Читать книгу Sage - Wendy Anne - Страница 17

IX

Workplace Erotica

I hide in my fissure of an office. Hot caffeine surges through my body, creating more of a jittery than an awake effect, and gives me a sudden rush of false energy. Looking at my employees slyly, with my face against the inside of my tinted office windows, I watch them all get to work, but they cannot see me through the mirror tint.

Thinking about my saturated thighs and Bruce’s muscular legs this morning, offers my nymphomaniac tendencies a relaxation from my jitteriness. I didn’t make time for my typical morning “rumination experience.” I regret this because I need to feel attached to my organic body more than ever right now. Besides, I was not satisfied with my orgasm earlier. With the dream still fresh in my mind, it may have been impossible, but parts of the dream and the way I remember waking soaked in my cum arouses me to the point of sexual aggravation. Not the dream per se, but the anxiety caused by it. I become a chronic masturbator when I have no other release for my anxiety. I probably rubbed myself on his thigh the entire night unknowingly, before I had my way with him in quickness to scratch an itch. Some orgasms are simply better than others. When my mind and body find themselves in the same place, my orgasms are paralyzing. Nobody with any sense will bother knocking on my office door this early, so I unbutton my pants and slide them down, exposing my upper thighs.

As I move my panties slightly to the side of my neatly shaven lips, I lick two fingers to smooth their roughness before I place them on the top of my jewel. I move them in a repetitious circular motion with just enough pressure to stimulate, but not enough to come. I imagine the secret mystery man in my dreams, the way his touch alone masterfully paralyzed me, and Bruce’s hard body lying between my thighs when I awoke. How incredibly small I felt when lying beside Bruce’s bulk and how magically inferior I felt towards this man in my lucid dream. Never before had I thought of two men at once, but the cliché line, “I have never done this,” remains in my mind.

I enjoy Kama Sutra. As I work into my orgasm thinking of these things. Moaning silently, I flex and retract tightly against the leather office chair. It is a little discomforting without the freedom of my thighs spreading into their full capable straddle position with my pants not being completely off, so I struggle to pull my pants down to my knees. My hips rotate in a circular motion the way us little girls use to clit fuck in our teen years. Hmmm, I moan to myself imagining Bruce and I the first time we broke in the thirteenth floor of my office building, in this very chair. His solid body against mine and his muscular hands gripping each thigh and spreading them above the chair arms as he licked around my thighs and muffled his moans as he buried his face in my pussy. Licking my fingers and shutting my eyes to recreate these moments on myself, I recreate his tongue motions on my thighs and clitoris to the best of my ability. The leather chair sticks to my flesh.

My body tightens up, and my toes curl in ecstasy as I force my orgasm to be hard, yet quick. I am practically biting the top layer of skin off my lip to prevent myself from being heard while I moan. I am saturated with my cum. I grab the napkin I carried in with my coffee and clean myself off. Saliva and a woman’s cum are less revealing and milky than a man’s. When Bruce and I have sexual encounters here, it is quite a bit messier. Even though Bruce is pretty careful and neat for a man during our sexually exploratory marital adventures, we have never been as neat as I am alone. This is another reason it is more convenient for me to handle things on my own sometimes. As I try to recap everything that I had going on before my spontaneous venture off into my never-ending sexual appetite, while sipping on this coffee, barely warm by now, I realize my problem is getting out of hand. Orgasms have been the best way to feel attached to my skin lately.

Moreover, they are the quickest way to release frustration.

Nevertheless, orgasms are a deception regarding what is truly important. Even if I am not, and have never been promiscuous, orgasms have always been an addiction of mine. Now that I am trying to convince myself that I’m happy in my skin, my cravings have grown worse than ever. I can’t just astral project into another realm, and away from my many obligations. No matter how much I baste in my five major senses, my sixth will always try to lure me in, but I’m not sixteen anymore. I can’t go through this again.