To Do List

This is my to-do list for today:

You

That's right. You're on my to-do list; are, in fact, the sum total of said list. I will be pursuing you with singleminded determination and efficiency. If all goes as planned, I will be done with my list, and with you, by noon today.

First I'll call in sick to work. It's easy to do when you take so few personal days off; being married to your work is sometimes a good thing. That will free me up for the rest of my more important tasks for the day.

Next, I'll hop in my car and drive to your office. Oh, yes....I know where you work. You've been keen to keep all professional references out of your scathingly hot journal entries, but a smart man, a methodical man, can put the pieces together and come up with a definite after some calculation and elimination. So I'll drive to your workplace, dressed to the nines in a smart suit, and stroll up to the receptionist.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Oh, I think you can," I'll say, and tell her that I have an appointment with you.

"I.......didn't think she had any appointments this morning, sir. Can I have your name, please?"

"Surely. You can tell her that P. Bjørne Thørsen is here to see her."

"P. Bjørne Thørsen," she'll repeat slowly, and turn to her phone.

This is the one crucial spot. Will you recognize the name? Will your mind go winnowing through the recesses of your memory, connecting half-remembered email flirtations and salacious comments with a casually-tossed-off suggestion that I join you for "coffee" some day? Will you connect Mr. P. Bjørne Thørsen with me? And if you do....will you succumb to temptation?

Of course you will. I know you very well, you see.

And so the receptionist will inform me that you're ready to see me, and lead me down the hallway (passing curious co-workers who don't recognize me; "is he a new contact?" "Who's the sales guy?" "Anybody want the last donut?" -- well, maybe that last one wasn't about me) until we reach your own expansive office.

"Mr. Thorsen," she'll announce me, and then I'll close the door quietly, and it'll be just the two of us.

A long silence will fall, an electric silence, a tangible silence. It'll be the kind of silence that's thick with unspoken invitations, with possibilities. But you'll break first, as I knew you would. "You're a brazen bastard, aren't you?" you'll inquire, trying to sound angry.

Of course, I won't reply to that, simply staring at you, eyes scanning your body slowly, insolently, until you flush under the insistent heat of my gaze, and drop your own eyes to the carpet.

"That's better," I'll say. "You knew I'd come for you one day. It was only a matter of time."

Slowly, slowly, I'll sidle towards you, easing around your desk. Your eyes will follow me but you won't make a move, won't even turn to face me as I circle around behind you. My hands will go to your waist and press there, deliberately, firmly, but I won't touch you anywhere else -- not yet. A tiny shiver will be your only reaction so far. I'll bend forward to sniff along the back of your neck -- an animal scenting prey. I'll plant a trail of kisses along your neck -- a fine thing, these business dresses for women; they still leave a fine expanse of neck and shoulder free for the rest of us to admire -- and be rewarded with a breathy little sigh.

I'll pull you against me, allow you to feel the weight of my thickening erection against the softness of that magnificent ass of yours. My hands will run up your front now and find the buttons of your dress, where I'll begin unbuttoning them very slowly. I'll resume the kisses on your neck and throat, now being interspersed with light nibbles on the particularly tasty bits, and will listen with amusement to your deepening breathing, the sharp intakes of air when I do something you particularly like.

For example, when I get your dress unbuttoned far enough to expose your bra, and then unhook that to let your tits spill out. How nice of you -- you wore a bra that unhooks in the front, just for me. I'll run my hands over your globes, palms and fingertips making slow circles around your nipples and spiraling inward, tweaking them, making them stand out, standing up just for me. You'll be moaning deep in your throat right now, but your need for decorum will still be battling with your need to be fucked, so you'll be trying to keep it quiet despite the rising tide of sensations.

Abruptly I'll spin you around to face me and pull you hard against me for a fast and savage kiss. Invading, brutalizing, sandpaper of stubble rasping against your lips, contrasting with the eager heat and wetness of your tongue tangling with mine. I'll pull back from you with a moist parting sound and gaze down at you intently. There it'll be -- the fire kindled in your eyes, the heat that says "dominate me", the flame that's burning away the vestiges of your caution.

