitations of liability? I’d expect you to have a strong view.”

I did. I’d written the goddamn memo on it last night, so why was my mind blank except for the vivid fantasy of Steve’s mouth on my neck, licking that tendon just below my ear while his free hand toyed with the waistband of my panties?

I stammered, “I… recommend we take a more aggressive posture. The cap’s still too low. Happy to detail in a follow-up.” My mouth was dry, words sandpaper.

Janet’s eyebrow rose, then she nodded and moved on. I looked down, saw a faint tremor in my right hand, and pushed it under the table to hide it. Under the surface, my fingertips found the groove of my thigh, trailing up, lingering at the crease. A silent dare.

I needed to get out of this room. Now.

“Excuse me,” I managed, stacking my notes into a neat, defensible pile. “I need to step out for just a moment.”

I kept my head down as I left, but I could feel all eyes burning into the back of my suit jacket. In the corridor, my composure frayed further with every step. My heels struck the marble with sharp, desperate clicks. I ducked into the women’s restroom, stalling only to make sure no one else was there. Then I locked myself in the last stall and leaned against the door, panting.

My hand was on my crotch before I could form a rational thought.

I hiked my skirt to my waist, shoved my panties aside, and jammed two fingers inside myself so hard it almost hurt. But what really hurt, what throbbed, was my clit, swollen and insistent, demanding contact. I rubbed in frantic circles, my other hand braced on the cold, clean stall wall. The world fell away: no mergers, no clients, just the dizzy slide toward the edge. My mouth formed a silent “fuck,” teeth grinding against the pleasure. In my mind, Steve’s hands held me open, his tongue flicking where my own fingers worked, urging me on.

I came in a rush, knees nearly buckling, my own wetness dripping down to the expensive suit lining. For a few seconds, I forgot how to breathe. Then it was over. The shaking stopped. My heart slowed.

I wiped myself with a wad of one-ply, righted my clothes, and forced my face into the mirror’s cold scrutiny. My cheeks glowed pink. Eyes wild. A bead of sweat trickled from my temple, nearly as shocking as the orgasm itself.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Except… hadn’t I always done this? A surge of memory: my third year as an associate, sneaking into the exact same bathroom before trial, needing to “calm down” with a furtive two-minute finger fuck. First-year summer internship, locked in a basement restroom, palming myself to climax after a deposition. There were dozens of times, hundreds even, stretching back to high school. Always the same logic, the same ritual. It was just how I managed stress. That’s what I told myself, and it felt true.

I splashed water on my wrists, blotted my face, and returned to the meeting.

Janet didn’t even glance up as I rejoined. I pulled my skirt straight and fell in step with the conversation, suddenly alert, every sense on high. The rest of the meeting zipped past: deal points resolved, action items delegated, the signature page queued up for DocuSign. I led the wrap-up, efficient and articulate, even tossing out a wry joke that got a genuine laugh from the client. When I walked out, I felt taller. Lighter. The world outside the conference room was sharper-edged, more vivid, like someone had cleaned the office windows for the first time in years.

At my desk, I powered through the next hour of emails, billables, and contract markups. At exactly noon, my phone buzzed: Lunch meeting with the litigation team in twenty minutes.

I spent those twenty minutes catching up on The Algorithm. The app icon beckoned, pulsing red with a new notification.

Steve Mitchell has used Super Match to connect with you!

The banner looked brighter, the little digital crown nearly tacky in its urgency. I snorted, thumbed the notification, and watched as the app briefly froze, the pixels ghosting and doubling before blinking back to life.

My profile stared back at me. Except it didn’t. The bio now read: “Corporate litigator. Perfectionist. Gets so riled up by hot tattoos and sexy piercings. Let’s make sparks fly, in the courtroom or the bedroom.”

My pulse jumped. I read it again, slower. “Gets so riled up by hot tattoos and sexy piercings.” Had I written that? Maybe I had. It sounded like me: concise, a little irreverent. The words felt familiar, worn in like a favorite shirt.

