I picture you in an office setting. You’re comfortable and relaxed, perhaps slightly bored, as you skim your email inbox. And there, at the bottom, almost escaping your notice, is an email from me. You see the one without an attachment, and you bypass it. Instead, curiously, you open the one with the promise of a visual prize. And there I sit, in a schoolgirl outfit, with legs slightly spread and a twinkle in my eye. Possibly, you sigh and think, These pics are a dime a dozen, doll. But I’ll humor you… Because of course, you’re too much of a gentleman to do anything else.
You close the file attachment and skim the email, already planning your “dutiful” and “polite” response.
Later, I again respond by email. This time, I admit to being ashamed and slightly embarrassed. I confess to you a deep, dark secret about strap-on fantasies, and how oftentimes, they involve you. You’re shocked, but those images intrigue you and you feel a tensing of skin and muscle upon seeing the promise of a second attachment. But you can’t open it just yet. There’s someone in the office. Impatiently, you tap your fingers as every nerve-ending in your brain demands that you ignore caution and just open the goddamn file. But you don’t. You maintain control, but barely. Instead, you take a phone call as a distraction. And then, finally, you’re alone. You offhandedly casino oyna remind yourself that you’re not turned on by these types of photographs. You’re looking out of curiosity, nothing else. Yes, that’s why…
You slam your hand down in frustration. I didn’t send the attachment you expected. Instead, there’s a picture of me, wearing nothing but jeans, a lacy black bra, and a smirk. You appreciate the picture for its sensuality. And yet, you wonder what the fuck I did with the others. Can you catch me before I delete them in embarrassment? You have to try. But dayuuuum! You pause again for another look at that ass in those skin-tight jeans.
After you send a quick response encouraging me to reveal the original strap-on series of pics, you question your sanity. You can’t believe you’re actually aroused at the thought of me with a long, hard cock between my legs. Perhaps, you’re flattered more so than anything else. You know I’ve been playing with you even in your absence and that amuses you. You love how I’m feeding your ego and your sexuality simultaneously. That’s when you go back to the picture of my jeans again and look into my eyes. You briefly focus on the pouting lips. You wonder how often I play with you. And you wonder what’s in my head when I do.
Another picture arrives. You see the attachment and you know that I’ve complied with canlı casino your latest wishes. Why wouldn’t I, after all? I’ve never been able to deny you anything. You can’t open immediately. The others in the office are back and they have noticed your last few moments of silence, which isn’t the norm. After a second or two of superficial conversation, you casually click the downloading process, and you glance at your co-workers to see if they realize that you’re distracted again. Your thoughts jumble at this point, and work is no longer your top priority.
Oh god, the second picture is even hotter than the first. The skirt is lifted and you see the barest hint of an engorged flesh-colored cockhead between my legs. Judging from the look of it, the cock is grotesquely large. You find your thoughts tittering between: Holy shit, does she really fuck that thing? and I know she doesn’t fuck me with that monster, even in her fantasies!
(Oh, but I do. And you always beg for more…)
The pictures are arriving more quickly now, but still one at a time. You slide your chair further under your desk to hide the bulging evidence of your own undeniable arousal. You convince yourself that you’re mostly aroused at the schoolgirl uniform and the hint of hard nipples. Girls with cocks do nothing for you. Of course, that doesn’t explain your second or kaçak casino third glance that lingers more below my waist than above it.
You’re making idle conversation with a guy in the office, but you have no idea what you said or if you even made sense. You attempt to focus, but your blood is going somewhere it shouldn’t and concentration is unattainable.
It’s the final picture that arouses you more so than any of the others. I’m looking at you from above, exactly where I’m at in my fantasies. I’m taunting you, of course. Teasing you uncontrollably: Baby, I seem to be saying,I dare you to taste me. You’ll have to come around/over/beyond this thing that’s between my legs. I happen to know you love tasting me in your fantasies. You told me once. Can you resist my scent, my taste, my arousal – just because I have a cock? It’s nothing but a toy. Come to me, baby, and I’ll make this soooooo good for you. My voice is breathless and aroused. Hypnotic, even in your thoughts.
Could I convince you? Or would I feel the humiliation of your rejection? My ultimate fantasy never concludes beyond this point. For one, my climax has happened and my hunger is sated. For another, I’m always unsure of your reaction, and I’m uncertain exactly how I want you to react. Do I want your anger? For you to tear at my clothing and the strap that holds my toy to get to the prize you’ve more than earned. Or would I prefer to be the dominant one? The one thrusting into you at the end.
Either way, I’m sure the experience would be unforgettable in this lifetime or the one beyond.