You’re missing me, you always do when I take annual leave—you hate it when I’m not there. Is it because I’m so good at the job—or is there another reason you breathe a sigh of relief, every time I return from a stint spent at my tropical timeshare?
The sunshine feels so good on my skin today. I wish you were here to indulge in me and my desires. At times like these when I’m alone, when I feel sexy and uninhibited, I always think of you—only you. When I masturbate it’s to you, your what my body responds to. I’m holidaying with my lover but she has no idea—it’s really only you I want. Larissa’s at the spa having a massage and I’m savouring this precious time, my mind centred on you. You’re sat at your desk, imagining me. Say you are.
You’re shackled to your work, I know, but have you ever stopped to wonder who the sheer blouses are for? Not to mention the crippling stilettos. I never go a day without matching underwear either, just in case. Maybe my thoughts might reach you to soothe the strains of your day?
The temptation to touch my warm skin is overwhelming and on the chair opposite where I lay, I imagine you sat, watching. My personal voyeur. My eyes closed, I feel your dark-green stare, scanning every inch of me. With hesitant fingers I slowly slip the triangles of my bikini top to the sides, releasing my dark pebbles, aching for your tongue, flicking and licking, your teeth gently grazing my puckered nipples.
My hands drift from my breasts and slide over the soft contours of my stomach, beyond the delicate female hips I regularly slide into pencil skirts and shift dresses, just for you. I’ve noticed you checking my arse out in tight, high-waisted trousers hugging my neat butt, the pinstripe ones with braces my favourite. I love to see your eyes light up as I walk in with your morning coffee, every time I strut in pinstripes and white blouse, Louboutins.
Touching my panties, I sigh to discover warmth, instigated by you. Thoughts of you, always, you. You’re my insanity, my need, my want, my ecstasy.
Watching me, you ask me to slowly untie the strings of my bikini knickers and I do, teasing out the garment from under me so you can get a good look at the desire I have for you. Spreading my legs, sunshine through the window touches my most delicious place and stokes my kindling lust. How’s your view? Can you see enough? I’ll lift my hips just slightly so you can see all of what belongs to you.
“Ruben, Ruben, look at me laid here, wanting you.”
I call to mind your tousled, foppish brown hair, the way it falls across your forehead. I love you in charcoal suits but I love you most of all in running shorts and tight t-shirt. Your long, lean legs. Hmm. Slim calves below rigid, stocky thighs. Sometimes I arrive early at the office just to catch you striding into the building before you hit the men’s showers, your run to work having made you all sweaty—your thigh muscles popping and all those ropes of masculinity in your arms. If there were a peephole to the men’s, I would spy just so I could find out whether it’s boxers you wear or jocks or briefs. Twice since we worked together, I’ve spotted your pleated charcoal trousers housing a livid erection and both times I wondered if it were me you were hard for. The first time we sat in court, side by side, and beneath your barrister’s gown, I spotted the thick column of your arousal jutting against your thigh. Thank goodness the gown covered you whenever you stood up. I wondered if it was your command of the case that had you excited that day—or if it was me sat by your side wearing pinstripes. The second time I caught you with a huge erection was that one time I spilt your coffee and you stood up from behind your desk to pat me dry with your handkerchief. What fun you must have under your desk most days and I felt overjoyed that day, wondering if your cock was really mine.
Letting my hands wander lazily over my skin, I hear the low snicker in your throat as you watch, rubbing yourself slyly, still sat opposite me. Trying to drown out all my thoughts of you stuck in those chambers, alone and without me, I picture you really are here with me right now, watching and expectant.
I tease the tips of my fingers over my landing strip and wriggle my hips, the fanning heat of arousal coating my sun-drenched skin in more lust—giving me yet more confidence to perform. My breasts ache, my nipples crying for succour from your gentle tongue. You demand I lick my fingers and touch myself and I happily accede.
Licking my middle and index fingers, I think about what you want to see, what you expect. I reach for my sex and gently circle my clit and toy with the slippery nubbin. My walls begin to pulsate and my heart beats through my pussy as I scrape a nail gently over the tip of my clit, my nipples hardening to such stiff points I have to massage them.
I taste myself and moan, knowing you want this—you want to see the slut I want to be for you. I lick my fingers, swirling the tip of my tongue over and around my manicured nails, tasting the tang of arousal from my own sex.
I spread my legs wider, wishing other people could see us now. You, watching me and me, pleasuring myself for your pleasure—a bystander (maybe even Larissa)—also getting a kick out of this. I suck and gorge on more of my own scent, licking it from my fingers.
