It’s the end of the day, and I’m heading home.

“Hey. How’s it going?” Dean calls out from his office.

I stop, lean against the door jam. It’s all I can do to keep from squirming, pressing my thighs together.

Dean has a deep, gravelly voice. Not Barry-White-deep, but a baritone timber that makes my pussy tremble. I shouldn’t be thinking about him this way. He’s a co-worker and fucking your co-workers is frowned upon.

Too bad.

I’ve had some pretty serious fantasies about fucking Dean; spent many nights fingering myself, imagining his thumbs spreading my pussy, his warm mouth sucking my clit.

He is slumped in his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, one foot on his desk. Careless. Sexy.

“What did you think of the post?” I ask him.

He heard I was a writer, asked me for the address to my blog. I sent him a link to my mainstream site where I write relatively tame prose.

Last week, I posted a piece that was a little risqué and, knowing that I have several Christian followers, I posted a warning at the beginning of the post saying that it was a little naughty and to continue reading at your own risk. After all, I don’t need a god-fearing woman fainting when she reads the word ‘cock’.

I didn’t use the other C word, though I do love that word. Saying it. Touching it. Licking it.

*head shake* Focus!

“I didn’t read the post,” Dean says.

“Right. You’ve been busy.”

He shakes his head. “No. I can’t read it.”

“Oh. Sure.” My pussy weeps a little as I imagine him reading it at work, stroking his cock through his pants as he scrolls down the page, unable to leave his office until he softens. “Well, read it at home.”

Where you can stroke yourself until you cum, I continue in my head, though I really want to watch you do that that. And suck you until you shoot down my throat.

Jesus! Focus!

“No,” he says, blushing. “I can’t read that.”

“Why not?” I’m confused and a little amused. He’s my age and can’t possibly be that green. “It’s not that bad. It’s pretty tame, actually.” I do, after all, write erotica.

He’s embarrassed now. “No. I can’t.” He holds his hands up in submission. Possibly defense.

“Wait a minute.” I understand now and grin. “You’re a prude.”

He laughs. “I am.”

I think about my fantasies, how many times he has made me cum in my dreams, and I shake my head. “You just burst my bubble.”

He shrugs. “I’m a prude.”

I glance up and down the hallway, note the vacant cubicles, the dark offices. I look back at him. “I bet you’re not.”

“I am. Wait. What are you doing?” He pulls his foot off his desk, sits up in his chair.

I close the door behind me, flip the lock. I don’t want the cleaning lady to walk in on us.

“You’re not a prude.” In a few steps I’m in front of him. His eyes dart around, but he’s trapped.

I kneel in front of him, glide my hands up his thighs until they cup his hips.

“What are you doing?” He is panicked, but he doesn’t move.

I shift my hands down to the vee of his crotch and push his thighs apart.

“I can’t. We can’t.” He’s practically begging.

I look up at him, press my hand against his hard cock. “Who says we can’t?”

I flip the button of his pants, ease down the zipper, free his cock from his boxers. I lick my lips at the glorious sight of the bead of pre-cum that glistens on the fat head.

My eyes flick up to his in question. Do you want me to stop? I hope he doesn’t because I want to taste him. I need to taste him.

He stares at me, his eyes locked on mine, and I can see he wars with his demons. Then he grips the arms of his chair, as if he submits.

“Mmmmm.” I swirl my tongue around the head and he lets out a whimper. I wrap my lips around him and suck. He moans, thrusts his hips. “That’s it,” I say, encouraging him. “Fuck my mouth.” I drag my lips up and down the shaft, paying attention to the sensitive spot just below the head.

I grip his cock with one hand, take him in as far as I can. I glance up at him to find him watching me, mesmerized, it seems, as his cock glides in and out of my mouth.

I close my eyes and tighten my grip, pace my hand strokes with my mouth. His hips match my tempo, shy and hesitant.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes. Yes.”

Fingers curl into my hair as his thrusting becomes more urgent. He groans, deep and feral.

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” He no longer whispers.

He pumps into me, holding my head in place. His cock is rigid and I know he’s about to cum.

“Stop. Stop. Stop.” He sounds apologetic and desperate.

I cup his balls and continue to suck, humming to add a vibration.

“Oh God!” He grips my hair as he shoots down my throat.

Tangy and salty, I savor him as he relaxes into his chair. I ease off, sit back on my heels.

“See? You’re not a prude.”

He sighs. “You may have created a monster.”

I grin. “I hope so.”