Here’s a rough draft from a post I did earlier. I’ve added a good amount more while at work. Feedback?

Here’s a rough draft. I know it needs some beefing up and a bit more work. But any feedback would be great! Thank you.

It’s All In Her Hands

Miss, Misses, Ma’am. It’s in these three nouns I find comfort in addressing her. Alison, this is her name, but, as beautiful as that is, I shake and tremble at the thought of speaking it. If I were to describe her, in any way, it would be: tall—six foot, to be exact—filled with pillowy curves; always smiling and gentle like a caring mother; all around perfection. To describe myself: chubby and not too attractive. I’m shy, too, some say kind. I’ve even heard sweet and good. Don’t get me wrong, I am, hopefully, most of those things, but, there’s a dirtier side to me. I’m twenty-five, but my mind feels much younger. I haven’t seemed to of grown much, in the way of adulthood. I mean, sure, I work and pay bills, all that basic stuff, but I like to be nurtured. And, Alison, whether she knows it or not, does that for me.

Alison (as I shiver and moan as I write her name) and I, work at a small production factory, just outside of town on a small, winding back road. What we produce, I feel needs no further detail. Our job descriptions, however, may be of some use. Alsion, she is one who is confined, usually, in a small office, taking calls and doing other mundane tasks. I, on the other hand, am the janitor. Our pays, clearly unequal, for she can afford a small home, with, I dare say, her husband. While I, lonely and deprived as ever, can barely afford my cheap studio apartment. Two different worlds, clearly. But they collide so very beautifully, as she torments and taunts me from afar, I pull trash and vacuum from across the way, whenever she has her door opened. Other times, she’ll ask me to do specific tasks, and I do without question: “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll gladly go get that.”  Or, “Anything to help out, Miss. You’re always fun and easy to please!” Then, like always, she takes this as innocence and without concern, saying things like: “Aww thanks, Hun.” Or, “You’re to sweet. Thanks so much!” But if only she’d realized how tingly and sensitive this makes me. The affirmations of approval, that is what I long for. Nothing else matters. Not the job, not the labor. I’ll do anything, as long as I know it’s somewhat for her. On the days I make it to work early, before even the actual production workers, I make it my goal to be the one who gets the door for her. If anyone else does, I become envious, angry and ashamed in myself. If she gets to work before me, I’m enveloped in grief, knowing I’d failed her. The feelings I get when I fail to get the door, happen more often than when I succeed, for it being so hard to pinpoint when she’d be in each day. But I try, Oh God I undoubtedly try.

Most days, after work, in which work ends at 3PM,  I find myself back in my apartment. It’s very rare I go out, I instead lay in bed, maybe watch a movie or play a game, order food. Mostly, I go through pictures of Alison, pictures that either she posts on Instagram, or pictures I’d taken myself, whenever the chance presented itself. The majority I’d taken, though still mesmerizing, do not hold the same weight as the ones she’d take herself. Classy and presentable, she isn’t as revealing as most women are. That’s what I like: clean, only touched by one man. How badly I want that man to be me; how I wished her husband would dissolve, turn to dust, and for me to step in and hold her as she cries. I’d cheer her up, give her my chest as a napkin for her tears. This thought makes me squirm, makes my pants wet with desire. This desire turns to tremors that turn orgasmic. I never have to touch myself, my body does all the work. I’m in gratitude that Alison’s Instagram isn’t private. You’d think a woman, such as herself, would keep contained. I’d sent her a follow request months ago, she never accepted or denied me, it doesn’t seem she knows how. It would be great for her to like my photos, comment on them, say things like: “Handsome ;)”. But, for now, I’ll wait, not push too hard. Even if I do wish she’d give me the attention I deserved.

On this day of work, I write in secret. I sit in the break room, Alison the opposite of me. While I sneak looks, she sips her soup. With her, It’s always a soup or salad. She fills me with guilt, knowing that I could never eat that clean and pure. But that’s Alison. Pure. Perfect. Every great word, could be used to describe her. And that’s why I love her. She asks me, “What are you doing, Hun?” I say, “Inventory. How’s your soup?” She says, “Very good.” She has no clue that I had just jotted down our small talk. Every word we speak to each other, is important. Each time I get a chance, I write them down. She’s up now, at the sink, cleaning out her bowl (she’s the only one who cleans her own dishes). I watch, write, but mostly watch. Her body, tall, her butt held tight by her jeans. Both of her breasts, full and held up by her bra, these being covered by a black long-sleeved shirt… I can’t help it… I’m aching so much, more than usual.

She’s gone now, back in her office. I’m in mine—the Janitor’s Closet. I’m sitting here, on a mop bucket placed upside down, pants around my knees. I have a picture of Alison, one I took while she washed her bowl, and I plan to use it. No one ever comes in my closet, only on rare occasions. Excuse my language, but, my penis is so erect, cries and shakes, this is the only way I could ever describe it. It’s dirty, it’s erotic, it’s all for Alison.

I’m pulled over, in a school parking lot. Currently, I’m in a panic, and unsure of what to do. As I was stroking, moaning into my own hand, Alison had opened the closet door. Too aroused, too deeply tranced, I’d not noticed. I caught glimpse of the door, as it was halfway open, I quickly began to pull my pants up, put my phone away. But, it was too late, she had seen enough. She didn’t mention it. Instead, she giggled, awkwardly, said “Sorry, didn’t know you were in here.” There wasn’t a Hun or Sweetie or any other lighthearted gesture. I’m sure, even if she hadn’t seen my bare penis, she had at least seen my buldge, still pulsing in my work pants. She reached for the trash bags that sat on the shelf behind me, and quickly and awkwardly walked away. The shame and embarrassment still dreads over me. I don’t know what to do. I’m unsure if I should even show my face. Alison would never understand. She’d never see what I’d done as a symbol of worship. Though, with the shame, also comes further arousal. Alison had seen my penis, hard and yearning for her touch, if not bare then at least through my pants.

I awoken the next morning, unable to face the day. It was with this I knew I’d fail to face the next, as well. So, I did not show my face at work. When they called, I did not pick up. Instead, I let it ring. I ignored the texts, each voicemail left, and I most certainly did not use the internet. A hermit is what I’d become, till, I’m sure, they’d believed me to be dead. As much as I’d loved Alison, I couldn’t live knowing she’d seen me so low. So vulnerable and lost, all because of her—and she’ll never know. She’ll never understand that I touched and stroked myself for her. And, that, that’s what hurts the most.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/b0cv42/heres_a_rough_draft_from_a_post_i_did_earlier_ive