Accepting the flame, I'll push you down on the desk on your back, sweeping papers, office supplies and computer equipment off with a rustling, clattering crash. "No," you'll gasp, "the door. It's not locked." And of course I'll reply, "You knew it wasn't locked from the start and you didn't say anything. Too late to change your mind now," and punctuate the now by hiking the dress up past your waist.

Then, of course, I'll see that you aren't wearing panties, and chuckle, "My, you are a naughty girl today. Let's take care of that," and unzip my slacks. I'll chuckle some more at feeling your eager fingers helping free my cock from its confinement, and gasp softly when they wrap around me, drawing me closer. You'll be on the edge of regaining a modicum of control, but I can't have that, so I'll slam your wrists down on each side of you on the desk, pinning you beneath me, and thrust hard, upward, forward, into you.

Heat. God, the heat. I've fantasized about it for months, but never dreamed it'd be so. fucking. hot. inside you. But you'll be hot, all right, hot and wet, and tight as well, clenching around me as I batter my way into you. I'll be doing you hard and heavy, silencing your moans and gasps by covering your mouth with my own, slamming into you hard enough to leave imprints from the desk edge on the backs of your thighs.

Then, after a few minutes of banging, just when you're getting really into it, I'll stop completely, long enough for your eyes to fly open in shock and stare at me. I'll stare back at you, devouring you with my eyes, cock still buried deep in your cunt but utterly motionless. What a sight: to have you splayed on your desk, pinned and at my mercy, helpless before anything I might choose to do to you.

"Please....." I'll hear you whisper, afraid to raise your voice any more.

"Please what?" I'll inquire languidly, as if I hadn't been fucking you without mercy seconds before.

"Oh, God, do I have to beg for it?"

I'll pretend to consider, but in truth, this is what you love. You want to be dominated, to be taken, told what to do and how. So of course I'll say, "Yes, I think you do."

A flash of gratitude whirls across your expression and is gone. Then, "Please, fuck me. Take me. I'm yours. Do me hard and fast. Do me here on this desk, I don't care if anyone hears anymore. Slam me. Ram me. Give me that cock and fuck me hard. I'm begging you."

"It's....unseemly....for a woman.....to beg," I'll gasp out, punctuating each phrase by thrusting hard. You'll moan under the renewed assault, lifting your hips up to meet me each time. Soon we'll be back into a hard and fast rhythm again, bodies calling to each other, flesh meeting flesh with a flat, authoritative smacking sound, wet juicy sounds coming from your pussy as I pound you hard. I'll be mauling your tits by this time, with lips and tongue and teeth, trying to cram as much of you into my mouth as I can, feeling you arch underneath me to push your tits into my face.

Still I'll be fucking you, jamming into you harder and faster with every second. You'll be yelping and crying out now, past the point of caring, and me as well. I'll growl, "Cum for me, woman," and be rewarded by a cry of ecstasy, strangely quiet compared to how loud we've gotten. I'll emit a low moan of my own as your cunt clamps down on my cock, milking my own cum out to splatter your insides in pulsing jets. Then I'll subside, still panting.

It'll be long minutes before I soften and slip out of you, and I'll be spending the whole time caressing you, brushing your hair out of your face, planting soft kisses on your exposed skin from navel to forehead. Then, with a grin, I'll pull out my cell phone and take a picture of your new freshly-fucked look, before you can cover up or turn your face away.

"Blackmail material?" you'll ask, bitterly, as I pull back and begin tucking myself away.

"Of course not," I'll answer. "Just for my own enjoyment. You may be the president of the company, but I own you. I don't have any need for blackmail. And you know it."

You'll shiver, not entirely from the chill of the air conditioning, and straighten up, my cum already dripping down your legs. "I.......guess I do," you'll say.

I'll leave you to get cleaned up and head for the door. With a soft "click" I'll unlock it, and turn the knob.

"Wait!" I'll hear from behind me. "It....it was locked after all?"

"Naturally," I'll grin over my shoulder. "But next time, it won't be........"

-- PB