It’s Friday afternoon and days are getting noticeably longer. Can anyone blame a man for being – shall we say – distracted? The dear reader will cut me some slack if my mind is not exactly focused on the numbers scrolling up and down the screen. I mean, I am looking at them. But focusing? No.
She sits behind me. Most of the rest is the fictional ramblings of a man, but this – at least this detail – is true. It makes it harder to just casually glance. You need an excuse. Can’t just stare for no reason, right? Luckily enough, she stops often enough. She brings the hard problems. Those that nobody else can solve. Or maybe it’s just those that nobody else wants to solve. Being effective and kind can backfire. “Oh, hey, let’s let Exciting Owl deal with this gnarly thorn of bushes, shall we? He will smile and tell us what’s up.”
You stopped half an hour ago, in fact. You were talking about some customer complaining about some metrics. Not too big of a deal. Push a button here. Push a button there. Send an email, and… done. We’re back in the game. Customer happy.
If only I wasn’t lost in the sound of your voice. Your voice. That’s the first thing that got me into you. We had barely just been introduced. Hey, Owl, meet – what should we call her? – can’t use her real name, now can we? Jessica, Jessica will do. Something about your voice. I would fuck that voice all night every night. I would call international every day at the most expensive rate for a chance to fuck that voice. It’s deep. Sensual. If a voice could smell, yours would smell of sex, like a bedroom well fucked. What do you sound like in the morning, barely awake, wearing nothing but the thinnest of nightgowns? Gosh, just the thought melts parts of me. And makes others hard as rock.
What was I saying? Oh, yes, the metrics. Sorry. Yeah, well, it’s because sales downstairs can’t do their job. But that would be rude. It’s because we need to streamline the process and make sure sales knows what the agenda is. There, better. Now it is just a communication fault and everyone is a smart person and we just need to fix the process.
That would work. But your eyes. They’re blue. But also green. But also blue. They are of this indefinite, ever changing and yet beautiful color. They’re big. Sparkling. I would fuck you against this very wall. You’d be against the wall. My hand would be reaching for your pussy. Finger it. Tease your clit. Feel your wetness. Penetrate you. And my eyes would be lost in your gaze. I would want to feel your breath against my mouth. I would want to lose myself in your eyes. Do they look even more beautiful when you’re being fucked?
I would kiss your neck. Bite it. Nibble on your ear lobe. Whisper my dirtiest most forbidden taboo wants. And make out with you with the primal lust of two horny teenagers.
But, yes, the sales numbers for last week. Those are important, yes. Sorry, I spaced out for a second. I was wondering what your nipples look like. You’re petite as they come. As every straight man on Earth ever, I was born with a neuron that guesses at bra sizes. 30A. In this ideal world, you’d have the tiniest most pink of all nipples. They would perk up like perfect little buttons. For gently nibbling. Like a snack of lust. Would you skip a breath as I let my teeth sink in ever so gently? Would you moan? I would die to know.
Any weekend plans? Oh really that sounds like fun. No, not much. Friends and stuff, you know. I mean, I do have some other plans. But those are not gentlemanly to discuss. And I am a gentleman. And a professional working adult. I am in no way distracted.
My thoughts at this moment totally do not involve me kneeling before your naked body, my hands gently spreading your legs apart, your hands on my head, and my tongue flicking your clit, savoring your pleasure. What do you taste like? I would drink every drop of it. I would lap it up like a cat. You’d push me deeper. I’d lick faster. You’d beg me. You’re so close. I want it. You’d feel so perfect. So ready. So mine. I’d make out with you some more. Let you taste yourself. And fuck you. Against the wall. Your hands up in the sky. Your beautiful eyes closed with lust. Your moans perfect in every way. Our bodies touching. Meshing.
But, alas, all good things come to end. Oh you have a meeting? No, I am sitting this one out, I have a report to finish. Yeah definitely send me an email if anything comes up. Sure, see you on Monday.
And just like that, it’s back to reality. And staring at numbers on a screen. And pushing buttons. And solving thorny bushes of problems. And not a single drop of your pleasure. Till next time.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/ajvtza/mf_str8_fictional_rambling_on_the_clock