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The Stalker - Part 3

Or how to make your work day that bit more interesting.
The Stalker – Part 3 

I don’t think I’ve spent many happier mornings at work. I slump unseen behind the ‘privacy screen’ at my workstation and although my computer screen flickers before me, all my eyes can see is his pulsing, trapped cock standing exposed in the morning light. Sliding down in my seat, I replay my morning’s adventure; the weight of his cock on my tongue, the touch of his pubic hair against my skin, the saltiness of his precum dancing around my saliva soaked mouth.

Somehow my hand slips between my legs. I’m sure I didn’t mean it to and I try my best to resist. I cross my ankles and squeeze my knees together but my short skirt rides up exposing my lace stocking tops and creamy thighs. With gentle caresses my beautifully manicured fingertips seduce them apart as they stroke up my sensitised skin until, at last, they find the blood swollen puffiness of my labia. They are so beautifully presented today; my triple headed razor and vanilla moisturiser leaving them soft, smooth and scented. No wonder my fingers desire them so; no wonder they want to touch, to stroke and caress every square millimetre of the engorged and sensitised flesh that quivers beneath them.

I pick up a pen, hold it against my bottom lip, feel it quivering against my teeth, fix my unseeing eyes on the VDU and try my best not to moan as my fingers find the primped and preened smoothness of my vagina. Unwillingly I allow my hips to push forward, my thighs to part and those base fingers to find the sodden, liquid entrance to my sex. There they hover; teasing me with their presence, with the faintest of touches of their perfect fingernails and soft caresses of their fleshy pads. My pussy leans into them begging attention; demanding satisfaction.

“He really did have the most beautiful cock.”

They enter me; those bad, naughty fingers push deep into my soft flesh, lubricated by the tell-tale juices of my arousal. I grab at them with my muscles, clamp my thighs shut around them, and try to restrain their wanton thrusting. My hand cups my pubis; palm pushing hard against the throbbing neediness of my clitoris; and as the ripples of pleasure resonate throughout my groin; as I feel the steady trickle of my juices flowing from my pussy to moisten my anus, dampen my arse and stain my chair, I realise that resistance is futile.

“And those tight little balls; so aromatic, so succulent, so flavoursome; how divinely they pulsed in my soft, warm mouth, how delightfully they quivered on my tongue.” 

A noise escapes my gaping mouth ... was it a pant or a moan? I bite down on my hand, filling my mouth with flesh, urging it to silence. My hips are becoming insistent, thrusting forward assertively and skewering the spread petals of my sex on the thick stamen of my fingers. My clitoris, crushed beneath my palm, slides itself back and forth in a sea of wetness as my vaginal muscles contract fiercely.

“And the divine feel of his cock sliding between my thighs, seeking out my liquid core as I rode along its length, as I masturbated myself on his poor trapped shaft.”

I raise my head, my eyes scanning the office, guilt and need written in bold capitals across my face, my moist thighs squeezing tightly around my persistent hand beneath my desk. I feel my deviant digits sliding out of me leaving my pussy empty, dribbling and panting with desire. They slide up to my cum slick clitoral nub, my fingernails flicking across my sensitive flesh. I shudder at the sudden explosion of sensation; breath pulled deep into my lungs, my mouth parted and my eyes wide with expectation.

Somewhere in my mind an image builds; not an experience but a hope, a desire. My hand wrapped around his taut cock, the cable tie biting deep into his flesh, every inch of him straining desperate for release.

I can do that for him; as my fingers flick their way across my insistent clitoris, as they abrade its quivering sensitised flesh, as my stiff, upright body quivers at its workstation, the hand in my mind kneads, strokes, caresses until...

Huge globules of cum spurt forth from his trapped and straining cock splattering across my face and hair in a never ending creamy downpour, sizzling on my skin, searing my flesh, load after load coating my breasts, collecting in my hair, dribbling down my cheek, turning me into the cum covered slut I ache to be in my dreams.

