sloppy

I wasn’t planning anything, hadn’t even drank a full cup of coffee yet – was just looking for my comfortable bra, dropped (I thought) lazily on the bathroom floor before a bath the night before. But when I open the door from the hallway he’s standing beside the bathtub, towelling off, room still warm and foggy from the shower.

I don’t say anything, don’t have to; there’s a second of hesitation (coffee bus routes trousers to iron) and then I step towards him, peeling my shirt off and stepping out of my panties in a single movement, cause he just looks so good: drops of water still glimmering over his shoulders, nipples popped from the rough rub of the towel, his cock hanging half-soft between sturdy thighs.

I put the pads of my fingers just over his collarbone, lean in a little, enough that I can lick across his lower lip and press into a deeper kiss, mouths open, wet and warm and lips still sleep-soft. My palms drag down over his chest, slow, feeling every inch, drag down over his stomach and pause over his waist. His hips sway forwards, hungry, involuntary, and his cock bobs against the inner crease of my thigh, stiffening.

I touch it, just a little, fingers stroking light over the crown, just enough to feel his breath grow quicker, harsh. Then I press my palms against the front of his thighs and sink to my knees, roll my head a little sideways so his cock slaps gentle against my temple.

Baby,’ I say, and take him in my mouth, tongue soft and hungry and suckling along his length, take him deeper till the head of his cock bumps against my soft palate and I jerk just a little, resettle my hands on his thighs, breath in deeply through my nose. He’s looking down on me, dark-eyed, mouth a little open, wet hair fallen into his eyes. I let the saliva pool under my tongue and run out the corners of my mouth, bob a couple of times up and down his cock, getting everything wet and – sloppy, slick with want, undignified.

‘Morning,’ you say, around his cock, and start to suck in earnest, and his head knocks back soft against the wall and he starts to groan.

sloppy

stairwell

You’re just down the hall from your office and your back’s against the wall and the guy who’s been in the archive room all day, going by your desk, winking, eating frosted donuts and licking the powder off his lips, he’s standing in front of you: not crowding, not too close, no, but firmly there (and firm, under the cheap white dress shirt, you’ve not not-noticed), and he’s eyefucking you in the most respectful way possible. It’s taking a conscious effort to keep your hips from swaying towards him.

You lick your lips and say ‘is there some place we can go?’

His lips tighten, a flicker. Not anger. Satisfaction, and your belly starts to ache.

He pulls you into the stairwell and presses you back against the wall. There’s a second, two, where he holds his face a little away from yours, lips open, eyes dancing. You move against him, reflexive, but he’s got a hand on either side of your face and he’s holding you there, suspended between him and the wall and the surface of the world. The butterflies below your breastbone start to ricochet skyward.

‘You want it, hey?’ he says, not insult in his voice but delight, and his eyes are sparkling, sparking, and then he pulls you together and his mouth is the world exact, wet, tugging. He’s sucking on your tongue and his hips are pressed up against yours, so tight you can feel the cold of his belt buckle through your cotton sundress.

One of his thighs slips between your legs and, god, it’s thick, muscled. The front of his slacks are flush against the hollow of your hip and you feel the bite of a crooked zipper head and beside it the hard line of his cock.

‘Oh,’ you say, in a gasp, and push your hips forward. He kisses you with a kind of surging suddenness, and you tip your head back and let him suck on the skin of your neck and below the lobe of your ear.

‘Wish you could fuck me right here,’ you say, and he makes a choked noise into your neck. Your bodies have slotted hungrily into a kind of rhythm, pressgrindrock, and then he scuffles his foot and his thigh finds where the cusp of your pubic bone meets the hood of your clit and your whole body startles, jerks in his arms.

Oh,’ he says, danger-sweet, and rocks against you again, careful, hardly moving so much as just shifting the weight of his body. There’s a noise in the dampened quiet of the stairwell and it takes you a couple of seconds to know that it’s you, moaning, low and gritty, cause he’s got one hand down the back of your panties and two of his fingers are crooking up just inside you, thick and practiced.

Fuck,’ you say, once, clear, before all you can think is breathing, keeping quiet, a little, please, quiet, and then you’re coming, pulsing around his fingers, legs giving out, and he holds you up against the wall and breathes unsteady behind the shell of your ear while he comes.

stairwell