When I loved you, I would have done anything for you. I would have submitted to your will. I would have let you humiliate me in any way that pleased you. I would have put my entire life on hold. But it made no difference. You did not love me.
When I first saw you, I loved you. I saw you and wanted you and wanted you to want me. I saw you wandering the halls at work, looking a little dazed, dressed in your quirky way with your messy hair, and I said to myself, "I will be the reason your hair is messy. You will fuck me all night and come to work with that morning after look." But it never happened.
When we first talked, I could hardly contain myself. Your eyes, your smile, your voice made me want to go straight to the ladies' room and stroke myself into ecstasy. I wanted to lock myself in a stall, pull down my panties, stick my fingers into my dripping cunt, and bring myself to orgasm after orgasm while biting my sweater, choking my sobs of joy and relief into my waiting, wanting throat so our co-workers wouldn't know.
And maybe I did do this: enter the restroom stealthily, hoping no one else was in there. The building is old with those bathrooms that echo. This is not helpful as I am usually quite loud. I lock the door firmly, and start to stroke my neck, thinking of you taking me into your arms. I stroke my breasts through my blouse, the silk making my nipples stand out starkly through the tight cloth. I start to slide my hands down over my body, rubbing my waist, imagining you drawing me close.
I feel myself pressed against the tile wall, feeling like you are clutching me close. The cool tile continues to arouse my nipples, making them harder and stiffer than I could have imagined. I slide my hands over my hips, back over my ass, and around and across my mound. Slowly, so slowly, I start to draw my skirt up. The linen is stiff in my hands. I crush it like I'd like you to. I feel my handprints molded into the fabric the way I'd like yours to be. My fingers slip between my legs, across the wet cotton covering my aching lips. I want to feel your fingers in me. I want you to enter my pussy, stretch my lips apart, and prime me for your cock. Instead I slip my own fingers into my waiting cunt, filling myself and pretending I'm being filled by you.
When I loved you, all I wanted was you inside me. All I wanted was to be pleasured by you. All I wanted was to pleasure you. But you didn't love me, and so that never happened. So as I'm standing in the ladies' room, crushed against the hard cool tile, skirt squashed up around my waist, and my fingers worming their way into my waiting wanting pussy, all I can think of is you. I'm pumping my fingers into my pussy, juices dripping down over my knuckles, filling my hand, running down my legs. I'm moaning and chewing on my sweater, whispering your name, whispering that I love you, and imagining you are whispering the same to me. I start to cum now, and the juices are roiling out of my little girl. I'm moaning and choking and wishing you could hear me and know this was happening just 20 feet from where you sit.
But you don't because you don't love me. When I loved you, I would pass you in the hall, tits pushed out, nipples hard, hips swaying under my just too tight skirt, ass pushed up by my just too high heels, wanting you to see me and want me. But you didn't. You didn't love me. When I would pass you on the way to the mailroom, nostrils twitching trying to catch the scent of you, I'd hope that you were doing the same. But you weren't. You didn't love me.
I'd check my box in the mailroom 20 times a day, just so I could pass your office, stand in front of your open door, hip cocked, skirt tight across my ass, humming silly songs, trying to make you see me. I'd go into the mailroom, to catch my breath. I'd pace and hum and skip a little. Then when I thought I had been there long enough, I'd open the door, crossing my fingers that your door would be open and I could catch your eye, talk a little with you, and make you notice me. And you did. You would. But that was it. You'd flirt and play and let me know you noticed me noticing, but that was it.
You didn't love me. And I'd have to head back to the ladies' room to express my pleasure and frustration. I'd have to slip into that stall again hoping on some crazy level that you could hear my stifled moans, and wishing that you would come to me, right there in the restroom, knock politely, and call my name. I'd open the stall, blouse unbuttoned, bra pulled askew, breasts straining against the cups, nipples popping over the lace, and let you in.
You'd finally come to me and take me into your arms, kissing my neck, nibbling your way down along my clavicle and sternum, reaching my exposed breasts. You'd suck my nipples into your mouth one at a time, and then pushing their lushness together and sucking them at the same time. You'd whisper between nibbles that you've wanted to suckle here for months and didn't know how to tell me. You'd bite my areolas until they were red and bruised. You'd suckle like your life depended on it. You'd tell me you loved me since you first saw me sashaying down the hall, hips swaying, breasts bouncing, ass up, and lips luscious. But this didn't happen. When I loved you none of this happened.
When I loved you I grew bored with flirting a few times a week. I was no longer sated with masturbating in the ladies' room. And I grew bold. I came in on Saturdays hoping to catch you. A few times you were there, but things were just the same: the flirting, the giggling, the exchanges of confidences, but nothing more.
One Saturday you weren't there. So I let myself into the secretary's office. I rummaged around until I found the pass key. I stood with it in my hand for a long while, wondering what I would do, and what I was willing to risk. I let myself into your office. I just wanted to stand there and feel your essence.
But when I loved you, I didn't always think clearly. And I wanted more of you than you did of me. And I wanted to know what it was like to be you. I sat in your chair. I touched your coffee cup. I licked my finger and outlined the lip with the tip, feeling where your lips had been. I caressed your pens. I felt what it was like to be your fingers. I stroked them like little penises.
Then I found a strange object in the pencil cup. It was a stress squeeze thing that was long and thin. I took it and held it, feeling your stress pass out of it and into my hand and out through my body, out through my breath. Then I took it into my mouth like a phallus, sucking your stress into my mouth and spitting it out again. After a while, I became bored with this, and emboldened. I slid my hands down over my body: over my huge swelling breasts, down around my slim waist, and over my hips. I started to claw my skirt up like a dog digging for a bone. And I was digging for a bone: digging for a place to put your bone. Since you didn't love me, I knew I would never have your cock in my pussy. But I was holding something you held all the time, something that could feel like a cock in my aching cunt.
I wriggled out of my tiny thong panties. They were dripping with my juices. The little cotton patch that hangs under my lips was saturated like a sponge. I took my panties and sucked them into my mouth to stifle my moans. I pinched my stiffening nipples. And I took the stress toy and slid it into my waiting snatch. I had so much to lose. I had a career hanging in the balance. I had my reputation to protect. I would be fired if you showed up unexpectedly. But I didn't care. I loved you. And all I wanted was for you to love me.
At first I was tentative, sliding the tip of the toy across my slit. But as I got wetter and hotter, I got bolder. Soon the tip was sliding between my hungry lips. I was moaning your name, my mouth filled with my soaking panties. I started to work the toy into my cunt. It was slim, but it did the trick. My cunt is tight, tight as a virgin's or so I've been told. I worked it in and out. I moaned your name. I told you how I love you. I pretended you said the same. I was working it in and out frantically. I wanted it to be bigger, thicker. I wanted it to be you. I wanted to feel your rigid dick filling my tight little hole. But it wasn't.
Soon I was squirming in your chair, my sweet nectar spilling out onto your chair. I was riding the toy, grinding up against it. I slid it in and out first slowly, then more and more quickly. I was pushing down on the slim little thing, moaning your name and calling out to you. I said how I love you, how I need you, how I'd do anything for you. I begged you to fuck me, to tease me, to use me. The longer I jammed it in and out, the more and more juices spilled out over my fingers and onto your seat. I wanted all this to be spilling onto you, into your lap, running down your cock, pooling around your tight balls. Then I was cumming so hard I could only see your face, hear your voice, imagine your breath in my ear.