And as his blessed benediction rains down on my upturned face my miserable miscreant fingers drive deep into the saturated abyss of my pussy sending me spiralling ever downward until I am consumed in the bottomless pit of my own pleasure. Miserable sinner that I am; I cum for him.

There we will have to leave me for a little while; sat at my desk, a contented smile flickering around my mouth, my petite body shaking slightly as the ripples of my orgasm warm me, my fingers firmly embedded beneath my skirt lost in the humid, sodden folds of my sex. Around me the world continues to turn; mice are clicked, phones ring, paper is shuffled, business is done and other people get on with their lives.

Clara Bow has a problem; just a little one, an inconvenience that makes every day a small trial. She has an intense fear of being locked inside a toilet cubicle, of being stranded with no way out as some dark form towers over her, forcing her to lower her panties around her ankles, to display herself naked before him, to squat with widespread legs and splash her ‘pee-pee’ against the pristine porcelain as he delights in her desecration. 

She’s not claustrophobic; elevators cupboards, the cramped spaces of The Underground hold no fears but the necessary act of urinating in a confined space can almost bring her to her knees in terror. 

There is a memory lurking untouched in her mind. On occasion, when she feels brave and can feel the heat of the sun on her face, she will reach out with trembling fingers to grasp it, confront it and expel this demon from her life. But as her fingers grope their way through the darkness she can feel it sliding away before her, taunting her impotence as it eludes her, leaving her nauseous and empty handed once more. 

At home she luxuriates in the delight of bright lights, an open doorway and the freedom to ‘avail herself of the facilities’ as and when she pleases. Public places, however, are a trial and at work she limits her liquid intake and times her visits to ‘the little girl’s room’ to avoid the mid-morning, lunchtime and mid-afternoon rushes. 

Claude Rains ruminates daily on the fact that his pension plan provided such insignificant returns. Forty years of service, man and boy, for RioPlace plc should have been enough for him to retire in comfort, should have allowed him to buy that cottage in Bideford where he could have spent his days walking the rambling lanes and footpaths of his youth. 

Those youthful memories have faded and all that now remains is misty images of golden summers, of transistor radios playing The Beatles and The Stones, of miniskirts and bare legs, of Triumph motorbikes and lying besides babbling streams with Edie’s chestnut haired head resting against his chest. 

Edie passed away three years ago and RioPlace had finally wobbled its way into administration and eventual closure two years earlier. “Corporate Raiders” and “Asset Stripping” had been The City buzzwords at the time ... theft was what it had been. RioPlace’s pension fund had been picked clean so that the City vultures could spend their days getting squiffy on champagne and then piss the future that Edie and he had dreamed of, that they’d worked for their entire lives, up against the stainless steel urinals of Bishopsgate’s wine bars and gastropubs.

The security job had been a financial and emotional necessity. It got him out of their empty house full of the ghosts of the past and the crushed dreams of the future. It put some money in his pocket and helped to fill some of the endless hours that no longer had any purpose. He spent his days mostly in the Security Office watching the close circuit cameras, interacting with the world by intercom and waiting for the day he could once again rest his head alongside his beloved Edie’s.

10.15 And that strange woman from Peat & Jones Accountants is making her morning visit to the toilet; punctual as ever. That’s it dearie, door open, panties down, let Uncle Claude see you tinkle. It’s not much of a show but it beats watching those damn pigeons flapping around the car park. 


I don’t know what you think of me but it can’t be good. Really I’ve only got myself to blame; we have only spent a couple of hours together and I don’t think I’ve shown you my best side. Please believe me when I tell you that I’m a nice person and this sort of behaviour is most unlike me. Yes, I may be sexually voracious, may have spent many a weekend night rubbing myself against whichever muscular body would buy me a drink and offer me the promise of so much more. Yes I have lacked judgement; happily offering myself in exchange for nights spent writhing beneath the onslaught of some cock whilst his sweat covered body pins me to the bedding and stagnant breath plays across my face.

