I like to fuck on the run. It’s something you’ve gotten me used to. I wake abruptly from a dream about having you, of sipping you quickly from behind as you lean over your desk at work. Your pussy is liquid and sweet as the inside of a jelly coconut and I’m about to come. I stir when you shoot up from the bed, your eyes wide, staring at the clock.
“Shit! I’m late.”
You hop from the bed, rubbing your eyes and scratching your tummy, slow in your haste for the bathroom and readiness for work. I blink, the vision of your sweet backside with its exclamation tattoo riding above it, still an afterimage, a temptation and my own alarm clock that flings me up in the bed to stare after you.
A quick shower, spritz of oil in your hair, the rapid brush of teeth. I hear all this from the bedroom and in ten minutes you are back, glistening with lotion, to slip into freshly pressed khakis and a long sleeved shirt put out from the night before. After eight months (that’s at least six years in dyke time) the sight of you in those pants, in anything or nothing at all, still makes me wet.
You brush a finishing hand over your chest, check your fly to make sure that it’s closed, then you come to me.
“Bye, baby.” Your Colgate fresh kiss swells my pussy even more. I practically slide across the bed to wrap my hands around your neck and pull you closer. Tongues dance, lips suck, a regretful moan.
“Baby. Late. Remember?”
Yes, I remember. So I let you go. But I follow from the bedroom to watch the twitch of your ass heading for the front door. You grab your briefcase and wallet, slip the keys into your pocket.
“Your fly is open,” I say, and you look down but I drop to my knees to show you that it isn’t, then it is so I can slip my fingers inside your panties. Wet. Just as I thought.
“Stop it. You know I have to go.” But your pussy is too interested to make that sound convincing.
Your belt, your pants, your panties loosen and fall. Your back hits the door and my tongue burrows between your thighs to find your clit. It is swollen and moist. Intent on making you even later. You spread. I moan. My hands reach for your breasts. My pussy is full, belly tight, tongue running wet with the pleasure of having you.
The briefcase falls to the floor with a thud. You grab my head, pushing my mouth harder against you. The precious seashore wet of you spills down my chin. My tongue darts inside you. My nose nudges your clit and I hear you.
“Yes, baby. Yes.” Your fingers slip under my hair to grab my scalp. Their pressure is fierce and painful. The pain only spurs my pleasure on, ratcheting up the tension in my cunt. I leave your breasts, the tiny responsive nipples, alone. They can fend for themselves. Your smell is urgent and sweet. I want to do it slow. I want to savor the slick pussy wet of you, the fingers in my hair, the breathless, parted lips vision of you. I want to milk your pussy, watch the wetness pour from you then lick it all up, drop by drop. But I can’t; we both have work to do.
I dive in, grab your ass, lick your clit with firm, all-business-now pressure, then unable to help myself, sneak down to suck the moisture from your succulent cunt lips before going back up again to lavish your swollen sweet spot with kisses, licks, sucks, and ornate swirls of my tongue. You pump your hips against my face, one hand crabbing backwards to find the doorknob, the wall, anything else to hold onto. The other hand is still clenched in my hair, massaging pain into me, pressing my mouth hard against your luscious cunt.
“I love you, baby,” you moan. “I fucking love you.”
Your orgasm is loud and lovely; fingers tugging at my hair, hips shuddering between me and the door, my name a mantra on your lips between yeses and your quick sipping breaths. Before the vibrations are gone from your thighs, I have you zipped up, buckled right, briefcase on your shoulder. Your mouth is bitten red. There’s a glaze over your eyes. I kiss you quickly and peel you off the door.
“Now go. You’re going to be late.” My thighs are trembling but my voice is firm.
Your eyes flicker over my body, the nipples swollen and at attention, pussy slick and ready to be fucked. You clear your throat.
“I’m already late anyway. Why don’t we just—”
“No. Later. Call me at lunchtime and we can take care of me together.”
You shake your head but I nod, flinging open the door. The neighbors have seen me naked enough times for it not to matter. “Call me at one o’ clock. From your car.”
We both know how it will be then. A sweet afternoon’s delight. Me in my third floor office watching the street below, my chair tilted backwards, and my legs braced apart on my desk. You in your dark-tinted Honda, windows fogged, and your nipples standing at attention beneath the starched shirt. The two connected cell phones and our two separate pairs of hands sliding past khakis and skirts, stripping aside boxers and bikinis to dive into eagerly wet pussies. The sound of you on the phone always gets me there, your dirty mouth, the way your voice shallows and breaks just before you come. Yes, we both know how it will be when you call, but it doesn’t make the anticipation any less powerful.
Your eyes get that familiar spark as you back slowly down the narrow hallway leading outside. You smile. Then I remember that I’m not the only one who likes to fuck on the run.