Perfect

Go. Now.

I see your simple words on my screen, Gwen, and before I can stop myself, my head tips back like my hair was pulled. My eyes flutter shut. There's a hiss of indrawn breath as the bottom drops out of my stomach, plunging directly between my thighs. My fingers curl over the flat surface of my desk and find no purchase.

It doesn't really matter how I found myself in this predicament. It doesn't matter what games were played and what dances executed in this strange flirtation. We've circled for days, weeks, with pretty words strung together like beads, beautiful shining sequences of clever prose. I try to keep my secrets to myself, you try to tease them out of me. Those secrets are the keys to the why of me, and I am afraid to have those known.

You try to lead, I dodge and slide away. I fight this because I need to, because I must, but there was a growing sense of inevitability in the last few exchanges. I tip my own hand every time because I am conflicted and a house divided can not stand. My passions run strong and deep, and truth be told, I'm a little frightened of them myself. I can unleash a blazing torrent sometimes, but I'm afraid of where this one might take me.

I know the terms, the requirements. I've learned the steps to this dance. I think. I know that I'm to shut myself in the bathroom, slide a hand down my stomach, into my panties, and masturbate just to the point of orgasm, then stop.

I'm not sure which is more maddening, that singular moment of infinite frustration or the way my body responds to your terse command.

I'm to lick my fingers clean and then describe the experience to you. You're delighting in my talent for descriptive narratives that go nowhere but pull you into the irresistible roar of my experiences, even though I'm dreadfully shy about this notion, this direct chronicle of my sexuality.

I bite my lip without realizing it, resting my palms flat on the desk and check my calendar, then the clock. I have exactly 17 minutes before my next meeting. Seventeen minutes to execute and write to you on my phone's clumsy little keyboard. I pray the bathroom is empty.

I'm lucky. I'm alone in the bathroom, alone in the cool blue silence. I lock myself in one of the two stalls. My fingers tremble as I unbutton black dress pants. My hand disappears down the front and I bite my lip again to stay quiet. I am slick, dripping with want and as soon as my fingers touch myself I am panting, needy. It doesn't take long to bring myself to the edge. I go still, leaning my forehead against the cold cinderblock wall, my face flushed, before pulling myself together. I slide back to my desk with seven minutes before I need to dial in to a conversation about a new product launch and start composing words on the small screen:

I slowly lick each finger in turn, eyes still closed as I suck one after the other. Salty, clean brininess. If this were a wine I would say it finishes with sweet fruit, green apple or pear, but it isn't, so I can't. A delicate musk, unmistakable, unique to a woman desperate with lust. The taste of my lust lingers on my tongue and my eyes are heavy. Gwen...this isn't fair.

I sit at my desk and hit "send," the muscles of my hips tilting my pelvis back, down, pushing against the chair, still biting my lip. I can feel the flush on my face both from deprivation and because of what I just wrote.

You're right, it isn't fair.

And you detail how you are enjoying the thought of my torment, how you love the way such simple words have had such a profound impact on me, how you are thinking of my lip caught between my teeth and my thighs pressed together, wanting.

I can't find words and I can't formulate thoughts. My vocabulary has dried up and logic has deserted me. I think vaguely that I could take the lead, change the direction of this dance, but as the thought forms I've already forgotten it because I see a reply.

Again. You have 40 minutes.

Forty is excessive: I need only three, perhaps two. But I appreciate how you've left time for me to work around what I have to accomplish in my job. You bait me with a promise of release after three "Almosts." I wonder how far apart you're going to space those Almosts as I slip again into the bathroom.

I stand, forehead pressed against the wall again, one palm flat, eyes closed. My lip has broken open from biting it and I taste copper. My back arches out, pushing my hips up. My right hand is between my legs where if it's even possible, I'm wetter than I was earlier. I slip two fingers inside and bite my lip harder. It's delicious agony to pull back and I gasp for calming breaths, before slowly, unwillingly removing my wandering fingers and sliding my tongue around each one, removing the slippery evidence of lust.

I know my face is flaming as I hit "send" again, and I find myself crossing and uncrossing my legs. I can't think about the project plan I should be writing or the capital budget that needs attention. I'm reduced to this searing lust.

I hit "refresh" several times hoping for a notification, but nothing comes immediately. I reluctantly open a spreadsheet and start working. But I can't focus very well. Every few moments I'm checking again, until finally:

Almost. Again. Now.

Every thought in my head instantly implodes. My eyes close and I barely stop a moan from escaping my lips. The ache between my legs grows.

I sit with my legs spread and I can smell a delicate musk filling the small room. Both hands now, two fingers inside me and one on my clit and this time an audible whimper escapes me. It's so hard to stop myself. My head drops in frustration, my hair falling forward across my flushed face as I pant for a moment. I trace my bottom lip with my sodden fingers before sucking them hard, tongue darting in between. Please, Gwen. Please.

Every time I return to my desk it's torture. I'm so frustrated right now. But then finally, finally I see your words come through. Yes, love. Yes. But now I'm stuck on a call, watching the minutes crawl by while agreeing to who knows what. I'll deal with it later because I'm finally in the bathroom again, braced against the cold metal of the stall door, both hands down the front of my pants, frantic, until I cum. I feel that look on my face as my sex tightens around my fingers, moisture dripping to my wrist.

Half an hour later I see more words.

We're not done. I forgot to tell you that I wanted your panties in your mouth when you came.

And now I have no words at all, and I can't even remember how to breathe.

You've got time before you leave work.

With your panties in your mouth.

One hand touching you from above.

The other reaching around to touch you from behind.

And the panties, of course.

Now would be good.

Yes, I'm thinking now.

I am consumed with desire and once more I sidle to the bathroom, nonchalant. The black dress pants come off, slipped over my shoes and I feel self-conscious, exposed, nervous, aroused.

I am kneeling on the floor, legs spread wide. The bruise on my left knee isn't happy with this arrangement. The tile is cold against my skin.

My panties are black cotton, boy-cut, purple lace at the waist, filling my mouth. I can taste myself on the fabric.

It doesn't take long. I feel the flush creeping up my chest and my breathing intensifies, my eyes shut as my legs tremble when the orgasm takes me over and I don't feel that bruise anymore, inhaling greedily through my nose, a small whimper muffled in cotton.

And then I remember the tile is cold and that bruise hurts again but I place both palms flat and my head hangs, eyes closed, just for a moment, mouth full and knees wide, wanton.

I wait for a response, moments that never end.

Perfect.

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