Image by the brilliant Emmeline Peaches Somewhere, a guy has a photo of me sitting topless in an office chair. Not just an office chair, in fact: My face, turned slightly away from the camera, is grinning with post-coital happiness. Perhaps just one or two. The passion he has for what he does covers up the fact that he does it with skill. And I have no idea how skilled he is until I get to hang out with his colleagues.
Some of them adore him. Wanting to wave and shout about the fact that this guy — this hot, self-deprecating, skilful, awesome guy — is coming home with me later on, and will fuck me on the sofa. Take the lips through which he tells you how he does it, and clamp them firmly round one of my nipples — sucking and biting and making me gasp. I want to drop to my knees in the pub and wrap my arms around his thighs, pulling him closer to me and burying my face in his crotch and just breathing in the sheer, hot, end-of-a-hard-day smell of him.
Having worked myself up like this, when we leave the pub I want to drag him to an alley. And he smiles a little bit. That delicious combination of swagger and shyness.
I follow him to the office — so close to the pub, just round the corner — and he lets us in with a huge set of keys. The shutters open so painfully slowly.
Clunking their way up towards waist height, and eventually just high enough that we can duck inside. Another twist and the inside door is open. He types a code into a box. I could conceivably leave — tell him to grab his laptop and hurry up so we can catch a tube for home.
He opens his laptop, connects it to the monitor, and fires up something he was working on. Then he unzips his trousers, pulls out his dick, and nudges me down below the desk.
I work my hands. I tongue the underside in the place he likes it. I alternate long, wet, languid strokes with faster, tighter ones. And before I get too involved in the task, he calls a halt. Gives me that kick of lust in the pit of my stomach.
He pulls down my shorts so the waistband pulls tight against the back of my thighs. Not fully down, so my legs and arse are all exposed: Bored and semi-hard as he ponders a particular problem, wishing he could have a quick wank to ease the tension. A bent-over, part-exposed, dripping wet office desk toy. I stretch my hands out to grip the far edge of the desk, as the near edge bumps painfully against my hips.
And I like the knowledge that it mingles with my spit. As he comes, he grunts in the back of his throat, exactly as he knows I want him to. Like I was just there to relieve a stressful work day, and that quick fuck was his way to wind down. While I pull up my knickers, he rifles around on his desk, unplugging his laptop and collecting all the things he needs to take home with him. I can smell the mingled scent of my cunt and his come, and I breathe in deeply to try and fix it the memory in my mind.