I was just another lazy poet, trying to justify my art, sitting at my desk with one hand punching away at the keyboard while the other rubbed my cock through my jeans. The poetry wasn’t turning me on, I was just horny. It’s funny how quickly one begins to touch himself when he’s got nothing better to do. I remember past girlfriends, walking up behind me as I typed and they would kiss my neck or grab my cock and it would make me fume.
“How dare you! I’m writing. Don’t you ever fucking bother me while I’m writing.” I would think to myself, never having the actual balls or mean-streak within me to say it out loud. I’m just some dude trying to be a writer; I have no right to turn down pussy. But, it would burn me up inside. “The fucking nerve of her.” I’d think.
“Do you not know what I’m doing? Do you not understand at least what I’m trying to do? I’m a fucking artist and this is my craft. How dare you interrupt me!?” But I never said anything, so she would continue to rub me. There really is only enough blood to power either my brain or my cock, they are both roughly the same size; which doesn’t say much for either.
Eventually, the cock wins, the cock always wins. While her hand brought life to my pants, my hands began to veer away from the keyboard. The left hand would reach up to grab her head, to bring her towards me so I could lick her lips. The right hand would slide up her leg, until my shoulder would lock and not allow me to go up any further. The anger that had built up in my head was now in my mouth. I’d kiss her like I hated her. Which I did.
I’d turn my chair around to face her and would slide my hand up her skirt. I love skirts and I especially love women who wear skirts all the time. Women who wear skirts have a sense of balance between civility and being feral. A skirt makes them look classy, but that idea of easy access drives me nuts. My hand could not contain itself while it journeyed up her leg. Her thigh was hot to the touch and eventually the knuckle on my index finger would get the feel of some flesh. She wore no panties.
I bit down on her lip. “How dare she interrupt me.” I still thought as I pulled her closer to me. I grabbed her hand and pulled them down to my zipper. I would have her undo my jeans while I played with her mouth and pussy. My cock cried to be let out, the pressure of the jeans on it was unbearable. Eventually, she would get them undone and would grab a hold of it. Both of my hands were up her skirt now, grabbing and massaging her ass. I love asses.
I’d pull her closer to me and then turn her around. I’d lift her skirt and run my right hand up her thigh again. It was warm. My left hand was up her blouse, fighting a losing battle with her bra, just to feel some nipple. I gave up and just rubbed her breast over the bra. I moved her back some more so that she sat on top of me. Her pussy was wet and my cock easily slipped inside of her. I’d lean back and let her do all the work. She rode me well. I snarled and ran my teeth on the back of her neck. I’d bite her softly, trying to pay attention and not sink my teeth into her.
I came, she came, but I don’t remember exactly if that was the correct order. She was a quiet fuck. She wouldn’t get up off my cock right away. I didn’t mind. I liked to leave it in her for a little while afterwards. She seemed to like it too, but then eventually the blood would begin to flow back to my brain. The first thing my mind noticed was the drool collecting in my mouth that was about to drop all over my tee-shirt. I sucked it back in. Eventually the rest of the nerves in my body would regain function and my legs would cramp, so I’d push her off. She did.
With her back towards me, I’d lift the back of her skirt again and give it a good bite, followed by a healthy smack. The red teeth marks and hand print were very visible on her warm and pink ass. I pulled my jeans up and tucked my cock back in. I turned around and stared back at my monitor. I placed my hands on my keyboard. I felt her hands on my shoulders and then she would kiss me on the neck. And I would think to myself, “Leave me the fuck alone, I’m writing.”