(no subject)
Do you ever have one of those days where all you really want is to get laid?
I mean . . . more so than usual.
There's a student here who I find quite attractive, in large part because of his habit of meeting and holding my gaze, even when he just comes up to the desk to ask for change.
Of course, the fact that he's blond and blue-eyed doesn't hurt, 'cause that's totally my type.
Anyway, I walked by and caught his eye in passing, and the thought jumped fully formed into my head, "I want your cock."
It probably showed, too, like letters stamped on my skin, because I have a face like a goddamned traffic light.
I was thinking, I want to take you into one of those unused offices, maybe one with a couch . . . push you up against the door and tear open your shirt. Lick and bite at tiny little nipples that will already be hard because it's so cold in the offices down that back corridor.
Unzip your jeans and get them down around your ankles so that you shuffle and almost trip when I shove you onto the desk, half-perching and half-sliding, bumping up against empty Xerox-paper boxes and knocking unused metal shelving from its precarious resting position against the cinderblock wall.
I slide into the desk chair and yank down your old-man's boxers, blue-striped cotton so well-worn as to be almost sheer, but fabric still strong enough to resist the attempt I make to rip them. The elastic's shot, though, so they puddle at your feet atop the crumpled jeans, looking soft and unthreatening.
Not like your cock, which is rising hard and proud, thick and a little on the short side, my favorite kind. Jacking it isn't enough for me this time, and I bend a little to take it in my mouth, which would be funny if I didn't want it so much, since I hate giving head and usually don't bother.
I want to get you hot and wet, just like I am, hot and wet for you and your cock, tensing my thighs in an unconscious effort towards relief. Your hand in my hair distracts me and I slap it away, press it to the desk's edge and watch your knuckles whiten with the strength of your grip.
You're obedient, though, so I roll your balls in my free hand and suck in as much of your cock as I can, rewarding you for good behavior with my tongue in the slit. The first sound breaks from your throat, and it's a little whimpering moan that shouldn't be so hot, but it is.
I pull off, watching as your cock slaps once against your groin, leaking a shiny trail across your skin. You're smart and don't reach for it, keeping your hands where I've placed them, even when I roll the rubber onto you and kind of bollix it up like I always do. I suck you again, quickly, even though I can't stand the taste of latex, just because you look good like that and I like the feel of your cock in my mouth.
It's time.
I stand up and wriggle out of my panties with much less grace than I'd like. They're soaked through from my sudden and overwhelming lust and I hold them to your face for a moment, watching the twist of pleasure so clear in your eyes as you inhale the scent.
The couch is low when you tumble onto it, and you brace your feet on the floor as I climb up and straddle your lap. I love dresses for so many reasons, and ease of access is definitely one of them. It's so simple to lower myself onto your slick cock, still glistening from my mouth, settling in with a sigh.
God, you feel so fucking good, hard and strong in just the right way, throbbing in rhythm with my pulse, slouched down so you can thrust up into me and I barely have to do more than grind against you.
I take your hand, one of those gorgeous hands you have, with square palms and good, thick fingers that I suck into my mouth, filling me the way I need. That hand feels good between my lips, but even better rubbing between my thighs, and it probably won't be much longer.
Looking down, I see you're watching me. That usually freaks me out, but since all I want from you is your cock and not your heart, I don't try to kiss you or hide your face in my breasts or any of the myriad other tricks I've learned over the years to deal with unwanted intimacy. I'm going to use you, and I'm going to enjoy it, and I want you to know it.
I'm taking you and loving it and oh God now I'm coming, throwing my head back and riding it out and trying not to shout too loudly, because the last thing I need is someone finding me like this. With you.
You buck up into me, groaning and begging. "Let me . . .," you whisper, half-incoherent, and damn, that's hot. You can't even talk because you need to come so bad, need to come because you loved me fucking you, loved the way I ran this fuck and loved the way it felt to be so fucked. I let you put your hands on my hips, let you thrust up hard, brace my hands on your shoulders and dig my nails into your skin.
The yelp you give isn't quite pain, and it makes me grin. I'm probably not going to come again, and even if I did, it wouldn't be as intensely as before, but most times I don't come at all during the fucking, and so you get some points for that. I was going to leave you alone and make you jerk off in my panties if you wanted to come, but I don't want to sacrifice my pretty black lace like that.