I press two fingers inside of me but as I work my upper wall, I feel the onset of orgasm too quick and I want to savour this. I want to enjoy your enjoyment as much as possible and make myself come harder than ever before. You want to see how much restraint I have and you need to see me begging for it before giving me the signal to come.
I use just one finger instead, swirling my juices, making myself wetter. My walls cling to my digit and tug and I know if I make myself come already, I’ll ruin the display I have in store for you. I have to draw this out and linger, make it so you want to come back for more.
When I let you know I have a dildo in my Louis Vuitton, your eyes darken and you give a slight nod, your hand still resting gently on the rigid, stocky length sitting in your trousers there—starving for me. Maybe you want me to show you how I like to fuck or else you’re not intimidated by my toy.
I take the ample pink dildo and show you how I might lick your length, my tongue swirling over your sticky head, my hand around your trembling shaft, my teeth gently grazing the underside. I groan, the taste of your salty pre-cum delicious, your foreskin so pink and bloated as I take you between my soft, wet mouth, my tongue the first thing to explore your weighty glans.
I tremble for your entry, to feel you slide between my hot folds, to graze my clit as you stretch and fill me, your balls hitting my aroused pucker as you pound me.
The more I moan, the more you rub your fingers over the cock still shackled beneath your trousers and so the harder I work. Tugging on my clit as I slip the dildo inside of me, I buck against the toy and feel the raised ridges of tender wet flesh inside of me grab and knead at the plastic which will never match up to you. Desperation inside of me quickens. I need to come so badly; rising heat in my pelvis the only thing I can think about.
You pull yourself out from your fly to reveal you don’t wear underwear and I revel in the sight of you masturbating yourself, too.
An orgasm starts to quake my sex and with or without penetration, I am going to come soon. I’m so aroused, so wanton. You’re gorgeous and you want me. You’re finally with me and it’s not just me who’s feeling this way.
I’ve held out for as long as possible but just a couple of thrusts has me squeezing against the rigid texture of my plaything, testing out its dexterity. My body tenses as I come, my sex clinging to the purple flesh of the dildo.
You still sit in the chair opposite, pleasuring yourself as I rest a moment, your eyes gazing down on me, wanting me. I turn around and kneel, showing you my behind, teasing you with a different view.
I groan as I taste the dildo and take the taste of sex inside me, reigniting my passion. I bend slightly, one hand on the cushion beneath me. For your pleasure I push the dildo back inside so you can see how tightly I grip it from this angle, my body bowed and squeezing, the intrusion starker as I’m bent over, my body able to take it deeper.
On the back of my first flourish, I feel another orgasm growing, a different one this time. I fuck myself harder, working back against the dildo. I contemplate attaching the toy to the window but I don’t think I have time. Larissa will be back soon.
Working the cock hard, a second orgasm rips through me, tumbling through my body. My clit buzzing, I can keep coming like this now for a while. My legs slightly cramping however, I turn over once more and sprawl out, fucking myself missionary again. I lazily fuck the purple cock and cling to every contour, every curve, licking my dry mouth because I’ve lost so much moisture from my body—so constantly aroused. My pussy is a little dry in fact so I idly rub the dildo up and over my clit.
In the three years we’ve worked together there have been so many times I almost asked you out for a drink and it’s with bittersweet emotion I come a third time, thinking of your arms around me as you finally finish, pumping your cum deep inside of me even though you shouldn’t.
I’m tired and feel wrecked but I have to try for just one more orgasm, just one more. I’m insatiable when it comes to you, I always want more. I have at least five minutes before Larissa comes back but my time with you, Ruben is so precious.
I slide the cock back inside me, the lubrication of my last orgasm aiding penetration. For the finale of all finales, I’m thrown over your desk, case files and pens tossed overboard, my skirt hiked up to my hips and the thong between my suspender belt yanked to the side. You’re pumping viciously inside of me and I’m fucking you back, trying to help you get as much of your huge penis into my tight hole as I possibly can. We’re grunting even though anyone could come in, right now. You push my knees to my chest, spreading me wide open. You manage to reach the hallowed place so deep inside of me, the A-spot, and I squirt, coating you in my rich liquor. Hmm.
I’m sated, for now.
As I gently rub down my clit to work out the over-stimulation, I realise it’s the night for you where you are and no doubt you’ll be tucked up safe and warm with your wife. I wonder how happy are you, how happy is she?
Maybe when I get home and you shine those grateful eyes on mine again—your most supportive, intuitive clerk returned—I’ll ask you out for that drink finally.
The End
