me licking your clit and you …’ he says, and for a second I’m sure he’s just going to leave that last part trailing. I mean, it’s obvious what he’s suggesting. He’s already labelled the two body parts, and it’s not as though we’re talking about hands and feet here. He doesn’t need to go into detail.
Even if he just takes a second to wind himself up to it – one hand actually twirling in front of him, like a goad to his confidence – and then absolutely says the real live words.
‘… fingering your ass. Or maybe just rubbing over it, I don’t know. I guess I just understand that you’re doing something there, while I lick your clit and stroke your pussy.’
‘And that’s all you do?’ I ask, as though none of that’s enough on its own. He has fantasies about eating my cunt in office hallways, for God’s sake. How did I ever think I would shame him by bringing up a little light masturbation? ‘You just stroke me?’
He lets out a little flustered breath.
‘Well, no. Obviously not.’
‘Do I actually have to prompt you, Benjamin?’
He spreads his hands again, but this time it’s like he’s trying to hit a reset button. It’s like he’s trying to rewind everything and go back and be better.
‘No, no – I … I fuck you. With my fingers.’
‘I see.’
‘And … uh … sometimes you’re so wet, and so turned on, that I don’t just use one or two. I get three of my fingers into your pussy, and when I do you twist your hands in my hair. You make me do it harder, faster, until I can just about feel you coming.’
I’d call his fantasy very unrealistic, if I didn’t suspect that he could feel me coming from all the way over there, if he so chose. In fact, I think he’s going to do just that really soon. The pulse in my clit feels immense, all-consuming, and whenever I let my eyes wander down over his solid body, said pulse gets worse.
He’s hard, and very obviously so. It looks like a great thick fist beneath the material of those crappy trousers, so swollen that I can just about make out things I probably shouldn’t be able to. Like the fact that he isn’t circumcised, despite being as American as an over-sweet slice of apple pie.
‘I see. And if I said to you that your babbling mouth really needs a ball gag … would you wear one around the office for me?’ I ask, because really I’m going to need a lot more than a bit of mild ass-licking to jolt him. Or at least, I think so until he actually replies.
And then I’m just not sure where his boundaries lie at all.
‘Oh my God. You wouldn’t really ask me to do that, would you?’
‘Whether I would or not is hardly the question. Read it back to me, Benjamin – what was I asking, exactly?’
He strains, briefly, to remember – then seems almost overjoyed when it finally occurs to him. He snaps his fingers at me, which only suggests how much trouble I’m in. Even so silly a gesture gets me going.
‘You asked whether I’d do it.’
‘And would you?’
His eyes drift closed again, but that’s not what I notice. It’s his hand I see, as it slides down over the jutting shape in the front of his trousers. And I don’t mind admitting the sight jolts me, like a little electric shock applied to the base of my spine.
He’s touching himself. He’s touching his obviously hard cock right in front of me, without a hint of shame or restraint. In truth, I’m not sure if he knows what shame or restraint are. His prick is stiff, and he wants to touch it.
So he just does.
‘Yes,’ he says, almost too faint for me to hear. It’s like he’s lost inside himself, suddenly – but that’s fine. I’m more than willing to drag him back out again.
‘And just me looking at you a certain way makes you this … sluttish?’
He squeezes himself through his trousers on that last word, in a way that exposes most of the shape to my greedy gaze. And it is greedy by this point. My mouth practically floods with saliva to see that solid, lengthy outline through his crappy trousers.
‘Is that how I seem?’ he asks, breathless and just ever so slightly incredulous. I don’t know why the latter’s there, however. He’s playing with himself in my office, for God’s sake. He’s got a hand under his shirt now, and I can actually see the pale, flat expanse of his belly.
He’s the epitome of a slut, and I tell him so.
‘I don’t see how you could fail to realise,’ I say, but here’s the thing – he doesn’t then get a hold of himself. He doesn’t stop groping his cock or the skin underneath his shirt.
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