Boquet by always_curiousΒ©
You never should have told me of your secret key, hung on an inner branch of a boxwood shrub near your door. After not getting an email from you for ten days, I'm getting a bit antsy and so decide to drop by and see how you are doing. I cannot resist the temptation. Might I catch you playing with someone else?
When I arrive, you are at your computer working-still in your suit with your hair up, just home from a long day, and still working to get that damn project out the door. (Which may well explain your neglect of our correspondence; yet my resolve remains.) You've made yourself comfortable, though, kicking off your shoes and getting into a bottle of Chablis. You are a picture in the warm glow of the desk lamp. Delicate hairs around your neck shimmer like fine-spun golden silk, willowy with your body heat.
I slip off my shoes and approach quietly, my toes rolling in the soft rug. You jump just a bit as my tongue traces a fine line up the nape of your neck. Before you can turn, I take your arms and draw them behind you, whispering in your ear how naughty you've been in neglecting our correspondence. I pull a red silk scarf from my pocket and loosely bind your hands behind the back of your office chair. You protest, but you know me. You know that something good is coming, something very good.
Rolling you back from your computer and spinning you toward me, I kneel and take your stocking-clad feet, rubbing, caressing them one after the other with both my hands, working the toes, the soft stretch of your arches, then your heals, till your body muscles at large begin to release. You slouch in the chair unable to resist the relaxing of your body. Still working slowly, I begin to move up your legs, stroking your calves and placing gentle kisses on the flesh of your thighs.
Now you have squirmed down in the chair as much as your bound arms allow and your skirt is bunced at the top of your black silk stockings. In the dim light I see a stain already spreading through your panties. My fingertips touch the moistness, then I drop them back down and trace dewy patterns along your thighs. You are breathing heavily and moaning a deep, longing, "Yes." With my teeth I grasp the top of your stocking and tug it down, my hot breath causing the soft hairs of your inner thighs to rise. My hands assist as I roll the stocking down your leg, over your heel and off your foot. I put it in my pocket and go back up for the other, stopping at your crotch where I leisurely kiss your panty-cloaked slit, pressing my thumb up and inward toward your bump of your clitoris hood, breathing in your aroma. You writhe in the chair and beg me take you. I laugh and tell you that won't happen for a while, when I have a chance to catch up on my correspondence. I gently roll the other stocking down your leg, putting it in my pocket with the other.