By the end of this story I’m going to be a stupid, wet mess.
Sorry, I’m already a stupid, wet mess right now but… Just read it.
Ze has been…. bothersome. Forever there and lewd and shoving hir PTO’d, paid-to-be-slutty ass off. I’m working. I’m “working”, aren’t I? As ze masturbates three feet away from me, stroking hir galaxy dick with one come and lube-drenched fist whilst the other plays coyly with hir cunt. All I can smell is sex and who can type reports in that environment? Ze won’t let me take a half day or a long lunch, anyway. Makes me a sandwich, a fresh cup of tea and a glass of water. Then goes back to the double masturbatory act. Cock and cunt interchanged on a whim.
Ze walks past the kitchen table every so often, parading through the flat bare-chested, flaunting hirself. 5pm cannot come quickly enough.
Only it does, it speeds along and hits me in the face, still typing furiously at 5.15pm when ze snaps the lid of the laptop shut and silently points to the sofa, still warm with the heat of hir body.
Never has a two-seater from Argos felt so luxurious; never have my knickers slipped off with such speed or ease.
Ze makes me put them back on, runs a finger through hir hair and strokes the cock more vigorously in my direction. Sitting beside me, not looking at me but grabbing a handful of my cunt with one sticky, scented hand, working hir fingers between my lips, feeding the fabric into that slippery, wanting hole until the air is thick with come, more come and the slightly clinical scent of lubricant.
Ze still won’t look at me but I can’t stop looking at hir. Breathing more heavily than normal. I stare at hir nipples, my favourite part of hir body. So hard and pink against hir pale skin.
I reach out to touch them and ze smacks my hand away and suddenly everything is sped up with hir knee between my thighs grinding deeply, painfully into my cunt, pulling my t-shirt up over my head so ze can get hir hands on my breasts; pinching and tugging my nipples with warm, greasy hands, trailing down to my waist and back up again.
Kissing my cheek with mind-fucking levels of chastity as all this goes on around me, ze is clearly making a mission to touch every part of my anatomy, through casual office wear or otherwise and moves hir touch to my bare feet, tutting at the dusty soles. Ze slips away momentarily – still silent – returning with the pink wash cloth, damp from the bathroom taps, and begins to clean me til ze can only see pink and pleasantness. I watch hir put the little toe to hir lips, hir tongue to the newly-cleaned pad, making peculiar, tender love to each foot in turn and I can only squirm.
Ze moves onto my calves, palms appreciating the muscles beneath that leads to the soft squish of my thighs and hir touch becomes firmer, painful as if ze wants to scoop me out of myself and fashion me into only the parts ze loves, perfect or otherwise.
At my hips, the touch is soft again, scopes out the belly and ze has hir head on my tummy, kissing the discoloured skin, the silvery tiger stripes of weight gain with one hand inside my knickers, playing with the wiry hair. Ze pulls hir hand out and inhales between each finger deeply, sighing in contentment. I sigh in something between contentment and frustration, til ze tweaks out two or three hairs. Then I squeak and tears prick my eyes.
Ze sits back on hir heels and the galaxy cock rises up to greet me. I chew on my lower lip and watch for what will happen next, admiring hir torso but remembering the lesson of a few minutes prior I keep my hands to myself.
Now hir hands are on my shoulders, hir fingertips measuring the span of my arms and the galaxy cock is nudging between my thighs, insinuating itself where it wants to go but as ze kisses me ze makes sure the tip goes no further than a centimetre, a millimetre and certainly doesn’t take its’ cue to penetrate, to fill me up until I can’t breathe without the cock breathing with me. Ze would keep me twitching and wet forever, with the wolf kept from my door a hundred years or more and I wouldn’t mind at all.
Ze kisses me again, our hearts synced, a singular, thunderous kettledrum and the only thing I can hear as I feel hir surround and consume me and I want hir, I want hir so much and then….
The fucking doorbell.
“You’d better get that.” ze remarks, apparently considering autofellatio to taste the mess I’ve made as I stagger half-drugged to the front door. Through the peephole the corridor is empty. No postman, no courier. A small box on the welcome mat.
When I return Ze is upright, a shirt hastily put on, lazily checking hir phone. If it weren’t for the dick protruding cockily from between hir thighs,; the smears of come in my knickers I might have imagined the minutes before.
I place the box on the counter and make for the kettle.
“Cup of tea?”
“Knickers off first, though.”