"Hot," you groan. "So hot. Wanted . . . God, wanted this, wanted you to just take me like this, lock me in your office and strip me down and have me and fuck me, so damn hard!"
Oh, yeah, I'm gonna come again.
Talk to me like that some more, boy. Except you're making too much sense, and I want you lost and helpless and on the edge when I come again. I slide my nails down your chest, scraping eight long, raised furrows in the skin, loving the hiss as I savage those pert little nipples. It's coiling inside me, this tight spring that needs unwinding, and I can tell by the way you're losing the rhythm that you're almost there, too.
I reach behind and below, just barely able to squeeze my hand between your thighs, and squeeze your balls hard. It's pain enough to make you curse, and it makes me smile as your motion stutters and your cock jumps inside me. It slows you down just enough, and the next few strokes push me over the edge into a slow-mo blossom of pleasure, rosy and soft at the edges.
Not the exploding bright darkness of earlier, but relief nevertheless, and this time when I look down, you're watching me for something like permission. A simple nod and a smile is all it takes, and I can feel the throb as you burst inside of me, heaving and jerking and utterly graceless with the spasms of the overwhelming male orgasm.
Your face smoothes afterwards, becoming sated and calm as our breathing slows. It's a little more difficult than I thought it would be to push myself upright and pull away. When I stand, the dress falls in neat, unwrinkled folds. Crepe is a wonderful fabric. The panties slide up more easily than they came down, and they're still damp.
I slip my fingers beneath the lace edge, between my thighs, then withdraw them carefully, wet and glistening, and I smear them across your lips. You grab my wrist and hold it, sucking my fingers clean and holding my gaze in that strangely intense way you have. It's the only souvenir you're going to get, so you'd better enjoy it.
You should look foolish, sitting on a dusty couch in an unused office, jeans and boxers around your ankles and your still-covered cock limp and shiny in a thatch of dark gold hair, but instead you look really hot and not a little debauched.
It's a good mental picture to have of you, as I open the door and leave.
Anyway, so that's what I would do, if I had the chance.
ETA: What's behind the cut tag is first-person POV hetsmut starring me. Don't say I didn't warn you.
ETA: And his name is Justin! I've such a weakness for cute boys with j-names.
I mean . . . more so than usual.
There's a student here who I find quite attractive, in large part because of his habit of meeting and holding my gaze, even when he just comes up to the desk to ask for change.
Of course, the fact that he's blond and blue-eyed doesn't hurt, 'cause that's totally my type.
Anyway, I walked by and caught his eye in passing, and the thought jumped fully formed into my head, "I want your cock."
It probably showed, too, like letters stamped on my skin, because I have a face like a goddamned traffic light.
I was thinking, I want to take you into one of those unused offices, maybe one with a couch . . . push you up against the door and tear open your shirt. Lick and bite at tiny little nipples that will already be hard because it's so cold in the offices down that back corridor.
Unzip your jeans and get them down around your ankles so that you shuffle and almost trip when I shove you onto the desk, half-perching and half-sliding, bumping up against empty Xerox-paper boxes and knocking unused metal shelving from its precarious resting position against the cinderblock wall.
I slide into the desk chair and yank down your old-man's boxers, blue-striped cotton so well-worn as to be almost sheer, but fabric still strong enough to resist the attempt I make to rip them. The elastic's shot, though, so they puddle at your feet atop the crumpled jeans, looking soft and unthreatening.
Not like your cock, which is rising hard and proud, thick and a little on the short side, my favorite kind. Jacking it isn't enough for me this time, and I bend a little to take it in my mouth, which would be funny if I didn't want it so much, since I hate giving head and usually don't bother.
I want to get you hot and wet, just like I am, hot and wet for you and your cock, tensing my thighs in an unconscious effort towards relief. Your hand in my hair distracts me and I slap it away, press it to the desk's edge and watch your knuckles whiten with the strength of your grip.
You're obedient, though, so I roll your balls in my free hand and suck in as much of your cock as I can, rewarding you for good behavior with my tongue in the slit. The first sound breaks from your throat, and it's a little whimpering moan that shouldn't be so hot, but it is.
I pull off, watching as your cock slaps once against your groin, leaking a shiny trail across your skin. You're smart and don't reach for it, keeping your hands where I've placed them, even when I roll the rubber onto you and kind of bollix it up like I always do. I suck you again, quickly, even though I can't stand the taste of latex, just because you look good like that and I like the feel of your cock in my mouth.
