Three hours later, I sit fidgeting at my desk, watching the clock. I have shown a marked lack of concentration today. Endorphins swim through my head and turn the pages and numbers upside down. I can't work. Hell, I could hardly eat lunch! My brain is still reeling from the morning's events. How did that happen? Did I actually beg him to let me cum? Did I actually go down on him in his office after we had said a total of maybe 20 words to each other? Shaking my head, trying to push away the visions, I moan under my breath.
The images keep coming to me, unbidden. Much as I try to concentrate, I can still see his cock inches from my face and advancing. The veins are full and defined, and I feel my mouth water as I imagine the taste of his creamy white semen. Thinking back, I recognize my first surrender as when his clear blue eyes challenged me to look away on the elevator. I couldn't, or I wouldn't. I pressed further into uncharted waters, my pride moving me along strange currents.
Shivering, I recalled the feeling, exposed and abandoned, when he stood in front of me, and told me to go. I relived the desperate clutch I felt as I craved to stay, to please him, at any price. Shakily I stepped out onto the thinnest ice, with only the hope that I would not be rejected. My will was broken in that moment, and the look on his face showed that he knew it as clearly as I did. He watched me give to him a measure of control that I have always reserved as my own, and I could see that he relished the moment. The click of understanding in my brain was audible to us both.
I rub my thighs together to try to relieve the pressure. Although I have been to the bathroom to clean up three times in the last three hours, I can feel my pussy leaking moisture again. And I'm not wearing any panties. Shaking my head in disbelief - what a day to go without panties! But that was part of it all, I remind myself. If I hadn't gone "commando", I wouldn't have been touching myself on the way to work.
Rolling my eyes, I listen to myself ramble on in my own head. I push back from the desk and try to straighten my blouse. The material tends to catch on the spot where my own cum is pasted on my breast. I know it's not
really
noticeable, but it makes me shiver anyway. And the shivering makes my nipples hard. I watch helplessly as they point out from my breasts in tiny peaks. I can't help but rub them against the edge of my desk, agitating my already wired state. I know this isn't helping my condition, but the logic-override switch has been thrown today. Squirming in my chair and pressing against my desk, I feel my pussy blossom again as juices escape my slit and make their way to my thighs. I need to go clean up again before I ruin this skirt.
I make my way to the bathroom, again, and I see my co-worker, Rick knitting his brow over his work. Walking past, I get that "being-watched" feeling. I'm sure it's my nerves. Gawd, could I BE more self-centered? I shake my head and remind myself that just because I am acting like an unglued slut today, that doesn't mean that this is everyone else's issue of the day.
I continue to the bathroom, enter a stall, and use the tissues to wipe away the spreading moisture. My thighs and lips are drenched. I tentatively use one finger to draw up and along the inner folds of my slit and bring it to my mouth. I am pleased with my taste today - the abundant flow of moisture has made the taste light and slightly sweet. I am oddly pleased to know that he has tasted me on a "good" day. Shaking my head, god I am a sick girl. I bite ineffectually in the air, trying gain purchase on reality, and hear the "click click" of my teeth hollow in my ears.
I eventually complete my cleanup and exit the bathroom. Walking past Rick again, I stop to see what has him looking so frustrated. Heh. Not that I'm likely to be any help in this state, but sometimes it helps to bounce your ideas off someone else.
"Hey Rick"
"Hey Michelle"
Is he looking at my tits? Naaaah. I lean against his desk, and feel the hard corner bite into my thigh. I shake off the feeling of deja-vu and lean over to peer at his papers.
"What are you working on?"
He starts to explain the problem to me, and where he is in solving it, but my mind starts to wander. I look at his hands as he sketches a quick process map. He has large thick hands with rough skin. I recall that he spends a lot of time working on his car, and I wonder how his hands would feel on my skin. I shake my head, willing myself to focus on his drawing and ask a suitably coherent question.
He looks up from the paper into my eyes as I pose my question, but his eyes flicker to my breasts a time or two... and I flush. He knows. He knows I'm not wearing a bra. The sheer knowledge of this causes my nipples harden again and push against the thin material. Desperate to do something to distract him from my tits, I lean over to reach for his pen so I can further illustrate my question by making marks on his map. I feel my breasts sway and wiggle as I lean. I expect him to offer the pen in his hand, but he holds it firmly as I try to take it. I look in his eyes as he holds onto my thumb for one long electric moment before releasing the pen into my hand. Breathing slightly elevated, I remind myself of the reason I am here. Process map. Focus, Michelle.
