Watch me fuck while I’m so desperate for you

The hot, frothy water surrounding me is only arousing me more as I lie back in the bath, trying to get a hold of myself. It's been one of those days, where just everything set me off, but especially him. Of all my strange crushes, the new guy in the archives department is the weirdest.

Brown, pinstripe suit and thick, black glasses. Unruly black hair curling into his collar. Big hands. Like, really big hands. Heavy hands. Hairy. Long, chunky fingers.

And short. He's really short. At least six inches shorter than me! It could be his posh accent, his string of degrees and obvious intellect. However, it's really that he's built like a rhino. Clearly, he's hiding a bodybuilder beneath the crappy suit. I've also been wondering how big is he in the trouser department? In my head his cock is thick, and long, and a dusky pink.

There's nothing I need more than hot, hard sex at the end of a busy day, yet I've been let down. My husband is working late this evening. Again. He messaged earlier with many emojis, letting me know just how sorry.

How could he do this to me? Today of all days! When I'm horny as hell.

Even the photocopier made me shiver today. That blast of heat it emits when its output is high, which it was today, as I printed out several copies of our annual sales report for the board tomorrow.

Stress and needing lots of sex seem to go hand in hand for me. Which isn't fair. Especially seeing as though my husband is working on a major project himself at the moment, preparing a new architectural pitch for some billionaire. I know his work is important to him, just as much as mine at the auction room is important to me, but doesn't he know, I'm in dire need of dick?

That photocopier—its warm breath like his whenever he's between my legs, blowing on my pussy, his green eyes staring before he ever even takes that first lick. And just the thought of that one time when I was working late and he turned up unannounced and we photocopied each other until well after midnight. When we finally got tired, we came home and decorated the house with our artwork.

Even my rather mundane letter knife had me sweating today. He once removed a pair of my panties with his cutlass-shaped opener, which he keeps on his desk at home. And today, well, I know it was very naughty of me, but I sat at my desk for most of it commando. Legs spread. Wondering if anyone would be able to scent me. Especially Rupert, the hot, short geek with black eyes hidden behind thick glasses. I should've worn a sweater today, rather than the white blouse I wore open to my cleavage but I've been hot as hell since last night. My husband had arrived home late and failed to get hard and I went to sleep eventually, at two a.m., rather unsatisfied.

All that's kept me going all day has been the thought of getting home to my new lingerie. I collected it from the doorman on my way up, shivering just thinking about it. Luckily, I chose not to have it sent to me at work or else the temptation might have got the better of me.

I leave the bath and pull on a robe. I'll dry in seconds. Not only is it a warm night, but I'm burning feverishly with needing him. Yet he's nowhere to be found.

Before I pull on my new items of clothing, I send him a text: You might want to access the hallway camera in around 10 minutes x

It's our game. Whenever he's neglecting me, I do this dance for him—and up until now, it's never taken more than half an hour for him to be persuaded to come home once he sees me writhing on camera for him.

He knows about my past. How it was a different man nearly every day. I was insatiable. Still am. With a body like mine, and a dangerously high libido.

Yet, I found him—but I wasn't tamed, as such.

I choose to remain faithful, because I love him.

But I do also love cock.

Ariel, I can't, he replies, and I pout.

Well, fuck him.

I'm going to enjoy myself, whatever.

I pin my hair up tighter, retouch my lipstick and start with the high-waisted knickers. He really loves the vintage look. It's why he bent me over his Aston Martin that first night, because he couldn't control himself—because we were fire—because he couldn't resist my affection for tight pencil skirts, a nipped-in waist, heels and my red hair, always done up. He said to me that first night, "Ariel, I can't believe…"

"…my breasts?"

"Yeah," he groaned.

"Totally natural, I assure you."

"I can tell, that's why they're… fuck… let me slide between them…"

His company had helped to renovate and expand our premises, and this was the big reopening event. The sophisticated, elegant champagne reception indoors hadn't stopped us. And we also left early, obviously, and came back here to his penthouse apartment and didn't sleep a wink at all.

Oh, and now I'm just sad those days seem far behind us.

Maybe we married too quick. It was six months later we became man and wife. I was twenty-six, he was nearly forty, but we were so sure. So in love.