I admit that on occasion I may have lost myself to obsession; phoned more often than I ought, fretted about his whereabouts until I simply had to find him. That I have clung to dreams when clearly I was just another warm and willing body to be taken down an alley, skewered by his resplendent cock and thrust repeatedly against the rough brickwork until my back bled and my pretty frock was ruined.

I may from time to time have been known to flirt a little; to play with my hair and finger my lips, to flutter my lashes and stroke a cheek, to wear my heels high and my skirts short, to dangle a foot and wiggle my bum, to push my breasts out and linger in the kiss; but I have always delivered on my promises and have never offered what I wasn’t prepared to share.

I know that I have failings; that I’ve not always been a good girl, but “ If you prick me do I not bleed? If you tickle me do I not laugh? If you poison me do I not die?” It is just that I have been unbearably lonely and finding love has become such a difficult quest. Must I forever be assigned second fiddle? Do I not have wants and needs, dreams and desires, hopes and aspirations? Is it not fair that I get a turn at being a conductor, a composer, an auteur? Don’t I have the right to a little attention?

Nevertheless, I feel that I should apologise for what is about to happen. Even though I loathe my job I have always been a model employee; diligent, respectful and hardworking. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve lost my head to lust, lost my heart to a pretty boy and his slender cock. I have never masturbated at my desk before and certainly never made appointments to meet young men in the ladies’ toilets during work hours. I feel embarrassed and ashamed of my behaviour, so please do try not to judge me too harshly.


I am unused to such exciting mornings and the mirrored walls of the elevator reflect a somewhat dishevelled me. I do my best; straighten my clothing, fluff my hair and with dampened finger remove the small make-up runs beneath my eyes. I may not be perfect but I will have to do.

The third floor is deserted; it is only partially let and always has the air of waiting expectantly for the return of the 90’s commercial property boom. The toilets are to the rear of the elevators and I walk quickly to them conscious of the fact that I’m late.

He’s not here. I open the door to the washroom; peer inside to find three opened door cubicles staring back at me. Glancing upwards, I eye the red flashing light of the cctv security globe and wonder whether old Claude has managed to stay awake in his dingy office today. A devilish little grin brightens my face as I stare at the reflective ball. Slowly I allow a single finger to slide between my puffy, dribbling swollen lips before bringing them up dripping to find themselves a home in the liquid recess of my mouth; and as my busy little mouth suckles the glorious juices from my soaked digit, I keep my smiling eyes firmly fixed on the all seeing orb.

I check my watch, chew on my lip and tap my foot rapidly in time to the hammering in my chest. I raise my wrist again, watch the second hand circle the clock face, feel my nerves starting to shred, guilt spreading up to hue my face red. I’m caught uncertain as to whether to stay or go. I push the door open once more in case he has ‘magicked’ himself into the washroom and then, when I turn, there he is trotting down the corridor the bulge of his cock obvious in his trousers.

“I ...” 
“Come on.” 
I close my hand about his wrist and drag him unresistingly into the ladies.

“I shouldn’t be in here.” 

I’m between him and the door, backing him up, herding him towards the middle cubicle.

“We’re really busy. Someone will miss me. If you could just get this thing off me then I’ll go.” 

 He’s sheepish, unconfident, his face crimson. Even though he’s a head taller than me it feels as if I’m looming over him and as I step forward he shuffles backwards.

“Of course I’m happy to do that for you.”

I take a small step forward, my hands running down my hips, smoothing the wrinkles in my skirt, accentuating the narrowness of my waist and the slight swell of my pubic mound.

“Do you have a razor blade or a Stanley Knife?” 

The question stops his backward shuffling, allowing me to close the space between us. We’re stood at the doorway to the cubicle, our bodies inches apart, the air pregnant with intent. He shakes his head, hair flicking enticingly across his forehead, his face crumpled in concern.


“Then we have a small problem.” 

 I put my hands on his chest, feel his heart pounding beneath them, and push gently as I take a dainty step forward forcing him to reciprocate with a backward movement. I raise myself onto tiptoe, lower my voice to a whisper, my mouth inches from his ear, and the skin of my cheek caressing his.

