I wore my black shoes to see you at work today.
Yes, you know the ones. The black patent leather Mary Janes with the come fuck me heels.
I wore them with my granny grey pencil skirt and sheer black frilly blouse that you think you can see my bra through. I know it's not nearly sheer enough for that, although I quite suspect that you do from the way you keep staring at my breasts.
You seem surprised to see me.
I don't know why.
I told you that I'd do this and here I am. I am going to ignore your discomfort and rest my ass against your desk. These shoes are killing me.
I give you a dirty smile.
You open your mouth to speak.
I silence you with a finger. I don't want to hear your whys.
You're staring at me. I like it. A lot. So much so, that I give in to the urge to loosen one pearl button on my delicate blouse. My caramel breasts swell at the brink of revelation, drawing you out.
You seem nervous.
You tell me I look like a slut in the bright red lipstick that I'm wearing today. I agree and punctuate my efforts by hiking up my skirt and opening my legs. I am not wearing panties. I show you my unshaven pussy at the tops of my black lacy stockings.
Reticent, your fingers find my slit, burying their cool tips in my downy folds. The icyness of your touch makes me quiver and seep wetness onto your hand. I ease myself up onto your desk and splay my lips wide open.
I tell you to eat me.
You betray the hardness in your pants and ask me if this can wait. I am about to insist that it cannot when the sound of oncoming footsteps forces me into unexpected compromise.
Moments later I am under your desk and out of sight.
I hear voices.
You are talking to your boss.
He doesn't seem to be leaving anytime soon.
Neither am I.