Desked

There\'s something deliciously obscene about doing it this way. Something raw and primitive that comes out in me when you have me bent over the desk like this, helpless and wanting. Panting, sweating, clutching the other end with white knuckles. You like to see me this way-I know you do. You like it when I rub myself against the edge, uncaring of the pain, because I imagine you within me and it makes me ache. I know that you like it, and this makes me want you more, makes me whimper and mewl and beg. I\'m glistening with sweat, my breasts pressed into the dark oak, arms splayed. My shirt is somewhere in the room, I think-you threw it there after I ripped it in my impatience.

Not that it has helped me. I\'m waiting here still, my panties pooled about my ankles along with my skirt, my ass red and sore from where your hand came down upon it with stroke after stroke. I let out another moan thinking of it and wriggle-god, I need it so badly. I know you\'re standing behind me, and I wish you\'d say something or touch me, give me a sign. I can hear your hand moving over your slick length, can almost feel it for myself, and it\'s nearly enough to drive me over.

\"Please.\"

My lips form the word before I even realize it. You know I\'ve reached the point of no return now, that there is only so far my restraint will hold before the lust drives me mad. Without warning, you dig your fingers hard into my hips, and I cry out. I\'m so wet, so ready. The pain of your bruising fingers on my skin is nothing next to the pleasure you can give me-I know you want it too. I feel you pressing at my entrance and I hiss through my teeth, try to push back upon you and take more, but you hold me fast. You\'re excruciatingly slow; I can feel you shaking from the effort. I\'m spreading my legs further, grinding forward if I cannot grind back, desperate for any taste of those elusive feminine delights.

I feel you thrust into me completely, finally, and I know it won\'t be long now. You move your hands further up my back, bend over me, cover my hands with yours. I can feel your hot breath fluttering across my neck, smell the sweat of the effort. You haven\'t moved yet-it\'s driving me mad. Your breath forms words, quiet and secretive, on my skin.

\"Say it.\"

I swallow and I bite my lip. I\'d like to torture you the way you torture me: I\'d like to make you hang on that edge between want and gratification until you\'re screaming and begging, but I know I don\'t have the strength for it. My whole thought is focused on that length of you in me, focused on those little pulses of primal pleasure invading me, and I know I never had the choice not to say it.

\"Please,\" I whisper between heavy breaths, \"fuck me.\"

You groan loudly and draw out to thrust into me, hard and ruthless, driving each stroke like it\'s your last. I\'m coming already, wracked with the shudders of orgasm, but you pay no heed to my body or my cries, you\'re only impaling me faster and faster, frenzied with animal lust, driving me from one peak to the next, until I have no breath left in me to scream or moan or even breathe, only to sustain your attacks and ride each new wave of rippling pleasure until I feel as though my lungs will burst.

You grunt and bite my neck, dig your fingers into mine, and I feel you come inside me with all the shuddering force you fucked me with. My fingers are aching from your hand. My toes tingles, and my hips are bruised and sore. My hair is matted and sweaty, and my face is pressed so hard into the wood I fear it will leave a print. Breath rushes back into me, finally; enough give me one last long, languorous, slow moan to accompany the ebbing tides of my bliss.