Paying attention to my movement, he turns his head toward the paper, moving his face closer to my chest in the process. I can almost feel his breath on me. Oh god! Now I have to continue on with my question in earnest in order to be convincing that I am not purposefully flaunting myself.
I jot and draw arrows, and actually surprise myself by illustrating a point that has some merit. Gaining confidence, I look at his face, and he is staring directly at my tits, inches from his face. It seems two other points have his attention. The leaning and jotting has caused my shirt to shift, and the outline of my nipples is clear. Trembling, I watch them grow even harder under his gaze.
Without missing a beat, he reaches for my hand and takes back his pen, sliding along my fingers unnecessarily as he does so. Moving his face almost imperceptibly, his lips pointed toward my right nipple, he responds to my question. He elaborates on the point I made, thanks me for bringing it up, and verbalizes how the design could be altered to accommodate. I feel his hot breath on my nipple as he speaks, and the tingling grows stronger in my pussy. When he finishes speaking, I nervously straighten, and he raises his eyes to my face, grinning.
Shaky sigh. "Well, that sounds like that will work, then."
"Yes, I think it will. Lucky thing you stopped by when you did" grin broadens.
Haltingly, "Oh, yes, I was ... I know it can be hard to work through the logic on your own sometimes. I thought maybe I could lend a hand" God, why does everything I say come out sounding suggestive?
He stifles a chuckle. "Please feel free to lend a hand anytime."
I flush a deep red, open my mouth to say something, and close it again, completely flustered. He seems to be enjoying this. I am not known to be a quiet girl. He is eating it up that I am standing there at a loss for words.
"Um, OK, that sounds good" I reply automatically, realizing barely, and too late, that this sounded like a promise. "I mean... um... I gotta go now".
He watches me step back and out of his office, making my way down the hallway in a slight daze. I steal a glance back down the hall, and see him making his way to one of the conference rooms. He reached down and adjusts himself with a huge smile on his face.
Oh my god. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? I must not be very bright ... how could I have made the mistake of stopping by Rick's office in this state? He probably thinks I was hitting on him. I mean, he is great looking and all that, very tall, big strong hands, a large frame. And, yes, I have wondered if he is proportionally built, ahem, in all departments. (Is it hot in here?) But he never seemed like my type, really. Sure, he's a damn good engineer, but he's sort of gruff and coarse, and belongs to a motorcycle club. He probably has tattoos and drinks too much beer. I've always been a white-wine-in-a-crystal-glass kind of a girl, unless, of course, there is champagne available. Is it possible to have gotten even hornier since this morning? My mind whirling, thinking again of my chat with Rick... this is how rumors get started.
There is of course another more pressing issue that I have to consider. It is after 3:30, and I am fence-sitting on whether to go meet Ray or not. Did I even ask his last name? Who is this guy? Jesus ... there is definitely something wrong with me. This morning's encounter was one of the most intense I have ever experienced. But I know in my heart that going to meet him tonight would be a different sort of step. Did I say my heart? I think it goes deeper than that, to the primal places that know fear and safety.
How can I not go? The idea of more time spent with this man is intoxicating. I rub my aching jaw, relishing the soreness that reminds me of the encounter. I reach into my blouse to feel the flaking remnants of my cum, and sigh with that memory as well. I briefly re-live the shock of finding my shirt on my stomach, shudder, and push that thought away. I don't ever want to feel that way again, and I know that going to him this afternoon opens up the possibility unless I do as he asks. Then I hear his voice, low and growling in my ear. "Good girl"
Maybe I can do it. Maybe I can follow his lead. Maybe I can play right. God, I crave his voice.
It's just that sort of day, so I decide I will go, thinking to myself that I can always back out later if this is too much for me. I look at my watch, and realize I have less than half an hour to shut down and get upstairs. Chuckling, I've spent way too much time drifting through these memories. I have three email responses to get out before I go, and that always takes more time than you think it will. Suddenly a frenzy of productivity, I bang out the emails and tidy up my desk by 16:55. Ten minutes to go up eight floors - I should be fine.
