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I'd like to watch you fuck yourself -- maybe after work one day? Send me a calendar appointment.

 
I’d like to show up  
after work
with a six pack  
in one hand  
and my panties in  
the other.  
 
I’d come in,  
take off my blazer,  
slip out of my heels,  
unbutton the top three  
buttons on my shirt,  
crack a beer,
settle into a chair
 
And watch.  
How you fuck.  
Yourself.  
 
The first cold sip of  
a strong lager slides  
down my throat,  
disguising the  
way my mouth waters  
when you slide your  
jeans down,  
taking your underwear  
along for the ride.  
 
I cross my legs,  
when your cock springs forward,  
as if looking for me  
through the drop of  
pre-come on the lid  
of its blind eye.  
 
The bottle shakes in my hand  
a little, and I almost  
can’t swallow  
noting how the
skin gets tighter
on your cock,  
as you get harder,  
and the way veins pop out,  
as if they were  
already straining.  
 
I already know the  
way it’d feel against my cheek,  
like velvet-covered steel.

But watching you.  
 
Watching you rub that  
little bead of moisture  
around the top...  
makes me want to offer  
something with a little more
friction.  
 
I take another sip, and say nothing.  
I do adjust my clothing just a bit.  
To be more comfortable. Of course.  
Loosen a few more buttons,  
pull up my skirt a few more inches.  
 
But my eyes don’t leave  
the sight of the head of your  
dick disappearing into your  
strong fucking hand.  
 
Over. And over. And over. And
holyfuckingshit.
 
I miss the table and the bottle lands  
on the floor
because your teeth are clenched
and your eyes are closed  
and your hand is moving  
like a steam-powered piston  
along your thick shaft,  
like punishment and redemption  
in each stroke,
and I can’t do anything  
but break a nail  
in the chair arm.
I sit forward,  
splinters digging in  
my nailbeds  
as you make  
 
that sexy noise in  
 
the back of your throat,  
 
The one that drives me  
batshit crazy,  
 
And you come.
 
gallons.  
oceans.  
galaxies,  
 
in giant arcing spurts  
through space,  
stopping time  
and stealing  
my inhale.
 
When I can hear  
my heartbeat again,  
I cross the room,  
kiss your cheek,  
 
lick your hardworking  
hand clean,
 
and pick up my shoes,  
and the rest of the sixpack,
on the way out.
Betty
Written by Betty
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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