collection of stories you shouldn't read at work
The phone call was over, he realized. Had been. For hours maybe. Who knows? He didn’t. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. He didn’t *need* her. Didn’t need her. Didn’t need her.
He. Didn’t. Need. Her. Her. Her. *Her….*
~
Yet when he laid alone at night,
frigid sheets caressing his skin,
trembling hands clenched around himself,
thighs stained with liquid shame,
eyes burning with tears,
the name he cried out until he was hoarse…
Was hers.
It was an accident the first time.
We were laying in front of the fireplace, too exhausted to move to the bedroom the previous night. His face was nestled into my breasts. My arms were wrapped around his shoulders, while he had a tight grip around my waist.
I looked at his face. His brow was relaxed– a welcome change from the usual strain. Poor thing. I decided to let him be. He had worked so hard to please me last night. I gingerly untangled his arms and rolled him onto his side. I grabbed a blanket from the couch to cover him. I smiled gently as I watched him grumble and snuggle in the blanket like a sweet babe.
Glancing at the clock, I realized that I only had half an hour to get ready for work. Damn. Playtime was *always* a great way to end a long weekend. I quickly and silently slipped away to take a shower.
The drizzle of rain hitting the window and the occasional boom of thunder in the distance create the soundtrack to our lovemaking.
Whispered praises and desperate begging.
Straining muscles and hips raising and falling in time with our racing heartbeats.
We were made for this.
Why else would your hands curl around my hips so nicely?
Why else would our meeting gazes ignite an inferno of passion and lust?
Why else would your moans be the loveliest orchestra to my ears?
Why else would our hands slip together so easily as our mutual desire runs rampant?
Our panting breathes mingle in the space between us. I’ve never felt closer to another.
Yes, this is what we were made for.
Don’t you agree, my little one?
Who’s my favorite singer? Hmmm, I can’t remember their name at the moment, but there’s this one song that I absolutely adore. If I could, I would play it all the time. Especially after a long, demanding day.
It’s a very sensual song. Oh, just thinking about it makes me tingle. All. Over. Now, don’t look at me with that pout. It makes me want to devour you whole. Do you really want to know who it is, sweetness?
Let me give you some hints. Their voice is a melody that drips with delectable honey; their whispers, an ensemble of decadence; their moans, a symphony of self-indulgence; their begging, an orchestra of sin.
It’s a song of hedonism that resonates with my most … ?????? urges.
A song of filthy, obscene ???.
Don’t grind your teeth now. That’s not very good for you. Be a good little darling, and listen to your mistress.
Oh…? You still don’t know who my favorite singer is? Wasn’t it obvious?
It’s ???, dear.
*Hi there! This is my first post on here. I started posting my writing on Twitter but the format was a bit too restrictive for how I wanted my writing to be read. I would love any tips/comments. I only ask that you be nice about it. Thanks. ~ June*
**Her**
(Warnings: angst, post-break up, implied male masturbation)
The phone call was over, he realized. Had been. For hours maybe. Who knows? He didn’t. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. He didn’t *need* her. Didn’t need her. Didn’t need her.
He. Didn’t. Need. Her. Her. Her. *Her….*
~
Yet when he laid alone at night,
frigid sheets caressing his skin,
trembling hands clenched around himself,
thighs stained with liquid shame,
eyes burning with tears,
the name he cried out until he was hoarse…
Was hers.