Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Lunch Break

I’m on all fours, or, more accurately, on all twenties, forced to hold myself up by my fingertips and my toes. I see only her boots. I picked red this time. Her heels are spiky, but not in the normal way. There are nails instead of heels, long, deadly ones, sixteen for each shoe, and short, sharp cleats in the front. They scratch the floor as she walks around me, leaving little wood shaving curlicues.

His eyes are closed, his legs apart on the toilet lid. He thinks he hears something and stops, then decides it was nothing and continues. He picks up a bottle of hand lotion that he keeps at his desk, the scentless kind in the manliest packaging possible. He really does use it on his hands most of the time. Today is an anomaly, but he saw her the night before, her hand on the back of her new husband, and he can’t concentrate on work until he get this out of his head. He squirts some into his palm and pulls his shirt up over his nipples. He takes his cock in his left hand, already half-erect, and grasps the handrail with his right. It’s the handicapped stall, the last one anyone goes to. He bites his lip and inhales.

She spanks me. One sharp, hard spank, enough to make me lurch forward and bite into the heavy candlestick she put in my teeth. It has a horrible metallic taste. “Ohhh, sorrrry,” she says mockingly, then spanks me again. The candlestick, it turns out, is very cheap, and accepts a bite mark. She comes around to my front again and holds my head up by the hair to look at her face. Her hair is wild, twisted and teased like she’d been fucking other men all afternoon. I suspect this is the case. She pulls harder and my mouth opens from the pull of my neck. It drops the candlestick. She watches it drop and lets go of my hair. I’m in trouble. The candlestick rolls back to my fingertips. She clamps it in the arch of her shoe. The cleats gouge my hand. She twists them, then rolls the candlestick back toward her, stands it up with her toe and bends down to get it, her legs spread, the very edge of her slit appearing under her skirt.

She does not stand up. She slides the candlestick inside of her pussy, thrusts it a few times and pulls it out. She shows it to me. It’s glistening. She opens my mouth by the chin and forces it back in, slapping my mouth shut by the jaw.


His body tenses and releases, tenses and releases. His fingers slide into the hair on his chest, his pinky teasing a nipple. His left hand strokes slowly. He needs a good, long one. A special effort is put into it. It’s needed. She was wearing heels last night. His mouth opens, droops. His fingers echo the curves of his cock as they move across it, like an arm slipping into a tight sleeve. Each stroke begs for another. Each is a lick from his ex.

”Don’t worry, boy,” she says to me, stroking my earlobe between her forefinger and thumb. She pinches it. “That wasn’t going into your asshole. This is.” She produces a ten-inch buttplug from her purse. I stifle a laugh. She catches it, smiles knowingly, shakes her head slowly, then gets a wide roll of cloth tape and says, “And it ain’t goin’ anywhere either.” Her hand drops into her bag again and brings out a bottle of lube. She stands the buttplug on the floor and bends over again. She snaps the lube open and lets it drip down. It slowly coats the buttplug. She slides the skirt over her hips and holds her asscheeks open with one hand. She slowly sweeps the buttplug up to her asshole, twists it there a few times at the opening and then swings the tip in the open air a few times, saying “Nuh. Uh. Uh.”

She quickly stands up straight and scoots behind me, her shoes denting the floor. My ass is held tight open with one hand and then there is a tickling shock on my asshole. I barely have time to breathe before she plunges it inside of me. The candlestick receives new bitemarks. A yelp comes up behind it. She spanks me. Then I hear the sound of tape ripping from a roll.


His body is rolling a little. Some waves caused by the muscles in his chest and stomach in a war with the ones in his back. A moan escapes him. He pauses for a moment and then continues. He’s unable to pace himself anymore. His balls lift between his legs, the skin wrinkling. His hand twists at the rim of the tip of his cock with every stroke. It feels like her lips. It feels like her lips used to feel. He gasps and grabs at his thigh. He tickles the inside of it with his fingernails.

She wraps it around me, my cock in it too as if it meant nothing to her. After three passes of the wide tape, I’m bound up tight. She spanks me all around it to make sure anyway, then straddles me backwards. I’m still on the tips of my fingers and toes and the extra weight is excruciating. She laughs. “You can go down on palms and knees now, boy,” she says. I do, quickly, watching her shoes touch the floor. It’s much better, but the buttplug still burns. She rubs her pussy around my back a few times and I can feel the wet.

He is quivering now, his legs kicking at his pants at his ankles, his mouth wide open, his tongue pushing at the back of his bottom teeth. His head fills with smoke, all of his bodily functions set only for his hand, cock and the strong smell of his ex-wife’s pussy. His strokes concentrate on the tip now, and each one brings him more blurred ecstasy. Something in him is thrown into the air and flies, waiting for the inevitable stall mid-parabola and descent. He flies higher, higher.

She lifts from me and turns me on my back. She ignores my cock again and arranges my arms instead, each at forty-five degrees from my chest. She straddles me again, facing my head, and drags herself, hand over hand until her knees hit my arms. She climbs them, hooking them in the arch before her ankles and pushes forward until her knees are on either side of my head. She removes the candlestick from my mouth and rolls it away. Above my eyes lie her pussy lips. She puts one finger on the outside of each of them and presses in. She descends. “Go on boy, and take your time.” My tongue twists out for a taste.

He reaches a high point in the atmosphere, things here orange and fuzzy, and begins to come down, his body shuddering, his legs kicking back into the toilet. The door to the bathroom opens. He bites his lip. Another stall door is open and shut. Come shoots out of him, swift and ambitious. The first oversteps his nipples and lands on his shirt. The second, third and forth in descending rippling blots down his front. He mouths fuck, fuck, fuck.

He cleans up, pulls his pants up, lowers his shirt, silently lifts the toilet seat, flushes the tissue away, opens the stall door, looks at himself in the mirror and wipes the last bit of a spot he missed off of his collar.

2 comments:

Curvaceous Dee said...

That's quite a lunch break! Mine are almost as interesting, sometimes :)

xx Dee

Droplet said...

Quality time with the inbox, eh?