When I Loved You

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.

Afterwards, I lay back in the chair trying to catch my breath. I took my soaking panties and dropped them into your trashcan. I slowly removed the toy, sucked it clean, and slipped it back into your pencil cup. I smoothed my hair, straightened my skirt, and got up unsteadily. I tip toed toward the door. I opened it and saw the hall way was empty. I slipped out, and quietly pulled the door closed.

I started down the hall toward the elevator, and heard the ping of it arriving. The doors opened, and there you were. The blood rushed to my face. I turned beet red. You glanced toward me and asked if I was feeling ok. I assured you I was, just a little out of breath from taking the stairs. You looked quizzically at me, as I was waiting for the elevator to ride down. I heard you move down the hall, unlock your door, and enter your office. Would you smell me in your inner sanctum? Would you sense I'd been in your chair? Would you sit down in the puddle of my pussy juices, knowing it was me who had made all that sweet stuff? I didn't wait to find out. I jumped into the elevator and rode down not nearly fast enough.

When I loved you, I thought about you constantly, probably 4 hours a day at work. I sat at my desk listening for the sound of you like a dog hunting for birds. I dreamed you would come to my open door, proclaim your love, and sweep me into your arms. I hoped to see you, even if only out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I would turn, sometimes I would make myself start straight ahead pretending it didn't know you were there.

But you never came to my door to tell me you loved me. You never walked to my desk, turned my chair, unzipped your pants, and pulled out your hard cock. I never got to suck that cock to full life, never got to strangle myself on the length of you. I never got to suck the seed out of the root of you. I never got to feel your spluge spill onto my tongue, fill my mouth, slip over my lips, and run down my chin. I wanted that so badly, to please you, to satisfy you. I wanted to feel you forcing that stiff member into my waiting mouth. I wanted to feel your pleasure filling me, filling me mouth, sending me the message of your love.

But it never happened because you didn't love me. When I loved you, I followed you as much as I could. I went to see your band play out. I brought friends and co-workers. I tried to make you notice me, to love me. You noticed me, and thanked me for coming, but never did you ask me to stay late or come over. I went to your apartment and stood in the street staring up at your window. I cut my hair and left it in your mailbox. I touched the door and felt the solidness of it, how it separated us from one another. I stroked the door knob the way I would have stroked your knob, twisting and pulling and pushing. But the door never opened, and you never opened it to me.

You never asked me up, tempting me in for a drink. You never invited me in. I stood at the door like a vampire needing to be admitted. I needed to be invited into your home, your room. I needed to be asked to sit down while you mixed me something to embolden me. I needed you to come sit close, slip your arm around me, and pull me to you. I needed to hear you whisper into my ear that you wanted me so badly, how you could only think of taking me all day long, how you needed to squirt your jism into me.

I would follow you into your room, watch you unzip your pants, and pull out your hardening prick. You'd tell me to get onto my knees and you'd bring that beautiful tool to my waiting lips. You'd stroke my jaw sweetly, then pry my mouth open with the head. I'd start to lick the tip, and begin to slurp on the tip. The precum would drip out onto my tongue. I'd open my mouth wide, stretching it to take all of you, feeling the solid force of you filling my orifice. You'd start to stroke slowly, letting the tension build, then faster and faster. Soon you'd be pumping my mouth like a pussy, in and out in a frenzy.

Just when I think you'd deliver that delicious juice into my mouth, you'd stop, reach for my shoulders and pull me to my feet. You'd reach out and shred my dress from my clavicles, the cloth falling to my ankles. You'd shove me hard onto your bed, and rip my panties aside, shredding them in your strong hands. You'd pull on my bra until is snapped in half, my heaving breasts full and rising, red with desire, nipples stiff. You'd stand over me for a minute admiring my body and feeling my worship, then you'd grab my ankles and yank me toward you. You'd jam them onto your shoulders, holding my legs apart. The tip of your cock would be poised at my waiting lips. Then you'd lean down toward me hard, jamming the full length of your tool into my waiting cunt, filling me to the hilt, filling me with your meat.

You'd start to rock into me, hard and fast and furious. Soon your jism would be spilling into me, pooling out over my lips, running down the crack of my ass. And I'd start to cum, my own juices spilling out of my tight pussy, mixing with your juice, making the most delicious love spunk I could imagine. But this never happened because you never loved me.

If you had loved me, you would have done all this and after pulled me close. You would have moaned my name as you shot your wad into me hungry lips. You would have dozed with your head on my shoulder. You would have pulled me close, wrapping your arms tightly around me, and pinning me to you all night and all day.

When I loved you, I would have knelt at your bedside, just watching you sleep. I would have cooked for you and cleaned for you, washed your clothes by hand, and let you own me. I would have let you pass me around to your rock star friends. I would have sucked them and fucked them while you watched from your easy chair, smoking a Cuban and sipping fine whiskey.

I would have told you all my secrets. I would have allayed all your fears. I would have been a good girlfriend in front of your parents, and a dirty whore in front of your friends. I would have tolerated you fucking your groupies in the bed I shared with you. I would have forgiven anything. But it didn't matter, because you didn't love me, and you didn't want any of this.

When I loved you, you invited me to your New Year's Eve party, ringing in the new year with me. You spent the entire evening with me, flirting and touching me, ignoring everyone, having only eyes for me. You had your hands on me, but you didn't have lips for me, or cock for me, only eyes for me. You didn't love me, and you didn't use me. You didn't own me, and you didn't possess me. You didn't please me, and you didn't please yourself. And I kept suffering.

When I loved you, I didn't care if you humiliated me. I didn't care if you used me or abused me. But you continued to ignore me, and somehow I finally stopped loving you.

One day I woke up and I just didn't care anymore. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I saw myself looking back, not your property. I didn't love you anymore. I don't know how it happened, how it stopped, but it just did.

And I started to walk a little straighter, not swaying my hips. I started to walk a little prouder, ass not sticking out quite so far. I started to look around, and suddenly my nipples didn't ache for you anymore. I sat at my desk and daydreamed about vacation, the beach, and beautiful brown skinned boys. I got more work done than ever. I started to look back at men looking my way. I started to flirt back with them. I started to date. And I started to fuck.

Now that I don't love you, I get fucked every day. I get off over and over again. I call out someone else's name. I yell out "god" and "oh" louder and louder until I think my eardrums might break. And you walk by my office, staring in, wondering what happened. I don't look back. I gaze straight ahead, contemplating my next fuck.