Imagine

This is me . . . imagining you . . . imagining me.

I don't know if you're in your office today but I imagine you are. I can almost hear the phones ringing faintly behind your closed door, see the blue glow eminating from your computer screen, and feel the cool leather of your chair as I conjure you.

I wonder if you ever pause in the hallway we made into a bed one evening when the rest of your crew was gone for the night. I wonder if you remember how I came first with the cold tiles at my back, you towering over me and the smell of cardboard boxes stacked nearby in my nostrils. I wonder if you also recall how violent your orgasm seemed as you held tightly to me, practically crushing a rib and shooting your juices into me in rapid-fire bursts.

Today . . . I imagine a different approach. I imagine knocking on your door without warning or invitation, entering in silence, and carefully removing the papers you scatter so seemingly haphazardly across your desk. You might try and speak but my ass in your face in what is obviously a skirt sans panties will quiet you soon enough. Having locked the door, I will position myself to face you, legs spread so that your view is unfiltered. I'll wait.

You'll bury your head in my clean shaven pussy, feeling the soft tissue against your cheeks, smelling not only the wetness that is beginning to drench your lips but the splash of lavender spray I added before arriving at your door. You'll smile but I won't see because your tongue will now be firmly planted on my clit, tickling the folds, then sucking -- first softly and then with more urgency. I'll want you to stick your finger or something hard and firm inside me but I'm not going to use words. I moan. I thrust. You know what I want but suddenly the power you hold becomes real to you. I'm not the orchestrater any longer. The show is yours.

You raise your head and watch me as I writhe in my intensifying desire. You see the gavel you got years ago for speaking to some community group. You grab it. And pressing my knees to the edge of the the desk you beging to rub the wood up and down my hairless pussy. The pressure mounts as you become more aroused. You press hard and long on my clit. My response is to burst forth with an agonizing groan. You press harder. I cum for the first time.

In the rush of my orgasmic waves you plunge the handle inside me. The pain is either from the thrust or the total ignoring of the sensitivity I'm now experiencing. I want to cry out but can't. I'm shocked at my own reaction. I want nothing more than to submit to your every whim. At this moment, my pleasure is totally wrapped in yours.

You thrust again and then rise. Your hard cock is almost protruding out of your pants. I try to reach for the belt and you push me away. You unleash yourself with somewhat of a dramatic flair and within seconds you're inside me. No teasing. No softness. The pounding has me off balance. I fall back slightly and you grab me by the neck. I'm with me and yet somewhere else. The space between us doesn't exist. We are connected by pleasure, pain and power.

Your thrusting takes moments but the desire for your juices inside me and the subsequent spasms of your cock against my g-spot have me wanting you to cum as soon as possible. I try to reach for you again and again my efforts are deterred.

You realize what I want and you pull out. You will yourself back to a calm. You bend to tickle my nipple with your tongue and then quickly take a small bite out of my breast. You bite, you suck, you squeeze. I swallow my screams.

Sweating from the tortuous desire that has all but consumed me, I plead with you with my eyes. You ignore me and grab me by the ass. You insert all your fingers inside me and spread me before turning me to thrust again. Your hands are pressing each cheek into the desk. I feel the edge against my shaven self. I squirm. You press harder and continue thrusting. I consider the possibility that I may soon be unconscious.

You gasp. You explode. I stuff my hand inside my mouth to stifle the noises I fear will have crowds gathering at your door.

Silence.

I find it difficult to turn, but do. I straighten a non-existent fold as I stand. You clear your throat but I don't look up. I move to the door. Back to my role as writer/director, I exit.

This is me . . . imagining you . . . imagining me.