Ever mindful of his things she shifts books and papers out of the way before she squirms onto the desk, a single shiver trailing up her spine and breaking along starkly drawn collarbones. She's relying on a hand twined in the hair at the back of his head and the other gripping his shirt to keep her upright; with her legs spread this wide she has no leverage otherwise. The twist of his fingers earns a high, thin sound, one she almost immediately suppresses with cut-off breath and teeth in her lip, looking pleadingly at him out of eyes entirely pupil.
The imploring look is real, to an extent, at least as real as the little whimper she favored him with (although all her murmurs and gasps are more stolen than they are favors) when he did - as she knew he would - pin her this way, not just what he's doing but the things he says. It's an interesting and complicated game between them; maybe at 19 it's fine to like sex, to crave his fingers and mouth and cock even (especially) when he's away from her - and she knows, has some idea that she's being trained, the same way a pet is trained to wear a leash - but wanting it this much, catching herself fingering the buttons on her blouse or rubbing her thighs together just watching his hands on fabric samples (all that texture, satins and velvets rubbed backwards)--there's got to be something wrong with that.
The trouble, or the ...lack of trouble, is that maybe that's what she likes the most. When he makes her feel--wrong, casts that little pall of corrective behavior on things she has absolutely no control over. It's freeing, in a way that makes her gasp with relief as much as shifting hungry, sticky flesh around his fingers, to think he'll do whatever he wants with her, to her, and she won't be able to stop him. If he wants his coworkers to hear her, it's inevitable they will, and the thought sends a hot spike of shame flaring down to burst between her legs. "I'm here now, darling."
Obviously. Curled hot and close and pliant, mouth a little open at the corners, not quite able to sit still under the pressure of his fingers. "You can--oh--you have me, you know that. But don't--you won't really make me, will you? Not in front of them."
Except, despite the plaintive note (or because of it), he will, and she'll beg him for it.
no subject
The imploring look is real, to an extent, at least as real as the little whimper she favored him with (although all her murmurs and gasps are more stolen than they are favors) when he did - as she knew he would - pin her this way, not just what he's doing but the things he says. It's an interesting and complicated game between them; maybe at 19 it's fine to like sex, to crave his fingers and mouth and cock even (especially) when he's away from her - and she knows, has some idea that she's being trained, the same way a pet is trained to wear a leash - but wanting it this much, catching herself fingering the buttons on her blouse or rubbing her thighs together just watching his hands on fabric samples (all that texture, satins and velvets rubbed backwards)--there's got to be something wrong with that.
The trouble, or the ...lack of trouble, is that maybe that's what she likes the most. When he makes her feel--wrong, casts that little pall of corrective behavior on things she has absolutely no control over. It's freeing, in a way that makes her gasp with relief as much as shifting hungry, sticky flesh around his fingers, to think he'll do whatever he wants with her, to her, and she won't be able to stop him. If he wants his coworkers to hear her, it's inevitable they will, and the thought sends a hot spike of shame flaring down to burst between her legs. "I'm here now, darling."
Obviously. Curled hot and close and pliant, mouth a little open at the corners, not quite able to sit still under the pressure of his fingers. "You can--oh--you have me, you know that. But don't--you won't really make me, will you? Not in front of them."
Except, despite the plaintive note (or because of it), he will, and she'll beg him for it.