“We either slice it off or we need to make you cum and seeing as neither of us has a blade ...”

My nerveless hands find his belt.

Clara Bow, skirt hoisted at her waist, panties around her ankles, squeezes hard. Normally it’s so hard to pee but now she’s finding it impossible not to. Taking her hand she cups it over her vagina, pressing her beaded labia shut. Droplets of urine collect in her palm. She clamps her thighs together, closes her eyes and tries to find that happy sunshine place where light dappled the trees and blades of grass tickled the undersides of her feet as she ran barefoot and carefree. Escaping the here and now, she rushes back to a time when she was young and innocent; to the memory of a place before she was besmirched.

Claude Rains, startled by the new entertainment guiltily gives thanks to whichever God felt it was necessary to put cameras in this office block’s toilets, dunks a Rich Tea Finger in his coffee and settles back to watch the show.

“Show me. I need to see it.” 

My voice is urgent, demanding. My hands rip at his trousers and underwear until his cock springs free and his clothing pools around his ankles. Whatever resistance he had is gone; his mouth hangs loosely open, his eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing heavy and his chest quivering beneath his clothes.

Plastic and flesh just make the most perfect combination. When I took possession of his poor neglected cock just this very morning, it was a slender delicate morsel; a mouthful to be rolled about my tongue, to be salivated over as I savoured his flavour and filled my nostrils with his musk. It was a boy’s toy eager to play in the big grown up world and hoping to make up for its lack of length and girth with youthful enthusiasm.

Now, with its beautiful plastic collar biting quite cruelly into its flesh, with its tag all properly completed with its owners name and address hanging beneath, with its smooth shiny cock head purple and swollen, with its base tender from where the cable constricts it, and with the blood of enthusiasm pumping through his veins, he has grown. What was once a titbit to get your taste buds flowing is now a feast to be bitten, chewed, masticated and sucked dry of all its sweet flavourings and I have a cum dripping orifice all eager and ready to devour every swollen inch.

I take him between my thumb and finger, stroke him gently, exploring every raised bump, throbbing vein and slight dimple. I feel him vibrating beneath my touch, spasming as the soft pads of my fingertips walk their way up and down his length. I reach beneath him with my other hand and cusp his balls, their soft hairs tickling at my palm as I gently knead him. He is so very red and swollen, poor thing; such an unfair torture to be inflicted on one so young and innocent. The horrible plastic tie bites quite cruelly into his cock and the flesh to either side of it looks quite sore. Tenderly, I stroke him there and he jerks back with a sharp intake of breath.

“Please ... be gentle.” 
He looks quite helpless standing there shaking, his face lightly sheened with sweat; helpless and vulnerable. Poor boy! But I know what he needs; a guiding hand to lead him through this valley of darkness; one that will cool his fevered brow and release him from his torments. A soft hand, a gentle hand, a prettily manicured hand with soft moisturised skin just like the one I have wrapped around his cock. Yes, he will be safe in my hands.

I squeeze his cock firmly, feel him wince at the pain, and push him back the last couple of steps until his calves touch the toilet. I release my grip and he sits unbidden as I turn and shove home the bolt and then put my back to the door.

“You have the most beautiful cock. Do you know that? I’m sure you do. Look at it; see it’s perfect, just big enough to fill my wet pussy but not too big that it wouldn’t slide nicely into my arse or choke me if I swallowed it whole.”

I’ve spread my legs wide, pushing my feet to the outer edges of the cubicle, my fingers pulling at the hem of my skirt causing it to ride up and allowing me to exhibit myself for his appreciation. I want him to admire it all; my pubis, clean shaven and baby smooth that curves downwards to the beauteous mounds of my heavily swollen labia and protruding from them my soaked lips glistening with moisture, begging to be folded outwards by finger, tongue, or cock so that my gorgeous pink slit can receive the pleasure it is due. He’s staring at me greedily; his tongue playing across his lips imagining the feast to come. I step towards him, my fingers busily unbuttoning my fitted shirt eager to show him the slender delights of this body that could so easily be his.

