Exposed at the Office - Sex Stories

Exposed at the Office

... please. I've had it all my life. Always wanting to impress, always wanting to be liked, always trying my best, but never quite making it. Where are the people who wanted to impress me? I laugh at the ridiculousness of the notion. As if anyone would want to impress me! I'm not that kind of person. I'm a follower, not a leader. I'm the one who does what she is told, not the one who tells others what to do. I've always known it, but today is proof if anyone ever needed it. I am made to be bossed around.

Numbly, I order a cinnamon latte with oat milk, and the chocolate swirl. The barista tells me the price, and I press my phone to the card reader.

"I'm sorry, that didn't go through. Can you just try it again?" says the barista. She has a sweet face, glasses, maybe a year or so younger than me. I blush, and tap my phone again. The machine makes a beep sound - but not a happy, "this transaction has gone through" sound. This is a "I'm sorry, but this silly bitch has spent all her money on clothes that she's about to give away to a stone-cold bully and she's flat broke" sound. A "you can't even do your first task, so you might as well resign yourself to the fact that your boss is going to think you're a slut and the whole office is going to see your embarrassing pictures" kind of beep. A "you're so pathetic, and everyone in this coffee shop is about to realise it too" beep.

"I'm sorry, that's been declined," said the barista. "Do you have another card you can use?"

Of ...

... course I don't. My credit card is maxed out on shoes, clothes, perfume, makeup, a purse and underwear. What the fuck am I going to do? People in the queue behind me are getting impatient and restless, clearing their throats, peering round to see what the hold up is. My mind is racing as the blush burns in my cheeks, and I feel tears prickling behind my eyes. Don't cry, I tell myself, don't you fucking break down and cry in the middle of Starbucks...

"How about a points card?" asks the kind barista, taking pity on me. Because that's my level now, an object of pity for a nineteen-year-old barista. But she's offered me a last straw to grasp at, a shred of hope: I do have a loyalty card! I don't go to Starbucks often, but maybe I've got enough points saved up...

I scroll through my phone to find the app, trying to ignore the increasingly impatient and lengthening queue of people behind me, and finally find it. I hold the QR code up to the scanner, which beeps. "You've got enough for the coffee, but not the pastry," says the barista. I can feel the relief as my shoulders sag, tension I didn't realise I was holding being released with a held breath.

"Thank you, thanks," I sigh. "I'll take the coffee." I hesitate. God, I'm humiliated already, why not just go all in? "Err....could I...could I possibly have the bag for the pastry?" The barista is holding it in her hand. She looks confused.

"You want the bag, without the pastry?" she asks. The people behind me in the queue are ...