There’s nothing about him that would traditionally turn heads but to me, he is everything.
Everyday I come into the office, I watch the tiny little clock in the bottom right hand side of my computer screen. 7:59 feels like it lasts an hour as I wait for him to enter at 8:00 on the nose, every morning.
I tape my foot anxiously, my heart in a tornado inside my chest, my thighs tingling.
Then I hear the smooth vibrations of his voice, floating across the hall and drifting into my cubicle. He is greeting the secretary, asking about her morning and her plans for the weekend.
He is thoughtful and kind, generous and passionate. My turn is coming and I can feel the blood soaring through my veins as I wait for him.
I am always waiting for him.
The foot steps come closer and I can smell his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and cedar wafting through the halls, sending me into a frenzy.
Take a breath, relax, I tell myself as he nears.
“Good Morning, Anna,” he smiles, his perfect lips framing his white teeth. His eyes are big and blue, crystal clear. His reddish blonde hair is neatly combed, as it always is, and his black polo is tucked neatly into his gray slacks, a leather belt pulling the two together.
His body is soft, with light tone through his back and shoulders. He is a runner, I have heard him talk about it and often times I fantasize about him running, his breath quickened, sweat on his forehead, his body exhausted.
I have only seen him in slacks but I can see his legs in my mind, rippled with muscle from all of his runs.
“Good Morning, Ed,” I say, feeling the heat rise up under my face like it usually does.
I look into his eyes, my nipples growing hard in my blouse and I almost want him to take notice. But he is gentleman and gaze never leaving mine.
“How are you this morning?” he asks, leaning onto the edge of my cubicle.
I am trying to burn this image in my mind so I can replay it back to myself later.
“I’m good. Did you watch Survivor last night?” I ask, wheeling my chair to face him completely, my legs crossed at the ankle.
As our bodies face one another, I can feel the wetness growing between my thighs. I clench my legs together and moan internally, aching to have him touch me.
Survivor is what we talk about. It’s how I keep him in my cube for a few minutes each week. The favorite part of my week.
He discusses the episode as I nod my head, adding feedback here and there, but mostly imagining what he looks like naked. How does he make love? What would it feel like to have his lips press against my bare clit? I shudder with delight and play it off like a chill.
He is 58 years old and surely an experienced lover. I watch his hands grip the side of my cubicle, his fingers strong and thick. I wonder what they would feel like inside my panties, parting me gently.
We finish our Survivor talk and he asks me if I’ve had coffee yet. I have but any reason to follow him to the break room—one more moment together—I’ll do it.
I stand but am dizzy from my fantasies of him and I fall back down into my chair quickly before I am able to rise.
“Anna,” he reaches for me, with alarm. I open my eyes and he is kneeling between my legs, his hand on my knee. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head yes. His hand on my knee. I can feel the puddle of wetness burgeoning inside me.
He says he will check on me shortly and disappears, commanding the secretary to bring me water and coffee, and call him in ten minutes.
When he is out of my sight, I disappear into the restroom and lock the door hastily behind me.
With my back against the door, I shove my hand into my panties and feel my opening, full of nectar for Ed.
I push two fingers up inside myself, my eyes squeezed shut, imaging Ed’s loaded manhood pushing inside me. He is on top of me, in this version of the fantasy, and my legs are open to him. He lowers inside of me, his bare chest pushing against my naked tits, gently fucking me as he kisses the nape of my neck.
With him inside of me I grind my hips against him. He puts his hand on my head, my blonde hair weaving through his knuckles as he nears his orgasm.
“Anna,” he murmurs, his cock finally releasing inside of me. My pussy, which aches for him and only him, clamps down on his manhood and milks him, taking every last drop of his precious nectar and filling me with it.
Unable to stop myself I moan gently, standing alone in the bathroom with my fingers to far up my warmth that I am touching my g-spot. Intensely I orgasm to the thought of Ed coming inside of me, as I normally do, and I collapse on the floor in an exhausted heap.
My chest heaves and my panties are sticky, the cloudiness that takes over my vision when I come is slowly dissipating, and I see my legs outstretched in front of me.
“Ed,” I pant, regaining my composure slowly.
One day, I promise myself, I will have him inside of me. Of that I can be sure. Until then, I will masturbate to the image of him, to his touch, to the memory of him, as much as I possibly can.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/hrqzc5/touch_chapter_2_nsfw
Playful and hot.