“Do you stroke it?” 
We’re toe to toe; static electricity crackling through the air between us. I’ve lowered my voice to my best seductive murmur; breathy with just a hint of lisp, every word falling from my lips heavy with the promise of sex.

“You must do, it’s so wonderful. If this was my cock I’d have problems keeping my hands off it. Do you lie in bed at night and run your fingers across it?” 

The final button of my shirt comes undone; I shrug it from my shoulders and allow it to fall to the disinfected floor. My small breasts stand free and proud, my pierced and swollen nipples thrusting their glittering hearts and flowers jewellery forward for his veneration. I place my hands on his thighs and lean into him causing my jewellery to sway mesmerically beneath my breasts glinting as they reflect the artificial light.

“Do you squeeze it in your whole hand or run your fingers across it lightly?” 
I straddle his knees presenting my glistening sex for his admiring appraisal. My thighs are damp against the burning heat of his flesh, my pussy lips parting to reveal my clitoris peeking from beneath its fleshy hood and the entrance of my sex dripping with the juices of my desire.

“And what do you think about? What do you fantasise about as you slide your hand up and down your cock?” 
I reach forward with my left hand, find his wrist and guide his hand to his cock.

“A girlfriend, perhaps?”

I wrap his fingers around his throbbing shaft, hold his hand in mine.

“Or some buxom glamour model from the pages of FHM.

My right hand slides down between my soaking thighs.

“Do you think of me?”

I slide a finger between my labia; find my clitoris screaming angrily for attention.

“I need you to think of me.” 
I slide his unresisting hand down his cock as my finger travels slowly over my clitoral nub.

“I want you to think of me.” 

I’m masturbating both of us; slowly, gently, sedately, eager to feel every shudder of his cock beneath our entwined hands and every pulse of my throbbing clitoris beneath my fingers.

“Dream of me.” 
I’m picking up the tempo; his foreskin sliding up to kiss the base of his cockhead, his tip nodding and dancing with every movement, his tight little balls swinging beneath him as my hand finds the rhythm of his need. I squeeze at his hand pushing our digits deeper into his flesh, dig a fingernail into his skin and feel him squirm as we ride up and down his length in unison. Another fingernail, strengthened and sharpened, digs into the softness of my clitoris causing me to gasp at the suddenness of the assault. I wriggle on his thigh to escape but only succeed in embedding myself even more fixedly on my shameless, abusive and probing fingers.

My eyes have become fixated on the glorious, swollen mass of his cock but through sheer willpower and strength of character, I manage to drag them free and persuade them to wander up his shaking torso to find his face. His head is thrown back, eyes closed, long thick lashes caressing his cheeks, his mouth moving constantly, his teeth nibbling at his soft full lips and then falling open as he pants.

I lean into him, trapping our joined hands beneath me, feeling his cock jumping against my belly. He’s distracted by his own lust and I haven’t brought him this far for him not to give me what I require. I need him to be clear as to my expectations. It is necessary that he gives me what I want.

Otherwise, just what is the point?

I still the movement of our hands, wait until I have his full attention and then, as if speaking to a child, I enunciate slowly and clearly my requirements.

“I want to watch you. I want to see what you do when you’re alone in your bed. I want you to fill your mind with me as you slide your hand down your length, as you pummel your cock with your hand. I want you to cum for me. I want to watch it erupt from your smooth, silky head and feel it burning into my skin.” 

I sit back up, raising myself to my full height, my eyes boring into his, daring him to moan or whine, challenging him to beg me for more than he deserves. Gradually I loosen my fingers, untangle them and allow them to slide up the inside of my cum slick thighs, leaving him free to show me what a good boy he can be, giving him the opportunity to demonstrate that that he is a stalker deserving of being noticed and could maybe with proper care and attention become that special somebody I’ve been endlessly seeking. 