I'm going to enjoy myself anyway tonight. See if he doesn't come home. I'm frightened he won't… but I'm also 99% certain he'll soon be logging into the security system and checking the hallway feed, and he won't be able to stop himself calling his driver and coming straight home to me.

I've pulled a chair into the hallway. It's his chair from the office. His ugly chair, the one I hate, so he'll know I'm not playing games when he sees I've pulled it into view. I'm sending him a message: I'm desperate, please come home!

I'm barely keeping my few clothes on, posing with my ass in the air, rubbing myself over my panties and nearly coming because I feel so sexy. And what if he were to come home this minute? Find me looking like this? What would he do?

I throw that image out. I'm disappointed in him.

No, it's time for some fantasy. Time to remind him he has a siren in this house.

Oh fuck, the way my tits feel firm and heavy in this sheer, long-line shirt which feels cool to the touch and leaves nothing to the imagination—and the stockings. I've never worn a pair of stockings yet that hasn't ended up in the bin just a few hours later. I pray that they won't end up ever reused after today, but…

I can hardly stand it a second longer, imagining he is watching. His cock straining his jeans… and my body is here, beautiful and ready for him. I've never felt more desirable than I do when I'm with him. But I'm walking around all day every day so horny, and so ready all the time, my body is always on edge, needing it—wanting it—but I resist, for him though I could fuck all day.

My pussy is so heavy, the weight of my arousal, the yearning I have for a thick, hot, delicious cock, throbbing in my hands, in my mouth, then inside me.

My pale nipples are highly sensitive and the thoughts that race around my head as I stroke and caress them over the gossamer material.

Rupert, shutting the door on my office, then locking it. He'd suddenly not sound so polite or well-mannered, nor look even as shabby, my scent had drawn out the horny bastard inside. He'd rise to full height and grunt, "You're not wearing knickers, are you, Ariel?"

"No, Rupert. Is that naughty of me?"

"Very. I want you on your desk, skirt hitched up, legs spread."

I'd do as he says, and then he'd stand there, watching me spread open to him with my heeled shoes hooked over the edge of the desk. He'd stare, a hand against his mouth, trying not to smile. And I'd wonder why he wasn't getting down to business.

"Rupert, sit in my chair and come and eat me, please."

"Thought you'd never ask."

But, then—just as he's hunkering down in my sexual fantasy, getting ready to lick through my folds and tease apart my lips, sucking the juice from my slit before placing his mouth around my clit and drawing me deeper with his tongue…

My husband slides into my thoughts, snapping me from the fantasy.

I can't.

I can't do it.

I just can't.

Not even in my imagination.

I might often sit at my desk wondering at the secret life of Rupert outside the doors of the auction house. I can guess he's probably built like a rugby player inside his stuffy suit, with thighs like tree trunks, a bubble butt and a cock like a third arm, but when it comes to it, I can't imagine, even in my fantasies, ever being pleasured by anyone but my Simeon, my husband.

This is how it always started in the past, even with Simeon, I'd get so caught up imagining a backstory to these guys, conjuring up filthy tales to go with them, but the fantasy would be smashed as soon as I got to know them beyond the sex.

But not with Simeon. He was my actual fantasy man. He is my fantasy man.

It's time to get him the fuck home.

Before I deign to sit in his monstrosity of a chair, I make love to the wall, writhing against it, rubbing my pebbled nipples up the hard, cold surface as my mind tries to send signals to him across London, to come and fuck me already.

The ache in my hips is insane and just the thought of his plump mouth on my neck, his nose brushing through my hair, as he stands behind me with his strong hand on my waist.

The smell of the rose oil in my bath lingers and I know if he were here, it'd be driving him insane. His instinct to get between my legs and taste the freshness of my bathed pussy.

I know where the camera is and I play to it. In my imagination, he can zoom in, focus and move the lens around to get a better view. He's getting a close-up of my body, my bum hugged by the lace of my panties, perhaps the little patch of wetness on the gusset.

I play with my breasts over the see-through shirt for as long as I'm able to resist temptation, though I'm near the point where I can't stay my hand a second longer, my nipples straining to be released and to feel the air on them. If he were here, I've no doubt it would've been removed already, but…

Instead, I hold out. I touch another of my highly sensitive erogenous zones, my throat. The strain in my body from not being fucked in at least 48 hours is crazy. I need him here, rubbing my neck, kissing my skin, easing out the tension and ridding me of my work stress with just his presence.

