Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
In the same building.
Huge.
Dominating.
Eating me up, with one lapping at my clit while the other sucks at my tits.
I feel a wave of arousal rush through my form, which only serves to make me wetter. Perfect.
I hate my body for this. For the way it betrays me whenever Brent or James come within ten feet, for the way my nipples go hard at the sound of their footsteps, for the way my clit throbs when either of them look at me too long. It’s humiliating, and worse, it’s distracting. I have a job to do—no, a mission—and my own traitorous curves keep tripping me up.
I rifle through my purse and pull out the emergency kit: fresh panties (boring nude, no frills), a packet of baby wipes, and a Ziplock bag. Also, the newest addition to my morning routine: the plug.
It’s small and sleek, not much bigger than a fat lipstick tube, and disguised as a “pelvic floor trainer” on the packaging. The color is rose gold, the silicone soft and matte, the tip blunt and almost dainty. I bought it last week after three consecutive days of ruining my panties before lunch. At first, I thought keeping it in me was a punishment, but now I suspect it’s the only thing keeping me from full-on public meltdown.
I wipe my pussy down with a wet-nap, biting my lip at the hypersensitivity of my own skin. When the soft cloth brushes my clit, I gasp, clapping a hand over my mouth. I’m half convinced the air-ducts are bugged and someone is in the break room listening.
After getting myself as clean as I’m going to be, I slide the fresh panties up my legs halfway. Then, with a low moan, I insert the toy into my sopping vag. It slides in with a wet, indecent sound that makes my breath hitch. I angle it up, feel the faintest tap as it nestles against my G-spot, tempted to fuck myself with it a few times. But there’s work to do, and I wouldn’t be helping myself by having a full-on climax in the women’s restroom. So I push the toy a little deeper in, and then pull down my skirt, taking a second to adjust the waistband so nothing bulges. It’s not a total cure for my constant arousal, but the fullness helps me focus, the slight stretch in my pussy keeping my mind sharp and my hands steady.
I ball up the ruined panties, double-bag them, and bury them deep in my purse. I’m not above tossing them in the trash, but I live in terror of Ms. Jenkins doing one of her random checks for “contraband food” in the cubicles and finding my damp panties instead.
I check my face in the hand mirror. The reflection is almost normal—cheeks flushed, yes, but not the crimson of a total meltdown. Eyes a little wild, but I can pass for caffeinated. I reapply lipstick and smooth my blonde hair into its bun, then square my shoulders.
I unlock the stall and step out, half expecting to see Shay at the sink, smirking with that “gotcha” look. But the restroom is empty, silent but for the faint hum of the air system and the drip of water from a leaking faucet. I wash my hands for longer than necessary, letting the cool water shock me back to reality.
I flex my pelvic muscles, testing the fit of the plug. There’s a tiny thrill every time it shifts, an illicit reminder of what I’m carrying. It’s not enough to make me cum, not nearly, but it keeps me on a razor’s edge, which I need.
Because today, I’m not just going to survive the office. Today, I’m going to break into the archive room.
I check the hallway, then glide out, walking the exact pace of a woman who has nothing to hide. I pass Ms. Jenkins in the corridor—busy talking to someone, thank god—and make it to the elevator bank before a wave of arousal hits. The toy shifts as I walk, sending a ripple up my spine as my tummy clenches. Oh my god, this feels so good! I want to lie down and fuck myself deep with the small toy, but instead force myself to stand tall, to breathe. No one can know my secret.
Meanwhile, there’s work to be done. I press the button on the elevator for the sub-basement, where the old files are kept. As the elevator doors slide closed, I allow myself one last look in the mirrored panel.
I look like a woman with a secret. And for the first time, I don’t hate it.
I bite my lip, clench my thighs, and ride the elevator down to hell, my heart already pounding with anticipation as my pussy swells. Oh my god, what kind of woman have I become? The illicit, naughty kind … which I love so much.