Fantasy in Working Hours

Those military green cotton pants reach perfection when they reach your ass: two domes of perfect proportions softly coming out in a way only direct skin contact can achieve. Against the light is intuited the most delicate and most appetizing fabric that a man can imagine between two buttocks. A tiny piece of triangular underwear impregnated with a scent that drives me crazy. I'd love to see her strip: her hands pulling on the sides, her but crack getting longer, and the center of the clothing getting caught and bitten by the lips of her sex as they wet it with their thick, slippery fluid. And then she would bend down to accompany it to her feet, and her dark interior would appear before my eyes, wrinkled and closed like the beak of a balloon but delicious as a plate of seafood...

And that's where it ends.

I can't believe what I read on that computer screen. I don't have to look at myself. I already know the color of the pants I wear and what kind my underwear is. I know that's me.

After the first moments of surprise, I find myself nervous, heated, and with my armpits and back covered with a cold sweat.

I go back to my site but can't think of anything else: how can he do this during working hours?

Sideways I see how he returns to his place and, like it was nothing, he starts typing.

Our gazes cross, and he greets me with a smile on his lips. I see him and bury myself again behind the wall of my monitor. I instinctively close my legs and stir uncomfortably.

It's time to eat, and I'm alone in the office. I take his place and turn on the screen. I am glad that no one complies with the orders to log out of computers at noon and open the word processor. I immediately find the document in the list of recent archives: "those military green cotton pants."

The thong is rolled up at her ankles with the consistency of a handkerchief with which you have just dried your sweat. Her feet are separated, and her body is dropped forward. Between her buttocks appear her fingers slowly surfing on a sea of curly hairs from side to side until that sea opens and becomes a fertile, pink, elongated land. As her finger creates grooves, she looks me in the eye. I smile at her and ask her to continue. She smiles back at me, both above and below.

"Asshole,"- I think as I remember the false smile that I have returned to him and that he has made nasty using it in his disgusting writing. That's what I believe, but it's also true that, right now, I smile both above and below.

I approach and pick up the thong. From down there, her ivory legs stretch to the sky. Yes, a dark atmosphere threatens a storm. Smelling her thong, I would look at her entire sky from the best possible perspective: her lush and tangled jungle surrounding a deep valley with its own climate. And the mirage of her ass is surrounded by dark, barren skin where no hair grows. I smell paradise stained, and I get a wolf hunger...

And that's when their post-coffee contributions end again. I look around and start typing.

Yes, I wear a thong. Yes, it would drive you crazy, but it is not a paradise, and it is not stained. I understand that you get horny looking and imagining those things, but I don't know why you write it during working hours... Do it at home... And you send it to me by mail. I will take it home and undress. If you do it right, I will touch myself stretched out in bed with my thong well tucked into my "fertile, pink and elongated land" and stretch it carefully, plowing between my lips, making sure to leave it well impregnated with my scent.

I will stick a finger while I caress my clitoris and then two. I'll put them in and take them out thousands of times like it's your cock. Then I would take them out well lubricated and go down to my anus. I would go around it and squeeze. And maybe, just maybe, if you do it very well, I will run around imagining that it is your cock that opens the sealed circle, again and again, making me scream, shaking my whole body with your lunges. And once you fill my ass with your milk, I will let you suck all my holes slowly, going from bottom to top, going from pussy to ass again and again until you leave them shiny and ready to start over.

And if you do all this, you will find a gift in your table drawer. Something that drives you crazy will be used, used, and stained. And so it's sure to smell like me. A lot. And with that smell anchored in your nostrils, I want you to describe it to me and to touch yourself with it until you release yourself. Then you will leave them on my table with the description of that smell... But, remember, as you lose a single minute of work on that again, you go to the street.

Your boss says goodbye.

Bella