I'm going to play the lonely, horny, dirty little slut now if that's what it takes. I can't wait for a second longer, slipping the buttons open on my transparent gown, letting it fall away to the floor.

"Fuck," I mutter.

I touch my breasts, squeezing, trying to ease the ache inside them, the yearning for him. I hold my hands closed over my nipples, trying to soften them, lessen the pain, the harshness of me needing them sucked with nobody here to suck them.

I take to the chair. Now I mean business.

Is he watching?

Are you watching, my love? I'm desperate for you.

Is he riding in the car already?

Has he already taken our private elevator up? And he's just outside, waiting until I'm literally on the cusp before exploding through the door.

Is his fly open, his cock out, ready for me to plunge my mouth around once he gets here?

I lie back in his manky old antique of a chair and feel the heat of my breasts, sliding my hand slowly down until encountering the much more feverish heat of my pussy. It would only take a few rubs and I'd come. I've been waiting all day to get home, bathe, put on my pretty things and have my husband slide his massive cock up inside me, and here I am, with nothing but a beautiful body and a pair of hands to play with. He locks up all my sex toys so I can't play with them alone. He gets jealous if we don't play with them together.

I hook my leg over the arm of the chair, and it's obvious even over the silk, my pussy is saturated, fat and throbbing.

Are you watching, my love? I'm playing with what is yours.

I can bear it no longer and slide a couple of fingers into my panties, looking right into the camera. If he isn't already dashing home, he's fucking dead, or he's become a cold-hearted bastard.

I stroke two fingers over my clit, slide them slowly into the swell of my pussy, and pant softly as I come, thinking of his glazed look as he enjoys being the voyeur.

The edge taken off, I breathe easier and relax, slowly easing down my high-waisted knickers until I'm entirely naked save for the stockings and my heeled shoes.

My arse on the edge of the chair, my legs spread, pussy open to the cooling air. I can take my time now—smearing my juices around, feeling my bare vulva, satin-soft from my latest wax.

I lose myself to a memory, idly playing with myself, indulging in the never-ending pleasure the female body provides.

It was a couple of months after we first started dating. He organised a surprise for me. I was blindfolded and taken to bed naked, told to lie back and let him tie me up. I did everything that was asked of me.

Soon into our play, I realised we weren't alone. He'd invited another woman along. But not for him. For me. Her smaller, more delicate mouth lapped at my pussy. She licked inside me, and I cried out, tensing around her little tongue as she rubbed her finger ceaselessly over my clit, her long nails a big giveaway she wasn't Simeon.

She played with my bottom, using a slender toy that gradually opened me up.

Eventually, I was untied but I wasn't allowed to remove the blindfold. We kissed, writhing across the bed, wet pussies meeting. I didn't know anything except she was wearing Chanel perfume, had long, straight hair, small breasts and yet big hips, strong thighs and slim calves.

Then Simeon fucked me as I lay on top of her. His cock shunted me back and forth, our breasts knocking together, her fingers caressing my clit. It was one of the deepest orgasms of my life. And I didn't think it would get any better.

Until she wore a special strap-on. He lay on the bed and I climbed on top of him, kissing and giggling into his mouth as his cock stretched open my pussy, and her toy explored my anus.

I reached new heights that night and have thought of it so often ever since. Simeon never explained why he organised that night. I never asked, either. She was just for my pleasure, and it was incredible, but I didn't yearn for it again and never asked for a repeat. Even back then in the very early days, I already knew that what Simeon and I had was more than sex, and I think I passed the test. Still, it happened and I remember it very well. It's the gift that keeps on giving…

I shift on the chair so my bottom is pointed directly at the camera. Surely he cannot deny me now. Not when he can see how wanton and lustful and slutty I'm feeling tonight. I'd probably do anything he asked of me, perhaps even let him ease his massive big cock into my pucker a little, if he wanted.

Whatever. I'd even let him fuck another woman, just so long as I could watch. Just so long as his eyes were still on me, and I could play with a toy or something.

Just whatever he'd allow me to have.