Slowly but surely his hand starts to move; with his thumb and finger touching each other delicately they form a ring far more gentle and forgiving than the rigid plastic at his base. Tiny nibbles on his taut foreskin give way to more exploratory caresses of his shaft. Gradually he increases the pressure, his strokes becoming faster, longer, harder, taking in the length of his cock between head and cable tie. Occasionally he slides a finger over his pulsing slit: once he pauses and squeezes firmly holding it tightly as he whimpers. My own hand is lost amongst the folds of my sex, my own need urgent and between the strokes of his hand and the probing of my fingers I beg him for release. 

“Please cum. Please cum for me.”

He whimpers a response, his hand thrusting along his length, his body quivering with tension.

A soft sob accompanies every stroke of his magnificent manhood. Girly crying as his climax approaches, as his hand slides smoothly up and down his length, as his body twitches, as his thighs shake beneath me, with eyes screwed shut, nostrils flared and mouth agape he pants noisily towards release.

I hear it again; more of a sob this time and realisation slaps me across the face. He’s not whimpering; it’s coming from the next cubicle but I really don’t care anymore. My world view has been reduced to five inches of throbbing flesh, the hand that massages it and waiting for that glorious moment when his cum splashes across my trembling body.

He has switched to short strokes; thumb and finger rubbing furiously at his stretched foreskin; the slit in his swollen purple head expanding and dilating, his shaft shuddering beneath his fingers.

“I’m ...” 
“I’m ...” 

 His eyes shoot open staring blankly into space, his body jerks upwards, and goes completely stiff, his hand, which a moment ago was a blur, stops dead in its tracks, his cock is visibly swelling and contracting before my eyes.

“Going ...” 
I reach forward and grab his cock in my hand almost swooning with delight as his heat burns into my flesh.

Whimpers, pants, grunts and sobs assail my ears; male and female entwined, his and hers, pleasure and suffering, all joining in a cacophony of noise. I ignore them all and focus on my prize cock; this wondrous flesh so alive beneath my fingers, this cum filled shaft that throbs desperate to shoot its creamy offering on to the altar of my breasts.

“To ...” 

I squeeze as hard as I can just behind his cockhead trapping his hand beneath mine. His cock is rigid, 100% spunk filled gristle quaking in my firm grip. I can feel the tension of his cum beneath my fingers pushing upwards desperate for release. A single breath across his tip could send him over the top, a lick of my saliva soaked tongue could push him beyond any control, a flick of a finger, a squeeze or gentle slide of my hand down his length could turn me into the cum drenched girl of my dreams.

I drive our hands hard down his swollen length, across the cable tie and smash it into his pubis. Instantly a single spurt of cum erupts from his cock tip and splatters menacingly on my chest. He’s pulsing but still the cable restricts him. I push our hands upwards; position them ready, watch his slit contracting desperate to be of service, give his fingers a gentle squeeze and then ram our entwined hands down his length once more.

There’s no stopping now; no more teasing pauses. He wants to cum and I need to be coated with his heavenly nectar. Our hands piston up and down his cock, pumping his cum beyond the plastic band, and driving it to his cockhead. His balls pulse. His shaft shudders uncontrollably. I’m shouting at him; urging him to cum, demanding he splatter me with his seed, that he drench me, soak me and make of me an adorable little cum covered slut.

Hot liquid splashes against my face and neck; thick globules of sticky cum that start to slide down my skin immediately. More lands on my chest and breasts and I shudder, delighted by their assault. His smell is everywhere; a thick musk that invades my nostrils and fills my mouth. My ears fill with whimpers and sobs, my eyesight blurs, my head spins, and my hand rides the length of his cock repeatedly. My torso ignites in a thousand pinpricks of sensation as it bathes in the fiery brimstone cast down upon it by my new phallic god.

So this is heaven.

I slam my fingers deep into the soft, yearning crevice of my pussy and cum and cum and cum.

