http://gwadarcentral.com/news/notice/abashirikankoukyoukai.html http://preferredmode.com/tag/bmx/ ~ erotica ~
The first time I asked you to fuck me was when we first met. You had this bright look in your eyes, a wide smile, and you shook my hand firmly when we were introduced. I found that refreshing. You were treating me as an equal, even though I was the new girl in the office, fresh out of grad school, full of hopes and dreams of saving the world.
It was a Monday afternoon. Karen, the head of HR, was showing me around the office and introducing me to people. You were only the third person I’d met, besides Karen and my cubicle-mate. You made me feel welcome, accepted.
The next time I asked you to fuck me was the very next day. I showed up to work in my nicest suit, the most professional thing I owned, and the most expensive, with a skirt that hugged my thighs and a blouse that was silkier than my sheets. I felt very professional, very adult, walking in that day. But you made me feel like a young girl, my heart a flutter at the sight of you.
I was trying to recall everyone’s name, trying to remember faces from the tour Karen gave me. I stumbled often on my second day. But I remembered your name.
As I made my coffee in the break room, hoping the caffeine would kick start my brain, you came in to fill your water bottle. I looked over at you, said, “Good morning Brandon,” and you smiled back and said, “Good morning Julie.” I loved hearing you say my name.
I often imagine you whispering my name in my ear between kisses on my neck, my cheeks, your arms wrapped tight around me. You moaning my name into my ear as you first enter me. Screaming my name throughout the office as we cum while fucking on the floor under my cubicle.
We easily fell into a daily routine. Every morning I make my coffee, say “Good morning Brandon” to you as you fill your water bottle and say “Good morning Julie” to me, and silently, desperately, I ask you to “fuck me, please”. But you never hear me.
My favorite, and worst, part of my day are the same: saying “Good morning” to you.
Since the first day I met you, and saw a blind optimism, a hope that you could do more than anyone ever had before, I took joy in just the sight of your sweetness.
But my joy was laced with an edge of caution. Too often I’ve met girls like you, fresh from grad school, with hope that, day-by-day, grew dimmer. Most didn’t last past a year. I don’t want to see you falter, don’t want to see the glimmer in your eyes diminish.
Because a part of me wants your gaze, your joy, to be about me. I want your happiness to be given to me in a dark corner of the office, when everyone else is gone. Your blouse opened, skirt pushed up to your waist. I want to hear your hurried breathing with your back pushed against the cement wall of the lonely back stairwell, which no one ever uses. I want to kiss in your happiness, breathe in your hope, and give you back joy and ecstasy in kind. I want to be the reason you smile each morning.
Each morning, when I say “Good morning Julie”, and I see your belief that you are doing something right, something good, a part of me wonders, dare I say hopes, that one day your joy will be because of me.
All I ever wish is that one day you will look at me while making your coffee, with a smile on your face and in your eyes, say, “Good morning, Brandon” , but add a “fuck me, please” to our daily routine.
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