I have been watching you with a shy eye. Your short hair. Your thin lips when they smile. Your beautiful long legs and how they flow beneath your dresses, or the way your slacks hug them accentuating the curves of your sculpted ass. Your very large and beautiful breasts and the way your tight shirts or sweaters hug them, showing them to my glancing eye in all their profound beauty, and how when the air conditioning is turned slightly too cold and the nipples rise from the chill. And lastly your exquisite, round, eight-month pregnant belly, and how it stretches the fabric of your shirts, blouses, or dresses.
But as I said, 'watching with a shy eye'. For who am I but just another fellow employee that passes in and out of your vision everyday. And you, happily married. What would you want with a Joe like me when you can have everything from the guy at home, the guy whom you call 'husband'.
Do you notice my wandering eye when I'm near you? How I trace your body up and down, memorizing you in all your glory for my fantasies when I'm alone at night, and my only companion is my Rosy Palm.
These days melt into one another, the only change is your belly getting larger with child. And as the days continue to melt, a sadness creeps under your eyes. I barely notice at first, but by the time your ninth month rolls around it's painfully obvious to me. I spend days gathering up the courage to talk to you about it, racking my brain with possible scenarios as a catalyst. But in the end of course someone beats me to it, but thankfully it's to my advantage.
I'm at work as usual and on a break I hear the gossipers who have nothing better to do than talk about everyone else, pushing the focus away from their own short-comings, when I hear your name. My ears prick up instinctively and I catch as much of the conversation as I can, and the pieces fall into place. Now I wait until the opportunity knocks.
Late one afternoon when everyone else in the office is gone, I think myself alone. My thoughts drift to you and your growing belly in all it's sexual beauty, and I am hard. I get up and go to the bathroom, and close the stall door behind me before I fish out my growing cock and begin masturbating. My thoughts drift to your belly, the pubic hair beneath, the swollen labia, the tight asshole, your leaking breasts - not that drinking breast milk turns me on, I rather dislike the taste, but the sight of it, the helplessness of it, that turns me on, your breasts leak milk and you have no control over it - even larger now that they are full of expecting milk.
Your plentiful ass, somewhat plumper with the weight gain, but all the more beautiful for it - I am an ass man at heart. My orgasm builds as my mind flips through the various positions, the penetration, the tasting with mouths, the sweat running in rivulets across skin, the deep, throaty, breathing of passion, the smell of sex, the sounds .... My orgasm pushes out of me in a torrent of spasms that fill the toilet beneath my weak and bended knees. I grab some toilet paper and wipe the rest of the semen off of the glans and deposit it in the toilet with the other globs of ejaculation. I flush and make myself respectable in the mirror before returning to the late work.
But I am not alone, passing your office I see you inside, wiping at your eyes with a tissue. You're crying. Or close to it. Inside my head I see a door, and behind that door someone knocks, and in my head I open that door.
"Linda? You okay?"
She starts, and her breath catches. She turns towards me. Her eyes catch mine and hold them. So sad they are, tears are in the corners and close to spilling over. My guts give a turn, I felt so perverted thinking about her that way in the bathroom moments before. I was ashamed of myself, giving into the primal urges with no thoughts to the person I was thinking of. She didn't deserve a pervert like me thinking about her like that.
"Y-yeah, just something in m-my eye," a lie of course.
"Is it your pregnancy?" I push forward, the catalyst set in motion.
"N-no, well, yes, a l-little." She offers.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb here, and I hope you don't mind, but; is your husband not interested in sex anymore?" There, it was out. My heart was jack-hammering in my chest. Please-oh-please-oh-please be right.