It is a lovely journey full of symphonic music, bright lights and exploding stars and it is a long time before I can persuade myself to return to the here and now. Gradually I regain control of my breathing, force my eyelids off my eyes and try to bring grey, stainless steel reality into focus. He’s slumped backwards, panting heavily, eyes shut and chest heaving so I sit for a minute watching him in repose and luxuriate in the feel of his cum trickling slowly down my torso. I allow my fingers to wander across my chest, dipping their tips in the pools and streams until they have quite coated themselves with his divine fluids. They are quite filthy so I let them rest awhile in my mouth, my lips closing around their base as my tongue explores every wrinkle of their surface, cleansing them of their creamy muck and as my tongue goes about its task, my eyes wander down to the source of those flavoursome fluids as it reposes happily in his groin. I watch the final few droplets ooze from his cock’s tip and, not wanting to waste such a precious liquid, I lean forward, take his slowly deflating cock in my mouth and lap the last drips of his pleasure into my deserving mouth.

I have promised him freedom and he has proved himself deserving. I can rely on him I’m sure. He will never desert me not now I have shown him how joyous I will make his life. I slide my lips down him, sucking him deep into my dribbling mouth, reaching down to find his captive band. He is softening and I take the plastic between my teeth and wriggle it over his poor abraded length ignoring his sudden winces and anguished cries. His head is so raw and swollen that it gets quite stuck and I struggle to release him. He is most unhelpful; wriggling and moaning plaintively, but finely, with teeth, saliva and lips I manage to drag it off him.

I sit back up on his thighs, the plastic tie held between my teeth like a baby O’Ring. He starts to say something but I stop him with a finger to the lips and raise myself onto shaky legs, and indicate that he should dress. I listen to the rustle of his clothing, the noise of his zipper sliding shut and the sound of a buckled belt barring admission but neither sobs nor whimpers vibrate across my ear.

He wants to get away now. I can’t tell whether he’s scared of being caught or just eager to get back to work. I haven’t dressed; my naked chest gleams with his cum, my nipples hard beneath the air conditioning. He wants to squeeze past me, to open the door and run away but I’m not quite ready for him to do that just yet.

I hold up my finger; dangled around it like an oversized ring is the cable tie with my luggage label attached. He reaches for it hesitantly.

“Take it.” 
An order, assertively delivered is never denied.

“You are going to call me.” 
“Um, yeah, sure.” 
Very unconvincing. 
“And you could visit; my address is on there and you do live quite close.”

He looks at the label suspiciously as if it’s a bomb and could explode in his hand at any moment.

“Actually tonight would be good. Why don’t you come around about 8.30.” 
I rush on not giving him a chance to refuse.

“And you could bring a friend.” 

He’s looking at me like I’m mad.

“The nice one that you sit with at lunch, the one with the tight trousers and dark, brooding looks. What’s his name?”

His head must be as fuzzy as mine for it takes him a moment to remember. 

“Bring Robert. I’m sure that the three of us could find lots of fun things to do together.”

Before he can answer, I slide the bolt back and with almost impolite haste push him out of the cubicle and off towards the washroom door and in an instant, with barely a backward glance, he is gone.

No sooner does the door slam shut than the sobbing starts up again. I step out of the cubicle; the door to the end one now seems to be nearly closed. Whoever she is, that’s where she is. For a moment I consider shrugging on my shirt and then exiting stage right in a clatter of heels, but I may be the cause of those sobs and no matter how badly you might think of me, I’m not someone to walk away from another human being in distress. Sighing inwardly I push open the cubicle door.

She’s sat huddled on the toilet; every part of her squeezed together in an attempt to make herself as small as possible. Her knickers hang off one ankle and she has twisted up her skirt into a small knot of fabric that with one hand she is hugging against her stomach and her other hand seems to be buried between her tightly squeezed thighs. Tears and make-up stain her cheek, her eyes are red, her nose running, her bottom lip swollen from where she’s bit it and her whole body shakes as she sobs.

It’s a stupid thing to say, but I said it.

“It’s okay.” 
Huge sobs explode in her chest, her mouth falls open panting heavily, and tears spring afresh from her eyes.

And because it has worked so well first time, I repeat it again and again and again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” 
When quite evidently it is not.

Not knowing what to do, I hug her; pulling her head against my chest, encircling her in my arms, stroking her hair and back as I repeat “It’s okay” over and over again as gently as my voice allows.