I shove my fingers in and out of my sopping pussy, finding no impediment. My insides are full, my ridges prominent. I start to swell even more and I can feel the beginning of my belly tensing, low and deep in my womb.

Just the thought of him watching me, staring at my bald pussy, splayed just for him all pink and runny with cum.

My hips move as if we're fucking, circling and swaying, and I almost have myself convinced he's inside me. I could never forget that feeling, ever. I close my eyes and concentrate, focus on that sensation of being so full, so tightly gathered around him, I can hardly breathe and I'm gasping—he's so deep inside me I have a lump in my throat.

He's fucking me from behind, our bodies slapping, and he's holding my heavy tits in his hands, grunting as he fills me, riding me until the tip of my clit is ready to explode, my insides on the cusp of clutching him and never letting go.

I get deep inside my pussy, rubbing those ridges, until I'm so close. I'm rocking my hips onto my fingers, then slipping out, sliding along my sex, tantalising the U-spot then my clit, sliding back in, repeating the process. All the time I'm holding on, changing tack, stopping. Not yet! Fingers moving elsewhere, keeping myself on edge, just as he showed me, that first night when he became the first man to demonstrate to me just how deeply a woman could come if she could handle being edged. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes half an hour… sometimes longer.

I can't believe he's still not home. It's outrageous. I spread myself even wider, fucking myself even harder, the pinnacle so close now. I couldn't be more ready to come if I tried.

Can't he see me—the desperate slut I am—in agony for the love of him? Desperate and doing this, only for him? Or I would surely have broken into the toy chest already, had myself a comfier surface on the bed and made myself come six times already with the latest rampant rabbit.

But no, here I am, prostrating myself for him pussy out, butt up, wriggling and writhing around, for his pleasure.

I lie back in the chair again, all my resolve gone. It's time to fuck myself silly because he's not coming home, is he? He warned me.

I play with my breasts, imagining that at any moment, he could walk through that door, release his delicious cock and thump himself straight inside me, initiating a cascade of orgasms, until I'm rubbing myself so hard, I squirt all over his chair and destroy the damn thing, which I nearly do.

But I'm holding on, trying to hold on, for as long as possible.

And then I'm done with propriety and waiting for my husband to get home. My fingers stab inside me and I'm squeezing my tit, gripping my alabaster skin, all the while imagining her little delicate tongue flicking across my clit and her toy in my arse, her fingers in my pussy. Simeon grunting in the background as he wanks himself at the sight of his woman being penetrated and pleasured by a tiny woman.

I'm so close, the tension inside me mounting. I breathe deeply, holding on, trying not to let go too eagerly. I cry out. I can keep going a bit longer. I can keep going—he may come home.

But then just the thought of him smiling as he watches me frig myself tips me over the edge and I let go, filling the empty corridor with my cries, praying he's out there listening behind the door, getting the benefit of this show, as he should—it's all about him.

I shudder, let go, and my pussy contracts over and over, gripping my fingers. I'm trembling, thinking of his smile, his tongue wetting his lips. It feels never-ending until a wave of warmth and serenity replaces all the anxiety of before and the aftershocks set in.

In the absence of him, I hug myself, especially as my temperature drops—my heightened state abating, the heart slowing down. I wish he were here. In my mind, he is, big arms wrapped nearly twice around me, his soothing voice in my ear.

I nearly fall asleep, but then I hear his key in the door.

"Well, you got me home."

I'm barely responsive so he lifts me out of the chair, but I can't even open my eyes, and I'm on the verge of tears as he carries me away.

We get to the bedroom but before we even make it to the bed, I'm sobbing in his arms and he takes the lush white armchair by my side of the bed, cuddling me close on his lap.

"Baby, I think we know what this is," he says.

"I'm tired and work's crazy and you weren't here," I cry.

He cradles my face and kisses my mouth softly. "I think it's finally happened, Ari."

I shake my head. It's not possible.

"Yes," he says, smiling.

"Yes?"

"Yes," he chuckles, then strokes my belly.

It's true—I'm late. A couple of days, maybe more. I'm emotional. Even hornier. And I need him more than ever.

I'd given up. We've been trying so long, but maybe…

"I love you so much," I cry, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and kissing him.

"I love you more, baby girl."

He gently eases me into bed and then undresses and all my fears, worries and cares melt away.

Ends