Page 3 of Don't Run
While she watches his retreat with a wistful sigh, I push back from my desk and retrieve my bag from the bottom drawer. It’s a black Coach bag I spent too many lunch breaks ogling on my work computer. So when I got it at last year’s company Christmas party with my holiday bonus check tucked inside, I couldn’t do anything but laugh.
As brusque as Tahj can be, he’s observant and that’s alright by me.
I stand up, smoothing my hands over my dress. Journey snaps out of her trance when I join her on the other side of my cubicle.
“I’d still climb that man like a tree,” the other woman quips under her breath.
Amused but not taking the bait, I leave her at my work station, my sights set on the stainless steel doors of the elevator. She can drool over our stuffy boss all she wants. I have other things to worry about this weekend.
Like ending this dry spell with a stranger I don’t have to worry about texting back when it’s over.
I want to be fucked so good my legs don’t work after. I want to come so hard I forget how long it’s been since something other than silicone has been between my legs.
And if I’m lucky I’ll get both.
EDGE OF MY SEAT
Edgingmyself before a sex party is probably the worst idea I’ve had in a while. Thank God I lack the self control to actually follow through with it.
So here I am, one orgasm deep with my legs spread and pussy full of the best fake dick money can buy.
Staring at myself in the full length mirror, I dig my fingers into the underside of my thick thigh, holding my leg up and biting my lip because it feels…so…good.
This automatic thrusting machine is the best money I’ve ever spent. Second only to the dildo attached to it.
On too many days to count, the girth and length has brought tears to my eyes and cream streaming against my thighs.
My lids drop now as I watch it slide in and out of my slippery walls.
“Oh, my fucking goddddd,” I cry, reaching over to the dial to adjust the speed.
The artificial dick speeds up and the sounds that fill the living room make me bite down harder on my bottom lip.
With the rhythm just right, I keep my eyes on my pussy in the mirror and moan at the view.
The steady stroking of the veined dildo working in and out of me makes my breath falter and my eyes roll back.
Grabbing my right breast, I knead at the flesh and focus on the peak of my nipple while my hips start rocking.
The pretty pink of my pussy peeks at me as my arousal heightens, slipping from my lips and down to my ass.
I’m a damn mess.
And wet sounds and my moans aren’t the only noises on the first floor of my townhouse. Because to my right is my laptop with a webpage opened to a woman being fucked deep by somebody in a jack-o-lantern head. I don’t know why, but I’ve always had a thing for masked men. Maybe it’s because a masked man can’t disappoint me because all I want from him is nothing.
The idea of using a man for exactly what he’s good for with the added bonus of anonymity just does it for me.
No kisses. No eye contact. No names.
No pretense of it being anything other than pure, primal fucking.
That’s why, aside from masked men, another recurring fantasy stars me bent over in front of a glory hole letting the person on the other side use me until my cunt depletes them of their stamina.
I know the magic I have between my legs, and fuck if I don’t miss the power I used to feel knowing somebody was spent and sated because ofme.
“Fuck,” I groan, the thought alone turning me on.
Ravenousis the only way I’ve ever been able to describe my sexual appetite.
