How Not To Get Work Done

With the amount of abuse my desk takes, I need to consider replacing it with something sturdier. It has stood me in good stead for the last seven or eight years but I have been putting it under a great deal of stress of late.

Like last night, when I had you kneeling on all fours on top of it.

I placed you with your upper half pressed to the cool faux-redwood surface and your ass raised. Your skirt was bunched about your waist and you were positioned so that I could sit in my black leather chair and have you within easy reach, should I want you.

I did.

I had to tilt my head upwards to run my tongue from the edge of your ass inward, dragging it along the length of your plump lips until it settled just under your clit. My hands wrapped around your thighs, sliding you closer, leaving my left hand positioned to find your clit, fingers closing in on its sides in a firm but gentle stroke.

You pressed back against me, lowering your center gravity to open yourself further. I knew you could feel my smile, concealed against your wet thighs and slick heat. I wrote my next poem in the moist folds of your sex, and my tongue traced letters in a deft composition on human desire, pressing in and out of you quickly, then slow, then fast again, fucking you to the rise and fall of a love sonnet.

I felt the tremors; they started in your thighs and then moved through your arched, twisting, hips. You were close, so close.

I stopped.

I leaned back in my chair, drew out a clove, lit it, and watched your ass sway in front of me. The smoke from my clove slid along your curves before passing out through the open window; you moaned impatiently, moving your ass back and forth, an invitation and demand.

Too bad for you, I was taking my time.