It's time.
I stand up and wriggle out of my panties with much less grace than I'd like. They're soaked through from my sudden and overwhelming lust and I hold them to your face for a moment, watching the twist of pleasure so clear in your eyes as you inhale the scent.
The couch is low when you tumble onto it, and you brace your feet on the floor as I climb up and straddle your lap. I love dresses for so many reasons, and ease of access is definitely one of them. It's so simple to lower myself onto your slick cock, still glistening from my mouth, settling in with a sigh.
God, you feel so fucking good, hard and strong in just the right way, throbbing in rhythm with my pulse, slouched down so you can thrust up into me and I barely have to do more than grind against you.
I take your hand, one of those gorgeous hands you have, with square palms and good, thick fingers that I suck into my mouth, filling me the way I need. That hand feels good between my lips, but even better rubbing between my thighs, and it probably won't be much longer.
Looking down, I see you're watching me. That usually freaks me out, but since all I want from you is your cock and not your heart, I don't try to kiss you or hide your face in my breasts or any of the myriad other tricks I've learned over the years to deal with unwanted intimacy. I'm going to use you, and I'm going to enjoy it, and I want you to know it.
I'm taking you and loving it and oh God now I'm coming, throwing my head back and riding it out and trying not to shout too loudly, because the last thing I need is someone finding me like this. With you.
You buck up into me, groaning and begging. "Let me . . .," you whisper, half-incoherent, and damn, that's hot. You can't even talk because you need to come so bad, need to come because you loved me fucking you, loved the way I ran this fuck and loved the way it felt to be so fucked. I let you put your hands on my hips, let you thrust up hard, brace my hands on your shoulders and dig my nails into your skin.
The yelp you give isn't quite pain, and it makes me grin. I'm probably not going to come again, and even if I did, it wouldn't be as intensely as before, but most times I don't come at all during the fucking, and so you get some points for that. I was going to leave you alone and make you jerk off in my panties if you wanted to come, but I don't want to sacrifice my pretty black lace like that.
"Hot," you groan. "So hot. Wanted . . . God, wanted this, wanted you to just take me like this, lock me in your office and strip me down and have me and fuck me, so damn hard!"
Oh, yeah, I'm gonna come again.
Talk to me like that some more, boy. Except you're making too much sense, and I want you lost and helpless and on the edge when I come again. I slide my nails down your chest, scraping eight long, raised furrows in the skin, loving the hiss as I savage those pert little nipples. It's coiling inside me, this tight spring that needs unwinding, and I can tell by the way you're losing the rhythm that you're almost there, too.
I reach behind and below, just barely able to squeeze my hand between your thighs, and squeeze your balls hard. It's pain enough to make you curse, and it makes me smile as your motion stutters and your cock jumps inside me. It slows you down just enough, and the next few strokes push me over the edge into a slow-mo blossom of pleasure, rosy and soft at the edges.
Not the exploding bright darkness of earlier, but relief nevertheless, and this time when I look down, you're watching me for something like permission. A simple nod and a smile is all it takes, and I can feel the throb as you burst inside of me, heaving and jerking and utterly graceless with the spasms of the overwhelming male orgasm.
Your face smoothes afterwards, becoming sated and calm as our breathing slows. It's a little more difficult than I thought it would be to push myself upright and pull away. When I stand, the dress falls in neat, unwrinkled folds. Crepe is a wonderful fabric. The panties slide up more easily than they came down, and they're still damp.
I slip my fingers beneath the lace edge, between my thighs, then withdraw them carefully, wet and glistening, and I smear them across your lips. You grab my wrist and hold it, sucking my fingers clean and holding my gaze in that strangely intense way you have. It's the only souvenir you're going to get, so you'd better enjoy it.
You should look foolish, sitting on a dusty couch in an unused office, jeans and boxers around your ankles and your still-covered cock limp and shiny in a thatch of dark gold hair, but instead you look really hot and not a little debauched.
It's a good mental picture to have of you, as I open the door and leave.
Anyway, so that's what I would do, if I had the chance.
ETA: What's behind the cut tag is first-person POV hetsmut starring me. Don't say I didn't warn you.
ETA: And his name is Justin! I've such a weakness for cute boys with j-names.