Provocatively Nasty— Stories of Erotica

As I sit at my desk, working on the computer, the phone interrupts me. It’s you, requesting a quick meeting so that we can discuss some business, you say.
I smile and answer “Sure” then hang up as if it’s no big deal. But instantly, the word “quick” makes me think of a quickie, hence, my thoughts travel directly to the erotic book, Sex Chronicles, by Zane, in the top drawer of my desk. Knowing your desires as I do, it there any wonder I make such a connection. I could ask you to read a chapter from Sex Chronicles while I play with myself, I think nastily as I straighten up my desk.
Although you mentioned your needing to match some dates and figures together for the report you’re working on, I think that you’re more interested in working on me and figuring out if our natural attraction and easy flow will translate into some hot, sticky business between us.
I can’t believe that I’m sitting at my desk, on the thirtieth floor of a heavily populated office building in Manhattan, thinking about something so nasty. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I can believe it after reading “Dee’s Secret.” Maybe I didn’t know it was like that before, but your erotic story about me left no doubt. Yes, nasty is definitely on my mind. And since that’s probably what you think about every time you see me—your little short story revealed that—I have to keep my guard up and my thong on..
Expectantly awaiting your arrival, I unconsciously spread my legs apart and consider pulling up my skirt to caress my hot center, with thoughts of my … no, your fingers in my tasty coochie. Your knock startles me. Before I can answer, you enter, closing the door behind you without taking your eyes off me, as if you know exactly what I’m thinking. Damn, I hate you.
You smile, and tell me how good I look as you walk over to my desk. Instead of in front of my desk, you stand slightly behind me, off to my right. Laying the folder down in front of us, you tell me you’re interested in the activity of a particular account on the fifteenth of last month. Regardless of your words, I know you’re really interested in actively pursuing the freak you believe me to be. I’m fully aware of your presence as we study the screen and folder together, the sexual tension is soaring as your scents, cologne and natural, find me. After only a couple of minutes, you abruptly step back, and say: “It’s time to get down to business; we have a lot to cover.”
Without another word, your hands are massaging the base of my neck and my shoulders. Though your touch is soothing and somewhat provocative, I move away. You ask, “Was that too much pressure?”
I stand up and begin guiding you towards the door before replying, “No, it was inappropriate.”
As we reach the door, you stop and say: “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say with more strength than I actually feel. “I’m not afraid just at work,” and with hard nipples I could have added.
Cocking your head, like a confused puppy. “Really and …”
I shake my head in amazement: You’re so damn smart, but I have to spell it out for you. “This is a place of business and I’m not here for your freaky pleasure.”
You smile, and say: “Didn’t you read the e-mail I sent you; the story you help me create with your scorching eyes, full lips and ripe body and the come hit it from behind walk you always do for me.”
As I open my mouth to protest, still smiling, you lock your eyes on mine; taking my hand, you slowly examine the design on my nails, while sensuously touching your fingers tips against my palm, than without the smile or a word, you place my hand on your crotch, just like that. As a small moan escape my flaming-red painted lips, you throb beneath my hand. Before I can gather my wits and pull away you pull me closer and my fingers automatically—as if they are no longer under my control—clench and move up and down your hard thickness and I hate you again as my moan becomes a low hum with a sensuous rhythm that my body follows.

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