So, I made you late for another meeting today? And how did I do that exactly? Was I the one sitting at her desk imagining, dreaming about things that might be done? Was I the one who shifted uncomfortably in her chair, spreading her legs a little wider than required, feeling the cool air on her damp inner thighs?
You can blame me if you want, but was I the one, with beating heart, who walked down the hall to the bathroom? Did I push the door open and walk across the cool tile to the stall that seemed most secluded? Am I the one who pulled up her dress around her waist and felt the damp stickiness that was oozing through the thin material of my panties? Who made first contact, you or I? Am I the one pulled the material to the side, and then, too hungry to wait, pulled them down off my thighs to let them fall to the floor, wet, fragrant, slick with juices?
Accuse me, I can live with the guilt. Was I the one who, thinking that it would be just a brief moment, put finger to clit and began to circle, to spread the juices of lust across plumped lips, and plunged hungry fingers into a cunt already inflamed with need? Was it you or I that set in motion this erotic ride? Are you the one who sat, half naked in the corporate stall, rubbing the very clit and thought deeply about what I only hinted at?
Perhaps you're daydreaming of the people in your pictures on your posts. Selectively chosen because they made you wet, hot, and made you want to fuck. Maybe it wasn't me at all. As you sat at your desk and felt your body tingle, perhaps you are thinking of the chiseled men and naked women in the beautiful photos which you selected last night.
Perhaps you posted them and then buried your soft cheeks in softer pillows, your hips raised up and flared open, waiting, ready to be used for my selfish pleasure. Or maybe it was not the pictures at all. Perhaps it was the hot young intern, or the beautiful receptionist with a skirt a little too short, or maybe it was the thought of your shower as you brought yourself glorious orgasm.
You can blame me if you want. Blame me for your lust and your need and your tender fingertips that cannot stop themselves from roaming even while you sit at your desk and read this now.
Blame me if you want....It only makes me smile.....