I had never cared about tattoos before, and the only piercing I’d ever considered was the standard-issue lobe, but I must have put that to rock myself out of complacency. I must have written it last night and forgotten. The app probably prompted me to “spice up” my profile. I shrugged. No harm in seeming a little dangerous, if that’s what the algorithm wanted.

As I scrolled down, a coworker passed by my glass cubicle. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, and—there, just above his wrist bone—a flash of black ink, an angular shape peeking out from under the cuff. I stared, unable to look away. The urge to see the whole thing, to trace it with my tongue, hit me so hard I nearly moaned.

The coworker caught me looking. He winked. My face flared so hot I thought I might combust.

The rest of the afternoon I spent in a state of half-arousal, half-distraction. In the elevator, a client’s nose ring made me want to bite the septum through the skin; in the break room, a receptionist’s cartilage studs caught the light and sent a spike of heat through my stomach. Every tattoo, every shimmer of steel, set off a firestorm in my head.

By the end of the day, I’d marked up four NDAs, settled a breach claim, and revised my own bio on The Algorithm to include “open to body art recommendations.” It sounded like a joke, but when I typed it, I felt a low, thudding need in my chest.

I made it home by eight, my apartment dark except for the blue wash of city lights through the glass. I shed my jacket and heels in the doorway, poured a glass of whatever red was open, and retreated to my bedroom with laptop in tow. The duvet was cool and crisp. I sat cross-legged, the silk of my blouse caressing my skin.

First I checked my messages. Steve had sent another: “I have the perfect shop for your first tat. Let’s compare notes?”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened a new browser tab and typed “tattoo inspiration.” The images were endless: delicate script, geometric designs, entire backs painted in vivid color. I lingered on photos of women with elaborate sleeve tattoos, their skin a canvas of ink and desire. There were nipple piercings, tongue studs, belly rings; some elegant, some raw and aggressive. I shivered, rubbing my bare arms. The contrast between the inked women and my own blank, lawyerly skin made my heart beat faster.

I scrolled for an hour, saving dozens of images to a folder: a sprawling peony, a line drawing of a wolf, a bracelet tattoo just above the wrist. I told myself it was aesthetic appreciation. A fascination with self-expression, nothing more. But each photo I saved felt like a secret I wanted to press under my own skin.

The more I scrolled, the hornier I got. At one point I caught myself tugging at my blouse, pinching my nipple through the thin fabric, picturing a ring threaded through the tip. I closed my eyes and imagined how it would feel: the shock of cold steel, the ache, the constant reminder every time my clothes brushed over it. The idea made my pussy clench, slickness pooling in my panties.

It was past midnight when I finally googled “high end piercing studio financial district.” The first result looked promising: steel and glass storefront, all the aesthetic severity of a law office but with photos of inked, pierced women behind the counter. I clicked through the appointment booking form, fingers trembling slightly. I hovered over the “Submit” button, teasing myself with the possibility of actually doing it.

I set the laptop aside, laid back, and spread my legs. This time, I didn’t even bother taking off my panties—I just pulled them aside and rubbed myself, slow at first, then hard, two fingers circling and diving, a rhythm as old as my own heartbeat. I pictured a stranger’s hands on me, maybe Steve’s, maybe someone else’s, guiding a needle through my nipple, the sting blossoming into heat. I imagined his tongue soothing the ache, his cock rutting against my ass as I straddled his lap, my new piercing glinting in the overhead light.

I came in one sharp, violent spasm, biting my lip to keep from screaming.

Afterward, I lay on the bed, breath ragged, one hand still clutching my thigh. I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember a time when I wasn’t like this: driven by need, obsessed with the edge. I couldn’t. I’d always been this way. I just hadn’t admitted it before.

I reached for the laptop, entered my email, and clicked “confirm appointment.”

When I finally slept, it was with a smile on my face, and the delicious certainty that tomorrow, I’d be one step closer to my truest self.