I remember it clearly. It was a Friday afternoon in winter, a light dusting of snow covering the cars and roads outside my office. It was January, in that time after Christmas and New Year's when the world turns dark, and grey. All the lights and bells, the holiday cheer and relaxation of time off was behind us, and all that remained, it seemed, was a bleak sense of foreboding of the year to come.
It is in this month, then, the unofficially most depressing of all months, that we must make our own happiness, I have concluded. And, when you get an email like I did that Friday, it certainly doesn't hurt the situation.
"Just so you know," it said, "I'm at your place, and I'm naked. Oh, and I've been reading naughty stories."
I left work right then and there. Could I have waited? Perhaps, but it would have been difficult. I'm going to go so far as to say that it would have been almost impossible. We had been exchanging dirty emails and showing one another which dirty stories we were reading for nearly a week, and had in that time not had the chance to see one another. She lives about forty-five minutes away, and we are both busy with grad school and jobs.
Working for a consulting company can sometimes have its perks, but its disadvantage is that one is somewhat always "on call." On that day, I didn't care. Clients, bosses, none of it mattered once I read that email. For the better part of a week we had been agonizingly teasing one another, and masturbation was little more than a temporary relief from the constant need I could feel-and could sense in her-building inside.
My only words to my co-workers that day were vague and completely uninformative. "I have to go," I said, putting on my jacket. Strangely, no one questioned me, as they usually might. Perhaps they had just noticed me checking my personal email, and guessed at the situation. Or perhaps I spoke with such force, such authority, that no one felt inclined to argue.
Either way, I was off within minutes of reading the email, my foot trying to maintain some sort of poise while pressing the gas pedal as far down as I dared. As I drove, I thought back to the last week, to the emails sent back and forth.
"Try this one," her email on Thursday had said, followed by a web link. Of course I clicked. How could I not? It was a pirate theme, it seemed. A bit strange at first, perhaps, something that made me think of well produced porn videos, until I got to the meat of it. Our protagonist, if you can call her that, was naked and being used by several men, her pride and her virginity being taken as she succumbed to her most primal urges.
I smiled as I recalled the story, not so much at the story itself, but at the image of her reading it. I imagined her naked, slowly teasing her warm pussy as she scrolled downward, anxiously awaiting the next scene of the story that, by all sensible accounts, should offend a woman less in touch with her primordial lust and passion.
The thought of her wetness did not help my current predicament, attempting to drive cautiously home and not get a ticked or into an accident. It was a difficult task, especially as I imagined her there, in my chair, completely naked and soaking it in her wetness as she read onwards.
