I shouldn’t, but I need to. My final interview’s in twenty and I’m janky nervous. This always works.
I’ve got a mind scene scrolling and my finger is clit-busy, nice and wet. Then the bathroom door opens, then the next stall. I’m spread-leg frozen.
“Mmmm, don’t stop now, sweetie. Smells delish,” her voice whispers. I feel something touch my shoe. A wicked black Jimmy Choo, caressing the edge.
We begin as one, envisioning each other, trading nasty needs, cumming together.
“Go,” she whispers, “I’ll wait.”
“Ms Jones?”
It’s my turn.
Head down, I open my eyes.
Black Jimmy’s.
Wicked.
