Lunch

I slip into your cubicle quietly while the others are busy. My eyes catch the excitement in yours while you roll your chair back from the desk. Under the cover of office hubbub, I go to my knees to duck under it.

It is sweet to be so close to you and to follow by sight the line of your legs until the folds of your skirt create for your thighs a dark modesty. You softly sigh when you feel my breath on your knees, but you continue to work at your computer. Then you warm to my hand as it here and there traces the shape of your calves.

Lunchtime and the office begins to clear. No one notices as I move my hands along the outside of your thighs for the lacy top of your panties. As the last one leaves, you lift your bottom for me, and I slide your panties down to your ankles and fold the hem of your skirt up to your waist. The sight of your rose is enough to finish what my lusty thoughts have started, and my awakened manhood throbs against the front of my khakis.

My thumbs slowly make the ascent along your inner thighs and come to your luscious V. It only takes a little pressure to prompt the parting of your legs.

Where my thumbs went, my tongue follows, and my hands cup your rounded bottom to bring you forward in the seat of your chair. Now you are angled back, and once again I push the hem of your skirt higher. I guide you to my mouth and you feel the soft touch of my lips where you never dared imagined they might approach.

But I have wanted to be there, to prompt your wetness and part your pink folds with my tongue. My artful work is slow, serene. Your sighs above me, I press the flat of my tongue against your bud and move in circles, tasting, teasing, pressing. Your hips follow me, and my lips surround your center, sucking now while I unzip. My fingers must grasp and rhythmically jerk my swollen shaft while my mouth pleasures you to a sweet, rolling climax. My pulsing emission quickly follows.

I have barely enough time to zip and come out from under your desk as the others return from lunch. My coat over my arm and my strategically held briefcase say only that your lunchtime appointment is about to leave. No one hears your attempts to slow your breathing as I do. And my ease of movement betrays to no one the damp lace panties that I stuff into my pocket as I deftly exit out the door.