Wanting.

It was a meeting at work, which I know is a dull start but it was a dull meeting.It was a long meeting at the end of a long day and a group of us sitting around a table, the head honchos talking about terribly complex, difficult things with wads of paper, evidence, ideas and theories.

I had to concentrate and I was concentrating. I was in full and proper work mode. My back was straight, my skirt long, my heels high, and my ankles crossed demurely under my chair.

But much as I fought it, a sensation kept forcing itself into my mind. The first time it happened I managed to push it aside. It was a sensation of you behind me, of nudity, desire and fulfilment. I coughed a little, improved my posture, and made a comment about the budget to the group.

The meeting continued. My mind forgot to focus on keeping the wicked image at bay and moments later I was gone again.

My elbows are bent on the bed, my hair trailing down so I can feel its light touch on my arms, blond hair catching the sunlight.My back is arched, pushing my bottom out, keeping it steady and open. I hear you breathing and I am lost in wanting you.Your breath is strong, steady, filled with not so much desire as getting, as receiving and giving. Hearing that sound makes me forget myself and forget everything else I am.

My knees and lower legs are flat on the bed, smooth against cool sheets, toes curling up and under of their own accord. My legs are open though, in a way that should be immodest but your sounds have made me forget myself. I know you can see me – how that thought thrills me when it should fill me with shame.

Your hands have moved me, separated my cheeks and opened me to you. With gentle and unrelenting pressure you placed yourself inside me, between them. My eyes opened wide at the unaccustomed sensation as you moulded me against you. You are lodged deep within me, forced into that place where I should feel shame. As I listen to you and as I feel you behind me I feel no shame. I feel lust.

Lust sounds abstract and antiquated but it’s not. It is a desperate, single wanting. It is relief when the hardness of you pushes against me inside, and grief when you withdraw with each stroke. Lust is forgetting everything but you as you pull my hips back, and the force of you inside me forces my breath out in a rush of shock and delight.Lust is the string of obscenities that burst from my mouth as an ancient wanting that refuses to express itself any other way.

You drive us steadily onwards. I want this to stop so I can hold onto the moment but I want it to carry on so I can feel it again and again. I want nothing else except the welcome intrusion. I would never have the presence of mind to lead this dance; we would be lost in a sordid flurry of grabbing. I want you in my mouth just as deeply yet I want never to leave the tight, dark place where you have rooted yourself into me. My mouth waters with desire. I want you, the taste of you, and the strength of you. I want you so much that I forget myself utterly.

You reach around me, sure fingers under me, forward and finding me, finding that part of me that makes me cry out. I squeeze my eyes shut, bend my head down and then up again, as though you pulled my hair towards you. I have no control at all nowand this is obvious to us both. I do not know what you are doing and I don’t care. You know. You always know.

I hear myself moan, as though I exist outside myself. You touch me with certainty and power as you make me shake but your strength keeps me pushing against you. I start to buck, to resist. You do not alter at all, you insist. I can’t see, my eyes squeezed shut and I lose all feeling except for where your body touches mine.

The intrusion is a delight, a guttural delight. When you first entered me I squeezed my eyes shut with shame. I whimpered, a soft plea to be gentle, to be slow, to stop. But now I want you never to stop, never to be gentle. I want you to pull me back onto you with all your strength. You know this like you know everything.

I don’t remember coming but I know I did. I don’t care. The sensation of you inside me in the way that no lady is supposed to enjoy, the sensation of your hands on my hips, on the core of me, the sound of your breathing and desire for me, that is what I care about.

Back in the room with the meeting and the suits I smiled at the memory and focused again in front of me. I saw serious, thoughtful men and looked down to my papers. I picked invisible lint from my skirt and raised my head, demure and professional once more. I offered a comment about a partnership agency to the group and pushed the thought of you away, and when you sought to intrude once more I thought what a relief it is that they do not know what I think.

Would you like another?