Pleasure Planet

The Contest

Penny Hayes was officially running on fumes—and spite.

If you asked her about her life, she’d probably say it was “fine,” which, as everyone knows, is code for “one badly-timed email away from collapse.” The accounts office where she worked was where ambition went to die, and today, even her own body seemed to be rebelling. Her bra strap had snapped on the bus, her tights had a ladder that threatened to expose half her thigh, and Brenda from HR kept glaring at her like she was responsible for the state of the office kettle.

Then came the photocopier. If machines could hate, this one reserved its deepest loathing for Penny. She just wanted to print a single expense report, but the ancient beast groaned, shuddered, then shrieked and vomited half-processed paper onto the floor. A big black splatter of toner hit her chest. She stared down at the inky Rorschach test spreading across her boobs and thought, I wonder if anyone’s ever died of embarrassment and printer rage at the same time.

She muttered, “Piece of shit,” and gave the side panel a solid thump, to no effect. The machine beeped mournfully and spat out another crumpled sheet.

In that moment, Penny realized her life had become a loop: broken machines, endless reports, and a damp, aching need just beneath her skin.

She abandoned the mess and made a beeline for the toilets, ignoring Brenda’s look of judgment. The unisex staff loo always smelled faintly of bleach and desperation. Penny locked the stall, perched on the seat, and buried her face in her hands.

She could’ve cried. Instead, she got angry. And then, almost without thinking, she got horny.

She pressed her thighs together, the heat between them growing from frustration and something dirtier. She hiked up her skirt, yanked down her knickers, and let herself breathe for the first time all day.

Her heart thudded in her chest, not just from risk but from want. She didn’t even need to close her eyes. Her imagination—starved, filthy, and wild—came roaring to life: a faceless someone, strong hands pinning her to the copy room desk, tongue between her legs, making her beg for it, the office door open just a crack. Anyone could walk in. Maybe she wanted them to. Maybe she needed someone to finally see her.

She slid two fingers through her folds, finding herself soaked. The first touch was electric, her hips jerking. She circled her clit, rough and fast, barely muffling her moan behind her bitten lip.

In her mind, the fantasy sharpened. Maybe it was the courier, maybe Brenda, maybe all of them, watching her writhe. She pumped her fingers, wet and filthy, using her palm for extra pressure, hips lifting off the seat.

The thought of getting caught—of being so desperate she’d risk it all in a public loo—sent a delicious, shameful thrill through her.

She bit her knuckle, pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp as her climax built. Her whole body tensed, breath short and sharp, thighs trembling. She came with a stifled cry, slick and messy, shivering, pulse thundering in her ears.

After, she sat there, spent and a little giddy, heart pounding. She cleaned herself up as best she could with toilet paper, using her phone’s camera to fix her hair.

She smirked at her reflection—eyes wild, cheeks flushed. If only the office knew.

Back at her desk, she felt dangerous. Unapologetic. She smiled at Brenda, who sniffed and scowled back. Penny only grinned wider.

The rest of the day crawled, but something in Penny had shifted. She ignored the work WhatsApp, ducked out early, and texted Scott: Pub? I need to tell you how I seduced myself in the bogs.

The Dog & Telescope was the kind of pub where time stopped at about 1997 and the regulars had seen it all—including, probably, Penny’s tits during a particularly rowdy Christmas party two years back.

Scott was already there, his shirt a riot of pineapples and something vaguely phallic. He waved her over, raising his pint.

“Pen! Looking… radiant. If slightly haunted. Bad day?”

Penny flopped onto the bench. “It was a disaster, then an emergency, then a personal triumph.”

Scott’s eyebrows shot up. “Do tell.”

She sipped her pint, dragging out the suspense. “Let’s just say, I came in the work toilets today. Proper, shaking, filthy—nearly passed out.”

Scott sputtered with laughter. “Jesus Christ, Penny, was it the new janitor? Please tell me it was at least inspired by the copy machine.”

She snorted. “No, just me, my fingers, and the existential dread. Honestly, it’s the only time I’ve felt alive all month.”

He leaned in, grinning wickedly. “If I knew that was all it took to make you smile, I’d have left you in the bogs with a dirty magazine weeks ago.”

She gave him a shove. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re glowing. I approve. Did you at least wash your hands?”

Penny grinned, lifting her glass. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

They both cackled, the kind of wild, unselfconscious laughter that always got them dirty looks from the barmaid. The tension of the day melted away, replaced by something raw and honest.

For a few minutes, they traded filthy jokes and bad stories—Scott’s accidental FaceTime with his ex’s mum, Penny’s disaster Tinder date who cried after sex, the infamous “traffic cone incident” that was still legally sealed.

By the third round, Penny had confessed her dirty little secret: “I entered a contest for a ‘pleasure planet’ getaway online today. Total scam, but it made me laugh.”

Scott perked up. “Is there a tentacle clause?”

She gave him a sly grin. “I ticked ‘open to all possibilities.’ Maybe my luck’s about to change.”

He clinked his glass to hers. “To the dirtiest luck—and the filthiest future.”

For the first time in months, Penny felt like more than an afterthought. She felt dangerous. Like a woman who might say yes to anything, just to see what would happen.

And somewhere deep inside, she hoped the universe was listening.