After-Work Itch
When routine grinds you down, sometimes the only relief is your own.
It hits around 3 PM, that dull throb in my office chair, the one that squeaks like a dying cat every time I shift. The spreadsheet's the usual nightmare, Q1 sales for the Morrissey account, numbers blurring as my Primark jeans dig into my hip bone. My thighs clench. Pussy humming hot and heavy, and it won't quit. By home time, it's a full-on demand. Clothes hit the floor in a tangle, jeans inside-out, and a bra snagged on...