Hi Sweetheart.
You know that business I had to stay late for? Well, it turned into an office party. One that I'm not invited to. And I know I'm already four hours late, but I'm on my way home and I miss you a lot. But I figured I'd send you this message so you wouldn't be too surprised when I get home.
I've been dreaming of your hot little bod for the last several hours. In fact, when the boss said I had to work late, I was pissed, because I had an erection with your name on it. When I found out I had to stick around, I considered telling him to fuck off, but I did my usual "good employee" bit and said, "Yes, Sir." And that's how you got the text message with the disappointing news that I wasn't going to make it home in time for the bedroom fun we've been planning all week.
I sat in my office, finishing up the paperwork that goes with the proposal that he is pitching to our prospective client. And the noises in the outer office got louder and louder. Eventually, my stiff back and sore neck demanded that I get up and walk around a little bit and I discovered that, lo and behold, the upper management team was having a private holiday party in the executive offices. Once I'd figured out that they were all in the lobby of their office area AND that they had an open bar, I started to feel resentful towards them.
Eh, fuck those guys anyway. Bunch of stuffed shirts.
And then I saw the ladies. Some of the men had invited their wives. Some of the single guys had brought dates. And more than a couple had some family members with them. "Family members" as in "girls who they claim are sisters". No kids, just hot women everywhere. But one and all, the women were all dressed to the nines. I sneaked a peak and decided that I'd better get back to my desk, finish my work, and see if I could salvage part of the night that I had planned with you. I really was planning on making this a night you'd never forget. Now, I thought, I'll be lucky to get home while you're still awake. And I absolutely hate disappointing you.
After a half hour back at my desk, I caught myself daydreaming about your warm, sexy body in our big bed. I rehashed some of the things that I'd been planning on doing with you tonight and I got up to pace back and forth in my office a little. I stared out at the lights of the city but all I could see was your blond hair flopping back and forth as I pounded you doggy style on top of the big fluffy comforter of our bed. And, again, I found I had a raging erection. I absent-mindedly stroked my cock through my slacks, but held off going any further than that. After all, the upper management of the company--the people responsible for deciding my financial future--were only fifty feet away having a semi-drunken good time and had not invited me. That should be all the indication of what they think of my abilities right there. Like I said, fuck 'em.
A movement near my office door startled me. Embarrassed, I turned towards the movement and saw a young lady. Completely flabbergasted that I still had my hand on my dick. I just stared with my mouth hanging open. There was something about this one. Besides the fact that she was laughing at me and looking at where my hand was, she had a very intriguing look to her.
Short black hair fell about her face in a modern style, the tight red sweater did nothing to hide her perky B-cup tits perched high on her chest. Her flat stomach was evident through the sweater except where a piercing poked out slightly at her belly button. Low rise jeans hugged her waist line and slim legs. And at the bottom of it all, a pair of open toed high heeled sandals barely concealed dainty, feminine toes without paint. You know me, Baby. Her physical features are not "my type." You're my type. You know I love YOU. But dammit, this chick is hot and I can't place my finger on why.
In my mind, I had a running dialogue that ran something like this, "Oh shit, I hope she didn't see me rubbing my dick. Who is this chick? Please, tell me that she didn't see me rubbing myself. Who IS she? Where did she come from and why is she looking at me like that? Did she see me rubbing my dick? Who the fuck is she? Shit, she's smiling; she's laughing at me for rubbing my dick in my office. Who THE FUCK IS SHE!?!?!? Why is my hand still on my dick? Wait, can she SEE my hard on through my pants? I can't figure out why this chick looks so hot... Why is she looking at me like that? Dammit, I'm going to give her something to smile about in a minute if she doesn't quit smiling at me like that. WHO THE FUCK IS SHE???"
And then she started to speak. In my mind, I wanted to say, "Dear Penthouse...." but I found all that I wanted was for something that wasn't cliche to come out of her mouth. I could stand it if she didn't turn the encounter into a sexual tryst worthy of an eye melting story in the porn mag, but if she said something like "Working HARD...?" I would fucking die. Dammit I hate a cliche.
Instead of something predictable like that, she said, "Who the fuck are you?"
