Jake calls me at work one afternoon with a delicious new surprise.
"I'm wearing your panties," he says, "the ones you left here. I've been wearing them all day." A shiver shoots down my body, landing squarely in my pussy. I swivel my office chair around so no one can see me.
"Oh?" I reply trying to remain nonchalant, "Which ones?" All the busy office noises, ringing phones, the ca-chunk-ca-chunk of the photocopier, they all disappear as I imagine him; his dark curly hair, those intense blue-gray eyes, the little pout he gets when he's horny.
"The pink and black ones, with the flowers," he says, keeping his voice low.
"Did you wash them?" I cup my hands over the phone, whispering back.
"No, I'm wearing them how you left them," his voice now deep and hoarse. I wore them while he fucked me, while he bent me over the bed and urgently shoved them aside. He fucked me so hard that the neighbors pounded on the adjoining wall. Jake slid the panties down my thighs, and stuffed them in my mouth to keep me quiet. I left those panties plenty dirty.
So many things flash through my mind: I picture the delicate flowered lingerie under his sturdy brown work pants. My panties rubbing up against the cock that dirtied them in the first place. His thick cock straining against the flimsy sheer material. I cross my legs tightly, wishing I was working at home that day.
"The guys here would absolutely kick my ass if they saw," he says, "but I don't care."
The thrill of the forbidden keeps our sex life exciting. Neither of us is much for "normal" and we explore every kink that comes to mind.
"Dirty boy wearing my dirty panties," I whisper into the phone. "I'll see you tonight."
Hanging up the phone, I tell one of my co-workers that I'm taking a quick break. I slip into the bathroom on the third floor, the one no one uses because it's so out of the way -- no one but me.
Locking the door, I lift my skirt and push my fingers deep inside myself.
I think about fucking him in the ass, I like threading the black leather straps around my thighs, buckling in tight, because it's always going to be a bumpy ride. I like being on my knees behind him, looking down at the freckles that create a constellation across his shoulders, seeing the muscles twitch under his skin. I like that moment where the dildo breaches, that slight feeling of something forbidden giving way, and burying myself deep inside him.
When I fuck his ass, I like to pretend I'm his boyfriend. I'll have him lie on his back, legs sprawled in the air, his hand frantically working his cock. Sometimes I'll slick my hair back, roll up the sleeves on my t-shirt. When I'm his boyfriend, I don't let him see my tits. I like the illusion that maybe we just met in a dark alley, that I'm taking him because I want him, and I always take what I want.
I also like being his helpless girl -- oh my goodness gracious, how did I get tied to this bed anyway? Oh please, I've been so good, so bad, so everything you wanted me to be. I love when his strong, rough hand clenches against my mouth, or wraps around my neck, or yanks my hair so hard my eyes water, when his deep voice whispers in my ear for me to take it, to take whatever it is he's giving me, because it's going to get much, much worse, any moment now, and I can't wait.
My fingers work quick and furiously; I'm still on the clock. It doesn't take much longer to come, imagining everything I'm going to do to Jake this week.