Consumption
He leaned over my desk this morning, his face serious and still, whispering ideas for another rendezvous.
Sometimes we are like glassy waters, lying placid and every day. Then, suddenly, the boiling starts, the rolling waves of hidden heat. This then, is when hunger overtakes us and we hold an ache behind our breastbones, moaning inwardly at every brush-by of touch or breath.
We touch each other just daringly outside of the sight of others. I lick his neck, drag my hand across his chest. He palm my ass, kisses me quick and silent, just the soft pull of his lips on mine in an abandoned hall. Under conference tables, we slide our hands too high on each other’s thighs, heightening each other’s arousal until finally in some hidden place he twines his fingers in my hair, pulls my head near his skin, kisses me in dangerous places.
Late last night in a haze of heat and pheromones I came to stand behind him at his desk, where he works his vampire hours. He turns his eyes from the glowing screen, spins his chair to face me, his hands up my skirt, past my stockings, and sliding straight inside me in seconds. I am in a haze, just a blur of desire and wetness and the ever deepening ache, ache, ache in my chest, my gut, my thighs. We are playing a dangerous game. I break away from him, pleased as a cat on a hunt, drunk on his desire for me.
But that was just a moment late on a midweek work night. Today we circle each other in the presence of others, steaming like bodies emerging from a hot shower into a cold room. He whispers to me his hours, tells me of the place where he will be alone, most likely with an erection in wait. I thrill at this invitation, at his aggression, his assertiveness.
Instantly I swell, and then I wait. All the long day I wait – meetings unfolding before me, emails, phone calls, small chat around the coffee maker. All my tasks feel like mosquitoes, distracting me from the time and place where I will be his presumed conquest, but truly he will be mine. I wait for the time when his hands will be under my clothes, his lips on my neck, his tongue between my teeth. I will thrill at how he takes my fingers into his mouth, obediently, hungrily. He will want me on his lap then, both of us sitting in his office chair, grinding against the heat of his cock. He will bite my tits, rub his fingers insistent and sticky on my clit until I pulse and cry out, die a little death. I cannot wait to feel his eagerness cut through me, to gasp at his arrival in my void, to rock him to climax deep in my cunt, held tight between my thighs.
“Playmates, not soulmates” is our motto. Still, the urgency of this scares me; the intensity of my need for his body is like one I’ve never known. Unexplainable. Visceral. When I see him through the glass walls of our offices, serving all the long hours to our master, the firm, I yearn. I hunger. I WANT. So what is that then? This thing too intense for play, too insanely carnal for love? Like a beast, it wants to consume, and I am surprised to find myself wiling prey. I realize with a thrill of terror that we are both in the grip of a predator, more than willing to be consumed.
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