I feel better after making my confession, determined to at least give it a go, even if the circumstances are somewhat unusual. "Can I turn off the light at least?"
"The overheads," she tells me. "But leave the other one on. We wouldn't want the children to think we were up to any funny business."
Indeed, I think, hitting the switch. It's still brighter than I'd prefer though, and I stand rooted in place for a moment, unsure as to how to position myself. Her mention of the kids makes me worry they'll be able to see past the flimsy curtains hanging in the office window. Otherwise I could have at least given her the courtesy of turning my back to her. As it is she's off to one side of me as I lower my zipper.
I'm aware of the silence, broken only by the occasional mouse click as I work to extricate my erection from my pants.
My penis bobs a time or two when it makes contact with the open air, as if scenting something out; in four years it's never been allowed the light of day inside these walls. Even in the diminished light, I can see that it's terribly inflamed -- pale white with a ruby red crown and a purple-green vein snaking along its length. For a moment I just stare at it as if I'd never seen it before.
"Well?" she says, her eyes never leaving the computer screen. She seems transfixed by whatever it is she's working on.
"Right," I say, turning a little more to the side, but not so much that I'm at risk of being seen through the outside window by any passersby peeking through the gaps in the blinds.
Without any preliminaries, I begin to stroke myself, using my right hand in long productive strokes. I'm aware of the sounds I make: my arm brushing up against the fabric of my shirt, the dry thump of my pud in my hand. It's funny that with two decades worth of jerking off under my belt, I've never paid any attention to them. But now these intimate sounds almost seem more inappropriate than the act itself, and I angle my elbow awkwardly away from my body as I continue to work.
The angle is all wrong though, and the elbow comes back in, the sounds intensifying as I speed up my stroking, going strictly for efficiency rather than any style points.
At times I glance to my left, but she's still staring at the screen, ignoring the commotion entirely. Even so, her presence has me befuddled and I'm not getting any closer. After some brief deliberation, I use my left hand to dig my balls out of my pants too, letting them hang down low and full. My breath comes faster now, and the sounds I'm making increase as my balls sway in time with all my tugging -- slapping dully against the fabric of my pants and adding to the cacophony.
We're getting somewhere now, and the proximity of my orgasm begins to make me brazen. I steal a glance at her body -- legs crossed high up, thigh muscles taut, chest thrown forward. I feel guilty for using her in such a way, but I can't help it. I'd like to chew my way through all that clothing until I reach the moist center of her. It's starting to feel really good now, and it's an effort to try not to groan.
I wonder if unconsciously she's counting the strokes in her head. If as I work, they continue adding up, her mind employing mysterious algorithms to translate them in her head into so many wasted inches, unaware as her mind runs through formulas for potential thrusts, friction that never was, 2.6 orgasms for every 1,000 plunges.
My own climax is there, but still it refuses to come to the foreground. As I rub my balls with my left hand, my right hand goes up to my mouth. I lick it wetly, thinking she won't notice.
"There's some baby oil in the hygiene cabinet," she tells me without turning her head.
I frown and waddle over to the cabinet to get it, my dick stretched to its full potential and bouncing heavily. When I look over my shoulder, she's paying me no mind. I go back to my spot with the baby oil, flicking the cap open and dousing my cock liberally with the contents.
It annoys me how cool she is throughout the whole ordeal. For months now she's had me in a sexual frenzy, but I could be putting lotion on my hands or feet for all the interest she's showing. When I set the bottle down, I do so with a little bang that receives a slightly raised eyebrow. Good, I think. The oil is cold at first, but it warms up quickly as I work it into the length of me, feeling it run down over my testicles. When I begin stroking again, the sounds go delightfully obscene -- little squishy slurps and clicks that I know she can hear.
It feels too good, and I'm certain I'm finally close to getting some much-needed relief. I steal another look at her, wanting her to share in the feeling, acknowledge this freight train of biological imperative. I realize that I've turned incrementally towards her without having any awareness of having done so. In fact I'm practically facing her now, as if daring her not to look at this miracle of abandoned decorum and crackling nerve endings.
There's a knock at the door -- one of the kids needing something that can wait until morning. It throws off my rhythm, staving off my orgasm. I can almost feel the semen backing up in the tubing of me as I stretch my shirt down over all the activity going on at my midsection.
"We're changing shifts. Be out in a minute," she calls out through the door.
"Damn it," I say.
"What's wrong?" she asks, refusing to look even now.
"I was so close."
She says nothing, and I know that I'm on my own. I need some inspiration to get back on track as I start up my tugging again. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, her face awash in the blue glow coming off the computer monitor. Her mouth is open slightly, and her breaths seem to come quicker, making her tits rise and fall. Looking closer, I can see that her nipples are hard, little nubs of arousal trying to drill their way out of her shirt. I know they're responding to the state of my cock -- erectile tissue saluting in mutual admiration, sending out greetings and salutations. Like foreign dignitaries at court.
The knowledge of her excitement makes me stroke all the faster. Drops of oil smack down on the floor as she uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs. The squishy noises are louder now. It sounds like fucking. I reach down and squeeze my balls gently, feeling the shaved skin of my scrotum as she crosses her legs again. I can't take my eyes off them, and in no time I'm back on the precipice, making little sounds: 'Haah', and 'Unh'. My leg muscles begin to tighten in anticipation, my ass clenching as I start to feel the telltale signs deep down in the core of me -- the tingle and whir of my prostate, a little centrifuge roiling my semen around in my nuts in preparation for release.
"Unh," I say, so fucking close.
"You better not make a mess on the floor," she tells me, anticipating me without turning.
The comment pushes my orgasm back once more, but the crescendo has already begun to build again. Frantically, I look around for something in which to catch my load -- a tissue, a stray cleaning rag left in the office. There's nothing, and I'm about to despair when I see her reaching down beneath her skirt. I watch as she lifts one ass cheek and then the other, working the tiny garment down and away from her body, over her shoes and off. She balls the panties up and hands them to me before finally turning to look at my dick.
I barely have time to register the wetness of the little black thong against my hand before I bring it up to my face, breathing her musky smell deep inside of me, jabbing my tongue into the fabric as I stroke faster, my arm movements a blur as she watches openly now.
"Do it," she says in a whisper, the kind usually reserved for lovers. "Lick my panties and come for me."
Her words push me over the edge. The tingle moves outward now, utterly beyond my control. The little centrifuge in me loses its center, flinging my load up into my shaft.
"Unh," I say. "Unnnh..."
My arm aches and still she's watching me, silently goading me on. When she licks her lips, I barely have time to get her panties off my face and down in front of my cock as shot after shot of thick hot seed spills forth from the head of me, the damn bursting upstream, making me cry out and all the little crack orphans in the world be damned.
The semen comes and comes. It's as if it's replaced all of my bodily fluid, flying out from the little slit at an incredible velocity, gob after gob until her underwear is covered in the stuff. It drips down off my hand to the floor in long white strands until finally there is no more. It's all I can do to keep my feet and avoid blacking out.
When it's over and I can open my eyes, I look down at the balled up panties in my hand. It's hard to believe they were once black; they look as if they've been dunked in a bowl of Elmer's Glue. I'm about to offer them back to her, but then hesitate, the panties in the air between us, worried if it won't be considered indelicate to return them in their current condition.
"Keep 'em," she says, turning back to the computer.
