The Elevator

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding.

She stepped in slowly—too slowly. Every click of her heels on the marble floor sounded like a countdown. Her scent reached him before her eyes did—sweet, floral, dangerous. Like something expensive you shouldn’t touch without permission.

He was already inside.

Leaning against the mirrored wall, scrolling his phone like he was bored.

But the moment she entered, he stilled.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Just stood there with her back to him, watching the numbers light up above the doors as they began to rise. The space between them was small—claustrophobic, intimate, laced with heat that had nothing to do with the building’s climate control.

And she knew.

Her reflection met his in the mirror.

She saw his breath catch when she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the line of her neck. She adjusted the strap of her black dress—just enough to let it slip slightly off her shoulder, just enough to remind him she wasn’t wearing a bra.

He looked away.

Then back.

Then couldn’t stop.

Floor 12.

The elevator jolted slightly as it ascended. A mechanical hum filled the air, but it couldn’t drown out the tension—the way his jaw clenched, the way her chest rose and fell too slowly, too deeply.

Floor 14.

She turned slightly. Not much. Just enough for the dress to part at the thigh.

Silk slid over silk.

A flash of skin. Bare. Smooth. No stocking. No panties.

He made a sound—small, helpless.

She smiled, still not looking directly at him.

“It’s a long ride to the penthouse,” she said, voice velvet-wrapped and soaked in heat. “You look like someone who doesn’t mind waiting…”

A pause. Then a glance.

“…if the view is worth it.”

Floor 16.

The numbers glowed above the door. The air was heavy. Her perfume coiled into his lungs.

His hands curled at his sides.

She didn’t move.

He did.

Something in him snapped—gently, like a match catching flame.

He crossed the space between them in one step, and before either of them could breathe another word, he slammed the emergency stop button.

The elevator lurched to stillness. Silence.

They stared at each other. Her breath hitched.

Then she turned toward him, slowly, lips parted, eyes bright with the promise of something wreckless.

"Good boy," she whispered.

They kissed like they’d waited a lifetime for it.

His hands grabbed her waist, pulled her against him, and her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers buried in his hair. Their mouths clashed—urgent, wet, full of teeth and breathless moans. He lifted her easily, pressed her back against the mirrored wall, and she gasped as her legs wrapped around his waist.

“I want you to ruin me before the next ding,” she panted.

“Fuck,” he growled, unzipping his pants. “I’ve wanted to do this since floor 3.”

He slid into her in one slow, thick thrust—and she cried out, the sound echoing in the steel chamber like prayer.

She was soaked.

So warm and tight around him it made his vision blur. She clenched her thighs tighter around his hips, heels digging into his back, hips rocking in rhythm as he began to fuck her against the wall—deep, hungry, possessive.

The mirror fogged. Their breath filled the room.

Her moans got louder.

He kissed her neck, bit her shoulder, drove into her harder.

She pulled his head close and whispered, “Make me cum while the whole building waits.”

And he did.

His hand slipped between them, circling her clit in wet, furious strokes while his cock hit the perfect angle over and over.

She screamed when she came—hands clenching, body shuddering, pussy tightening around him like a vice.

He barely held on.

He came with a groan torn from somewhere deep—spilling inside her, hips jerking, his mouth locked to hers as the world narrowed to breath, pulse, sweat, and heat.

They stayed like that for a moment.

His forehead resting on her chest. Her legs still around his waist. Her body twitching in aftershock.

Then slowly—deliberately—she climbed down. Smoothed her dress. Licked her lips.

He was still catching his breath when she reached past him and calmly pressed the emergency reset.

The elevator hummed back to life.

They didn’t speak as the numbers climbed.

But as the doors opened onto the penthouse floor, she turned back, eyes smoldering.

And said, low and soft:

“Next time… I want you to fuck me before we hit 10.”

The elevator didn’t stop because of a glitch.

It stopped because she needed to be fucked against the mirror.

Click the button to book Aleksandra.

And take her for a ride no one will forget ;-)

YES, I'M DYING TO MEET YOU!

Aleksandra would love to know how you felt after reading this story. Share in the comments. This is your opportunity to make her desire you :-)