I wake up in the pitch black, buried under a mountain of fabric rejects. Then—bam—soft hands fish me out like I’m the last Cheeto at the bottom of the bag. Lucky me. Today it’s my turn: the sheer black thong with the lace trim. Oh yes, nothing screams dignity like being wedged up a butt crack all day.
She slips me up her thighs—those long, runway thighs—and I nuzzle in. My lace brushes her fiery red pubes, which, honestly, look like Ronald McDonald’s side hustle. But hey, sexy in a feral way. Coffee pot whirs, she bends for milk, and suddenly I’m yanked halfway down like I’m on a bungee cord. “Oops,” she mutters. Lady, I’m elastic, not bulletproof.
Now she’s in that pencil skirt—the one that makes me feel like the CEO of Crotch Security. Every pothole turns the ride into a theme park attraction. I’m smacked around like a pinball, while she hums to the DJ and ever-so-subtly grinds on the vinyl seat. Yeah, subtle as a marching band.
And of course, she can’t resist. Fingers sneak under the skirt, pubes rasping against me. “I swear,” she whispers, sliding deeper. Sure, sweetheart. The cop in the next lane is about to swear too—when you drive into a ditch.
Halfway to work and boom—she yanks me off in a bathroom stall. “It’s just a one,” she promises. Yeah, and I’m Victoria’s damn Secret. She starts circling that twitchy clit like she’s unlocking a safe. Slow at first, then full-on blender mode.
Her hips thrash, juices soak me, Dove soap everywhere. Fantastic—I smell like a horny botanical garden. She bites her lip to keep quiet, but the janitor definitely knows. By the time she sighs and pulls me back up, I’m wetter than a sponge in a carwash.
Back at the office, she struts in like she didn’t just redecorate a stall. Meeting time. The boss drones about spreadsheets, while she crosses and uncrosses her legs like she’s scanning for Wi-Fi. Every wiggle rubs me raw. Forget “team player”—I deserve hazard pay.
Lunchtime: kale salad at her desk. Girl, please. That salad has less moisture than I do right now. She heads to the bathroom again—stall check, wiggle, lock. “Screw it,” she says. Sweetheart, you already are. She grinds on toilet paper like it’s an Olympic sport, tongue and fingers going full Cirque du Soleil. And then—Niagara Falls. Toes, walls, me—everyone gets a taste. Congrats, janitor, round two.
Back to emails. Yawn. She stretches those long thighs, swivels her hips, basically turning me into an unwilling rodeo rider. A coworker ogles her, smirks, tries flirting. Buddy, don’t. She’s squirming in her chair, ass clenching like a stress ball.
He slinks off, she rubs her skirt hem, and boom—another DIY special. She moans his name, the coworker with pouty lips and forearms like an Old Spice ad. I’m thinking: “Great. Now I’m third-wheeling imaginary office porn.” She finishes hard, wipes down, and struts off again.
Home at last. She strips her skirt at the bedroom door like it owes her money. Please let there be wine, she thinks. Nope—there’s him. He scoops her up, tosses her on the bed like a sack of laundry. “Been thinking about you all day,” he growls. Of course you have, champ.
They’re kissing, tongues wrestling like drunk eels. He lifts her skirt, and she’s buck naked. His tongue dives in like it’s all-you-can-eat sushi night. She rides his face, cheeks clapping, and I’m just hanging on for dear life. Nails in his neck, his cock slides in, and suddenly we’re hosting WrestleMania: Genital Edition.
She grinds, bites, moans. He calls her a slut, flips her over, takes it slow. Each thrust sloshes me in their combined fluids like I’m trapped in a horny smoothie. She screams into the sheets, he finishes, and the whole bed looks like a crime scene in a yogurt factory.
He’s gone. She recovers. I get yanked down her thighs, catching one last look at the day’s masterpiece. A final dribble of cum slides past me—my badge of honor. Then, wham, tossed into the laundry basket with gym socks and a towel that smells like dog shampoo. Perfect.
As she pulls on peach boy shorts for tomorrow, I sigh. Cute. But amateurs. Everyone knows thongs do the heavy lifting.
Tick-tock, tick-tock. Another day, another ass crack.
