I should probably explain how I got myself into this position, my legs spread wide, my pussy grinding hard on top of his cock as my body bounces up and down as he enters me from below. I’m holding on, both to the rising flood waters of my orgasm drowning my pussy, as well as to my own emotions as my eyes are closed, my teeth clenched, and my fingernails digging into his chest.

This isn’t the first time we’ve fucked, but it may be confusing as to what happened. I know that I have to play it back in my head a bunch of times.

I can remember the sudden stop, him standing up, leaving my poor pussy alone, unsatisfied – dangling precariously right on the edge of cumming. Sometimes certain memories are etched into your mind – this is one of them. And then he stood up, stared me in the eyes, and told me to think about how to make it up to him – before I could answer, before I could tell him that I would do anything, everything, as much as he wanted – he left, my body slumped against the door as he let it close behind him, my knees loose and rubbery soft, buckling under the sheer weight of the lust he let build.

I cried.

I didn’t sob, but tears welled up in my eyes and slithered down the side of my face, rolling down my cheeks and making dark, wet spots on my dress.

The rest of the day was torture, my underwear sopping wet, my nerves on edge, my breath ragged and weak. I didn’t look at him; I didn’t have to. I had enough to fill my wildest dreams, I had enough to paint pictures of his face, his eyes burning through the canvas. I wanted him. I wanted to make good on all the teasing, on all the flirting, on all the winks, smiles, intentionally accidental touches… I wanted all of it.

My panties went into the interoffice mail, along with the post-it note – it was the third one I wrote, my handwriting shaky, the pen alien and foreign in my hands.

Shaky – that was the rest of the night for me, the night he made me cum for the first time – but he would not fuck me. And after he left, after my pussy – raw, sore, hungering for his cock – was finally no longer under his assault, I slept a miserable sleep. I felt a sinking guilt. I dreamed wonderful nightmares of doors now closing, of one-way signs, spilled milk, and strangely enough, omelets.

Work got in the way, more than I think he and I imagined it would. Was it work? Was it that things had changed? We didn’t flirt, we hardly spoke. Like two magnets, we both attracted and repelled each other.

And it would have to wait until the day after Thanksgiving, the postprandial day of shopping madness, that we spoke. That I confessed to him that I wanted him. That I missed what we had before, the awkward and on-the-edge flirting, the naughty emails, the text messages… and that now, I wanted to make good on all of it. And so over a cup of hot chai, I promised to be his office slut, his coworker hussy, his pet whore.

He didn’t speak, his eyes lost in the abyss of his black coffee. When he spoke, I suppose it changed things even more.

“I don’t want that,” he said. And my initial reaction of rejection was then slapped violently to the side as he then told me, “I just want you to be you.”

And while from then on, I would have to think about just who I was, and who I had shown myself to be, the more immediate result was him in my apartment. His clothes slumped on the floor beside mine. His mouth on my lips. His teeth on my nipples. His fingers in my pussy. His sweat on my body. His cock in my pussy. His cum in my mouth. His tongue tasting my cum. His weight on top of my body. His body beneath my weight.

We’re back to where we were; and I’m happier that way. We’re flirting like we used to, writing each other emails, dropping looks, and accidentally touching each other. Only now, we both make good on our intentions. And it builds up all day long until I nearly explode, reading his emails, his stories… just about everything he does – until we arrive at my place, or at his place, and then… well, then we just plain get to it.

So that should bring us pretty close to where we were at the start, with my legs spread wide, my pussy grinding on his cock, yelling out his name between clenched teeth.

Hi, I know we haven’t met, but I’m Miss Bunny Slippers. Glad to be here, and exactly here.

.bunny

* * * * * *

Okay fine, so she didn’t really write all that… and of course, I am taking a lot of artistic liberties here.

But I imagine it to be pretty damn accurate. I know her, and how she thinks, but more importantly I also know that she’s not wearing any panties right now. And that’s probably the only thing making this Monday morning go by.

.6