I need you so badly right now. You have no idea.
It interferes with work, you know, this rock-hard erection in my jeans. It keeps me shifting in my seat, in a strange mix of pleasure and annoyance. Annoyance because I have the damnedest time concentrating on work when the insistent throbbing at my groin pulses hard and hot with every beat of my heart. Pleasure because every time I shift, the fabric of my jeans and underwear slides across me, building the delicious friction up even further and keeping me nice and rigid, ready for anything. Ready to be set free. Ready to be engulfed by your hot wet mouth, or spear into your slippery slit. Ready to fire off bursts of creamy cum for you to lap up with your swirling tongue.
Oh, hell. This just isn't helping. And I'm starting to hallucinate, too. I can almost feel your hands busily working at the snap on my jeans. Can feel you slowly sliding jeans and underwear down, releasing my cock to wave angrily about in the cool air. Can feel your small hand encircling the shaft, gently teasing, stroking lightly up and down. It feels so fucking good. Every thump of my pulse sends more blood down there, swelling me still more, giving it a satiny smooth look, full to bursting.
I can see the look in your eyes as you bend forward, slurping around the purple head as if it were the best grape Popsicle you'd ever had. The sensation is exquisite. Down you go on me, leaving bright red lipstick rings from top to bottom, smearing them all over me as you suck hard. I groan and my hands wind restlessly into your hair.
Now you've got your hands into the action for real. I hear wet shlicking sounds as you begin to pump me, excruciatingly slowly. Your fingers tap-dance around, curving here and there, squeezing teasingly tight for a moment before engulfing me in a twisting torus. My cock is slippery with your spit, and you're keeping it nicely lubed up, dipping your head down, drooling more spit, strings of precum dangling from your lips, your tongue, your chin. Ragged sighs escape me and you grin that wicked grin, nipping lightly at my cockhead and running your tongue along the underside.
Now your hands are twisting back and forth along and around my length. You're squeezing me on each upstroke, sending more blood to the head. It flares briefly with each squeeze, a big shiny mushroom slick with your wetness. Your sucking mouth is concentrating on the head now but you let it pop free every few seconds so I can admire the job you're doing. Not that I'm paying much attention to the visual artistry anymore; my entire consciousness is now drawn down to a tiny point of light. The sound of the blood rushing in my ears is a soft thunder.
You know I like to warn you so you can decide where you want it, but this time it just happens too fucking fast. All I can get out is "Oh fuck I'm...." before I erupt, splattering thick white streams over your mouth, your face, your hands, and that lovely green satin shirt you love so much. I twitch and jerk and gasp and bellow as you keep working me with your hands and mouth, draining me dry, leaving me spent, feeling guilty because I didn't lift a finger for your own pleasure.
You drop me a saucy wink as your tongue curls out and licks up a few droplets along the corner of your mouth. Still dripping with my come, you stand up and grab your keys. "Gotta run," you say. "Thanks for lunch. I was really hungry."
If only. All you women seem to have blowjobs on your mind this morning. Can I help it if this is where my mind goes as a result?