She’s a stranger. If I’ve seen her before then I don’t remember her, but perhaps she’s one of those people who sits quietly off to one side and goes about her life unnoticed by those of us who demand attention. Maybe she’s always there; in the office, the canteen or passed in corridors, but in a world where there is only just enough room for my needs she is a mere shadow that flits past unseen.

I don’t really have time for other people’s pain and suffering and I’m not normally very good at these situations, but I persevere and something I’ve done must be right because gradually I can feel her breathing calming and her sobbing subside. It’s only then that I realise that not only am I still naked above my skirt but I’ve spent the last few minutes holding her face against my cum drenched chest. Embarrassed as to my condition, I repeat my magical mantra though perhaps as much for my benefit as for hers.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” 

Yes, it is going to be okay. Her crying stops, she lets go of her skirt and encircles my waist with her arm pushing her hot face into my rapidly cooling skin. I stroke her hair with the back of my hand and whisper soothing sounds. She nuzzles into me in response, her nose a damp caress contrasting with the fiery heat of her cheeks. The sobs in her throat have become murmured words; barely audible, unidentifiable sentences that her mouth forms and expels into the flesh of my breasts.

“It’s okay.”

Words fail her and the murmuring stops but still her tear dampened lips move against my smooth flesh. I feel her embrace tighten about me; fingers digging into my skin, her arm crushing my ribs, her face pressed ever deeper into the small fleshy mound of my breast, her mouth moving constantly against my skin until finally I realise.

Her tongue snakes out and I feel its tip wet against me, feel it slide across, feel it lapping at my startled body, feel it licking me clean, tasting, savouring, luxuriating in the thick, sticky beautiful cum that he so kindly deposited across my chest. My cum; which I have worked so hard for, which I coaxed from his unwilling cock, that I was going to let soak into my skin so that the smell of him would be with me all day. She is stealing my cum.

I stroke her hair and let my fingers tangle amongst it. She nuzzles further into me, as her tongue explores across my chest savouring his flavour; my flavour.

“It’s okay.”

The sound of urine splashing into the toilet resonates throughout the cubicle. She’s holding onto me for dear life, her body foetal, knees drawn up, thighs squeezed together with a hand trapped between them, her whole body shaking as she releases her bladder. Unthinkingly, I stroke her hair, my mouth open yet silent, even its simple mantra stilled, my ears full of the sound of piss showering the porcelain, my distracted mind attempting to piece together just exactly how a normal Tuesday has ended up like this.

I barely notice her mouth moving until her lips close around my erect nipple and she starts to suckle gently at my teat.

Claude stifles a yawn as he saunters across to the kettle and switches it on. His last coffee has gone quite cold and his throat feels like it needs a little lubrication. Sex in a toilet, now that was something Edie most certainly wouldn’t have approved of; seedy or common she’d have called it. 

“A gentleman, Claude Rains, keeps his hands in his pockets and doesn’t go a-bothering his young lady.” 

 Her gently chiding words float down to him across the decades and for a moment he is stood once again in the queue at the Odeon, Edie at his side, her eyes twinkling, laying down the rules for their first date. 

Whistling happily to himself Claude removes a couple of Ginger Nuts from the biscuit barrel and waits for his kettle to boil. 

Author’s Note 

I think I’m in agreement with Edie, dear reader; it is all rather seedy and common. After all, the proper place for sexual relations is in the privacy of one’s own home, wrapped in the loving arms of one’s spouse or partner. When you read about such irresponsible and deviant behaviour it does make one wonder what has happened to the moral fibre of this once great nation of ours. 
Nevertheless, I do seem stuck with narrating this young lady’s adventures; though I’m not quite sure how that responsibility fell to me; and I have been instructed to inform you that we can expect a further instalment. It will be called ‘Tag Teamed’ which I thought was something to do with wrestling ... but apparently not. 
Thank you for reading. Please do vote, comment or write if you so desire. 
Your humble servant, 

 Cum Girl x

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