Note: This story mentions hetero cybersex, but since cybersex, as with not-so-cybersex, can be with any combination of gender, I ask that you apply the appropriate gender and affinity that suit you in your head, as you read. Thanks, Sapphire x
Believe it or not, this is not another homage to the long-and-best forgotten genre of Really Awful Erotica that made the rounds a couple of years back. This is about a true event — well, as true as anything else written here.
Sex in the office. It doesn’t come more cliched than that, does it? If you pushed me to find an equivalent, with no real time for thought or consideration, I’d have to say that it ranks up there with French Maid costumes, doing it with the lights out, and teacher-pupil-fantasies for sheer lack of originality.
Not that I’m knocking any of the above. But you can’t help but agree that cliches become cliches for a reason. Popularity, leading to overuse.
I’ve never been one to succumb to the obvious, or the tired, or the ordinary. However, when i found myself bent forward, over my familiar yet uncomfortably hard, Formica-coated desk, observing my Dilbert pen holder as a hard, thick cock pumped in and out of my slippery cunt, a thought flitted through my mind for the nanosecond that I was still capable of rational speculation: what a fucking stylized cliche this is.
Then i returned to the matter at hand, and came violently, shuddering with pleasure, and gushing all over his cock, his legs, his still-socked feet and the ugly gray carpet.
I’ll tell you what, though: it may have been a cliche, but it was a rollicking good time.
Cybersex in the office can be a hazardous habit. Cybersex in and of itself is a wonderful thing — not as good as the real thing, sure, but it can be helluva fun. The frantically typed words between yourself and your digital fuck-buddy can up the ante on arousal better than any porn site. It’s the words — and I know you understand this, gentle reader, because you have come here for the same reason. You enjoy reading about sex — who knows, maybe it even gives you the horn? Else why would you be here? So I know that you get it.
Ergo, the fun inherent in cyber-chat-sex is more likely to appeal to you. But as I said, cybersex in the office can be a hazardous habit.
The hazard is not so much how, as he describes to you how he’d want to take you there and then, regardless of the colleagues who surround you. Or the creeping blush of repressed shame and sparkling excitement as you read the hastily typed and oft-misspelled letters, as a result of his brain now existing solely in his cock and balls. Nor is it how you feel yourself moisten and then slipperize that’s the hazard, or the way you hold yourself in while reading his words of lust before capitualting and scampering off to the bathroom to take care of the situation.
It’s also not how you endeavor to keep a straight face, glancing oh-so-casually around to see if any of your colleagues have noticed the erotic flush that has illuminated your face, or that suddenly you’re breathing twice as fast as usual. The inherent danger thrills you, added to not a little by your desperate thoughts of how you’ll actually make up the work that you should have been doing while getting mentally laid via your fingertips. This too is not the real hazard.
The real hazard of cybersex is chat-fucking someone who is working not too far from you, and then drops over to your office late in the evening, as you pore over hastily scribbled meeting minutes, trying desperately to decipher action items that you need to complete before the following morning (that you should have been doing whyen your head was clearer and less tired but instead were having wild and passionate keyboard monkey love.
Because that’s when the cybersex ends, the real sex begins, and the cliche is perpatuated. And it’s so much better than the mental puffing and panting of yore, that it becomes addictive. And you start working later, hoping that he’ll drop over and then bend you over — which he does, because the whole situation is no less addictive to him. And soon that’s all you do, work and fuck. Fuck and work. Work. Fuck. Fuck. Work. Work, work, work. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Actually, why is that a danger or a hazard again? Remind me, someone? Anyone?
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Elegant Smut 