Four writers for the price of one blog
You are, today, in your business suit, knee-length skirt, black suit-top and white pearl necklace, professional. You are, with folders under one arm and the tight snap of your hips, authoritative. So, it must have come as a shock when I, meeting you in the hallway, stop you. You are, without a doubt, pissed and are busy. But I, also having a job to do, make sure no one sees you forced into the janitor’s closet. You are, more than a little, pissed. Yes. And you slap my hand away before, I being stronger and the man, make you turn around and yank up your skirt and yank down your panties. You try to turn around. You can’t shout at me, of course. What would they think? You only have one hand. You can’t let the folders fall, and all the papers with them. You grunt. You hiss. You curse. You try to hit me in your girly way, reaching behind, missing. Two fingers are already in your cunt, are already making you stand on your high heeled toes, and two are thrashing your clit. I do this from behind—because a woman needs these things from behind. You slap the sink-countertop with the palm of your hand. You aren’t having any of it. You try to kick at me. You try, too late, to lock your thighs; but my fist is locked between your thigh gap. I don’t know what else you can do, because you can’t risk rumpling your clothes, or tearing them. You can’t. I have you by the back of your neck—and hair. I am, forcefully, lifting you by your cunt. Your high-heeled heels aren’t touching the floor. And then both your hands, the folders under one, are on the countertop and your head falls, suddenly, back and you are jolted by something that makes you, noisily, inhale. Your breathing trembles. My fist makes slappy, wet noises under your ass. You’re jolted again, violently. You spread your legs. You hold your breath. You’re spine slowly tightens, at the small of your back, like a coiling spring. And then all the fight, all that business suit, goes right out of you, woman. You pulse. You draw your cunt back and forth across my hand. Your hips are like a whore’s. Back. And forth. Your mouth is open. Your eyes are turned. Your tits stick the fabric. And you, whore, are my little secret; and the little squirts soaking your thighs. How obedient now, riding my hand, and shuddering. A last little jolt. A last little hitch of your spine. Good girl. Your palm’s on my crotch. Now’s not the time. Tonight, when we’re home, you’ll suck. You won’t take off your suit. I whisper in your ear,that I’m going to fuck you in it—doggy-style. I’ll come in your cunt. I’ll let it all stew in you, cunt, while your lipstick smears the pillowcase. I want your ass to stay in the air. I’ll slowly pull out, so slowly, to be sure you understand after I’ve fucked you, on hands and knees—pearl necklace in your mouth—that I can’t, you make me, help myself. I leave you in the closet to pull up your panties, push down your skirt. Your lipstick is smudged. But when you walk back out, and your hips make their tight, professional snap, your cunt will be—wet—and burn.
August 10 2015