Image by the amazing Stuart F Taylor
He walks in, cock already hard. One hand on the waistband of his trousers. He slams the door behind him with his foot and says, simply: “D’you want to bend over and get fucked?”
I nod, and reach over to close the curtains. Turn away from the tauntingly, embarrassingly blank screen and look up at him from where I sit.
He yanks down the front of his pyjama bottoms and his dick springs out – solid, tempting, eager.
I do. Swiveling my chair round so it’s directly in front of me, letting me slide easily all the way from tip to base. When I get it all the way in, and push a little harder – so I can feel the hard thud of the head of it at the back of my throat – he lets out a deep, satisfied sigh.
“Aaah. That’s it.”
The light from the blank screen illuminates his stomach as he lifts his t-shirt to keep it out of my way. I use both my hands to work his cock, and my mouth to spit and lick and suck until I manage to tease a few more of those deep, sweet sighs out of his throat.
“That’s enough. Good girl. Now bend over.”
I do what I’m told, and I’m grateful to be told. There’s a rush of relief when I realise I can put my brain on ice for a while. A short while, of course: he’s hard already, so he’s been touching himself, and I’m just here for the ending. A wet, easy hole to finish off in.
When he shoves himself into me, hard enough that I can feel the edge of the desk biting into my hips, the joy of being physically filled is matched by the pleasure of feeling mentally empty. Light-headed. I know that for the next two minutes (or less, maybe less) I won’t have to think about anything. Do anything. Say anything.
I open my mouth and make whatever noises want to come out, in whatever order they occur to me.
I grip the edge of the desk with trembling fingers and with each stroke of his cock, I let him shove a grunt or a moan or a sigh from my parted lips.
I get fucked as passively as I possibly can, because I have no energy for anything other than letting go of myself. I give myself to him, bent over with my jeans bunched around my knees and my legs spread as far as that will allow. Hair tied back in a messy ponytail he can yank on. Cunt wet and willing. Brain switched off.
He calls me ‘good girl’ and I don’t even respond, I just keep breathing deep and heavy, pushing out new sounds with every smack of his crotch against my arse, and every stroke of his dick thudding against the back of my cervix.
I squeeze the walls of my cunt tight around him and close my eyes. Blocking out the blank page in front of me, savouring the scent of his deodorant and the sensation of his cock and above all the lingering memory of the way he asked “D’you want to bend over and get fucked?”
He squirts inside me once, twice, three, four times, and I shudder with the pleasure of it, and the sadness that it’s over.
He pulls his trousers up, grins, then goes to put the kettle on.
I turn to my blank page, and write this.