Sunday, February 25, 2007

Fingers Crawling Under Your Desk

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And so I’m sitting there, beside you at work, with my hand under the desk resting on my thigh and, from time to time, I make sure it brushes your leg, and I make sure that you know it’s my hand that is brushing against you.
There’s a slight nervousness in your eyes with all these colleagues around us.
But I know you would like to play this game.
I know it.
Yes, and that’s that, and now I sit beside you and move my free hand above the table to point to various things upon the computer screen as I pretend to talk about relative issues and points related to the greater scheme of work and what not.
But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter one bit because, back under the desk, my hand is now resting upon your knee and thankfully you’ve got a short skirt on and your bare skin can now feel the soft swirling of my fingertips.
I do it ever so gently.
You bite your lips and look around you.
Right now my fingers trail a little higher up your inner thigh as you look around to see if anyone knows what’s happening and whether anyone can guess what’s happening under the desk and between those lingering legs of yours.
I keep up my spiel about work related matters, acting as though everything was normal, as we play our secret game under the desk.
You part your thighs some more, inviting me to go up a little higher, and then a little higher up your inner thigh.
Goosebumps cover your legs.
You’re now excited, wet, nervous, and those little tiny pants that you’re wearing are so very damp and your blood is thrashing through you at such a high rate as you’re nervous that we might get caught, by someone, that this secret game of ours would be put to a premature end.
And you want my fingers to go higher…
And higher still…
And higher still…
And my fingers are still crawling up and up your thigh.
Creeping, crawling to the tops of your thighs to where they meet, in the middle, to that meeting point that is on fire, burning with expectation, with need, with a searing sensation so great that you feel that you’re going to cum right then and there from the lightest of touches.
Your eyes dart around, quickly, to see if anyone knows, to check if anybody can see..
You part your legs, wider still, and slowly, surreptitiously, you pull aside those sopping panties for me and offer that frenzied slit of yours, out in the open, for my touch to collide upon.
The feeling of my fingers, my tantalizing and wiggling fingertips, which brush slightly, and ever so lightly upon the lips of your sex.
Here I keep my fingertips.
Right there, hovering.
I keep them there, barely touching; I keep them there, brushing against your wet lips.
Up and down my fingers trial.
Up and down, teasing you mercilessly, deliriously, and inside of you the electrical sexual shots shoot up through you from the entrance of your sex to potently consume you.
And it is all too much, too wretchedly unfair.
You move your crotch a little closer to my touch.
A little closer until my thumb rests upon your clit, which is then held there, slightly, subtly.
Every five seconds I gently apply some pressure to it, before releasing it once again, to make me smile, to drive you wild.
My forefinger then moves, up and down, between your lips, and it slides up and down and up and down so easily due to the juice that’s coming out from within.
A colleague opens a distant door.
Your head snaps upwards towards the sound.
But it is all OK.
No one knows about our little game, no one knows but you and me, and so my movements perpetuate, once again, and to push you back into the sexual trance I just had you in.
You then move your hips and swallow my finger inside of you where you hold it there, with mouth slightly parted, jaw locked.
You are dripping with more juice, so soppy, hanging on every slight movement of my finger, which I now hook upwards and push in, deeper still, to begin and rub it up and down the inner wall of your sex.
My thumb is now rubbing at your clit.
You spasm and thrust your crotch forward once more so your thighs can clamp tightly shut.
Forwards and backwards we slowly rock you.
We rock you in this position; forwards and backwards, gently, surely..
And your thighs are clamped shut, and taking this motion, this movement before you quickly close your eyes and gush out a silent and secret orgasm…
I can feel it trickling all over my hand; a hot and holy liquid of wonderment.
And finally you lean back in your chair, you lean back, and then open your eyes and smile, your body limp, shaking from that silent orgasm that pushed you deep into the depths of dizzying eroticism..
“You’re fired!” You say as I look back in dismay.

Matthew Coleman

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