It’s 7:00 a.m. and I am late for work as usual – I’m supposed to be there right about now. Rushing out the door, I am putting my helmet on as I throw my leg over the seat of my bike. With my helmet buckled, I turn the key and hit the starter and nothing. I double check; neutral, key turned all the way, but no dash lights.
Our spare car has two severely dented rims and needs an alignment so bad it hasn’t been driven in weeks. I look at my watch and realize, three minutes to catch the bus. I pop the trunk of the car and throw my helmet in and rush off t the bus stop still wearing my riding cloths.
The bus stop is two blocks from the house and I arrive as the bus pulls up to pick up another rider. I get a lot of stares from people as I enter the bus in my leather chaps and vest.
I move to the rear of the bus and discretely remove my chaps as the bus pulls out and heads downtown. I call work on my cell and let them know what’s happened. About ten minutes later, I am catching another bus, followed by yet another bus to get to work at the early hour of 8:05. And to think it only takes me 3-5 minutes to drive to work, gotta love mass transit.
As I stroll in, Sarah makes a comment about my broken bike. I said, “Yea, but I still look good in my leathers.”
She chuckles and says, “I would love to see you without the jeans on, then I’ll be the judge.” And off to her cubicle she goes.
I put my stuff down and flip on my computer. Too late for coffee, need to get to all of the work that’s piled up over the past few days.
I send Sarah and e-mail telling her to be careful of what she asks for, because she just might like what she sees. She writes back, “Leather chaps and vest, thong underwear, ummmmm!” I’d eat you alive.”
“So how did you like that new story?” I respond.
“Oh God, I about creamed my panties on that one. You have a very vivid imagination,” she types.
I told her how I was once a photo- and print journalist, and had lots of practice at making something sound really exciting.
“Really exciting!,” she retorts, “between my legs is what’s really exciting.”
It was time to see if she was serious. She says this a lot and it was time to call her bluff. “Have you ever fingered yourself at work?”
“Are you kidding? You know I am a screamer. There is no way I could control myself,” she says.
“You said you were wet, I was just wanting some proof.”
“No way, I couldn’t,” Sarah writes.
I quickly type, “You wouldn’t dare do it at work, or couldn’t!”
“Are you daring me, please don’t dare me,” she pleads.
Taking the bait, I respond, “I dare you, in fact, I double dare you.”
“Be careful of what you ask, you may not like it,” comes the reply.
I tell her, “I know what I am asking, and I’ll have to find out for myself.”
Silence fell upon the office. A few minutes later, Sarah appears at my cubicle. I don’t turn around, not wanting to scare her or to appear eager. She stands at the back of my chair, leans forward brushing her tits against my neck and says, “Are you sure? Are you positively, 100% sure you want this?” as she reaches her left hand around to my mouth. Offering her middle finger, I swallow it whole and swirl my tongue around to collect all of the juices. Over the finger, under the finger, all around the finger tip, I sucked and sucked and sucked -- savoring every drop. Then she withdrew her hand and left as quietly as she arrived.
A few seconds later, message appears on my screen, “Well?”
