His Thursday
He never sits on the couch. It's such a subtle thing, but Casey always stands when it's his Thursday. it's strange. Rosalinda thinks that if she were a guy, sitting would be the preferable way to get a blowjob.
They worked in one of those big buildings on Capitol Hill and ventured into the basement on break. It was a maze, but they ventured down a long liminal hallway where they found a room unmarked and unlocked; their new hideout. It could have been an old storage room, or maybe a breakroom for some long-ago blue-collar guys since it had a table, four chairs, and an old leather couch.
Standing just feels so tedious, especially when there is this couch right here.
But somehow, in its own Casey sort of way, it made sense. Leave it to him to make things harder than they needed to be.
She wants to ask him about this, but they've never talked about what they do here. Outside of this room, their little hideout in the basement, they are upright, moral, and professional people. Here, behind this closed door, Rosalinda and Casey can roleplay and give voices to the selfish and immature parts of themselves.
"You're such a fucking incel." Rosalinda chides him while reaching down into his slacks, where she finds a rigidness that she may or may not have fostered. She wonders what it would be like to fuck him. Their little agreement does not exactly forbid sex, but they've never crossed that line, and they've never discussed it. But it always crosses her mind, especially on Thursdays.
"Yeah," Casey smirks. "Well, that's some high praise coming from a woman that's about to suck the soul from my body. What does that say about you?"
Rosalinda strokes him once and thinks about how easy it would be to push him down onto the couch, straddle him, and slide his cock into that sopping spot between her thighs. It would change their game forever, wouldn't it? And she isn't certain if she's ready for that, though she enjoys the fantasy.
"This is a mercy," Rosalinda explains as she slowly drifts down to her knees. "How else is a sweaty little wastrel like you going to get some action?"
It takes her a moment to wrestle Casey's slacks open. When she finally pulls it free, Rosalinda gives it an adoring look. She's seen it at least a dozen times already and it's not a bad cock, but this late week indecency they shared never wore off. Whether it was her Thursday or his, doing what they do four floors down from their office, in this forgotten room in the basement, always gave Rosalinda such a charge.
"Says the bitch with my cock already in her mouth."
Casey's words confuse her, and she looks up at him curiously. "It's not in my-" But before Rosalinda can finish, he forces her down onto his cock. Surprise takes her, but when Casey's cruel chuckle dissolves into a moan, she gives in, spurred on by the sound. She swirls her tongue around him, and summons up as much spit as she can. When Rosalinda has him nice and slick, she pulls away a derisive smile. She can see traces of his smugness there, but from his furrowed brow and slack jaw, she sees a crack in Casey's composure now, and Rosalinda loves that she can do that to him.
She watches as Casey tries to keep his head above the lustful waters he's been plunged into, but Rosalinda doesn't make it easy. "You should see yourself," she says in an unkind tone. "Pathetic." She opens her mouth wide and makes a show of licking the length of his cock. "You even taste like an incel."
"A femcel like you would know, wouldn't you?"
Rosalinda opens her mouth to answer but realizes all too late that she's fallen for the same trick twice. Casey forces her back down onto his cock again, only this time he begins thrusting into her mouth, shedding any pretense that he's not enjoying himself.
"Your mouth," He begins in a voice thick with dark amour, "Feels better than it has any right to."
She feels his hand grasp the back of her head, then loops her long dark hair into a ponytail with his fingers. If she could look up, Rosalinda would probably see him practically drooling. She imagines Casey's dumb face half filled with determination, half crumbling under the burden of his arousal. She likes him like this: desperate and - well, not exactly feral, but close enough.
It doesn't take long for Casey to reach his apex, not with Rosalinda's lips wrapped around him. Really, how could he hold back when she had a throat lined with silk? How could he control himself when Rosalinda was all sloppy vowels, Aulk-aulk-aulk; the sound of her submission filling their secret room? Of course Casey can't control himself.
