Natural light filters through the blinds, casting soft patterns across my desk as I sink into my office chair, eyes fixed on my monitor. Another exquisite tale from my favorite Lush Stories author unfolds before me, her words painting vivid scenes that transport me from my mundane workspace to a world of pure sensation. Her writing has the ability to pull me in completely as if I’m physically present, a silent observer to the intimate dance she describes.
My door remains unlocked, a dangerous thrill. Anyone could walk in without warning, and the first thing they’d see would be me, with my hand pressed firmly against the front of my pants, rubbing my little cock in shameless circular motions. The thought of being caught in such a compromising position sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
I’m taking my time, savoring each paragraph, determined to make this pleasure last through at least two stories. The friction of fabric against my sensitive flesh builds tension with each sentence I read, each casual rub I allow myself.
The first story captivates me, a sister listening to her brother-in-law fucking her sister. I imagine myself there, watching the sister finger her wet pussy, hearing every moan and gasp, every creak of the bed as her sister gets fucked in the next room.
Halfway through the narrative, my self-control begins to waver. A soft moan escapes my lips before I can catch it, hanging in the still office air. My free hand slides beneath my shirt, finding my right nipple, rolling it, pinching it between my fingers, while my other hand maintains its steady rhythm against my cock through my pants.
Beneath the fabric, my member throbs insistently, weeping with anticipation. I pause, holding my breath, listening intently for any footsteps approaching my sanctuary. The hallway remains silent. Emboldened, my right hand slips beneath my waistband, wrapping around my aching shaft.
A few furious strokes before I stop, my fingers emerge glistening with clear, viscous fluid more pre-cum than I’ve ever produced before. The sight of my own arousal coating my hand is irresistible. I bring my hand to my lips, my tongue darting out to taste myself, a little sweet and slightly salty. I methodically clean every droplet, sucking each finger, lapping at my palm, seeking out the crevices between each digit to ensure not a trace is wasted.
Back to the story, back to the teasing friction through my pants. My hand continues its persistent rubbing motion against my confined cock. The author’s words blur before my eyes as pleasure threatens to overwhelm me. I force myself to pause repeatedly, backing away from the edge, determined to finish the tale before surrendering to release.
One story complete. I navigate to another of her stories, this one a familiar favourite, a narrative I’ve revisited countless times, knowing exactly how it will affect me. This tale of a just-turned-18-year-old having her first lesbian experience with her much older babysitter never fails to arouse me. I‘m transported into the bedroom; I‘m watching them, hearing their intimate sounds, smelling their arousal as they explore each other’s bodies.
My left hand never leaves my nipple, teasing and twisting the sensitive bud, while my right hand rubs my cock with increasing urgency through my pants.
I can smell myself, the distinctive scent of arousal permeating the air around me. My breathing becomes ragged, my moans more audible. Anyone passing by would certainly hear these sounds of pleasure, but the possibility only heightens my excitement.
My rubbing becomes frantic, desperate. Heat builds at the base of my member, tension coiling tighter with each circular motion against my cock. Then it happens, the dam breaks. From deep within, primal grunts and moans erupt as waves of ecstasy crash through me. My release pulses hot and thick, soaking into the fabric, creating a spreading warmth against my skin.
Spent, I collapse back into my chair, chest heaving. Looking down, I survey the damage, an unmistakable dark patch spreading across my crotch, impossible to hide.
My computer clock reminds me it’s lunchtime. I stand, feeling the sticky evidence of my pleasure sliding slowly down my inner thigh, a secret, filthy reminder of what I’ve just done.
I reach for my coat, grateful it’s long enough to conceal my mess. Though it hides the visual evidence, nothing can mask the rich, earthy scent that now clings to me. As I join my colleagues for lunch, seated at the communal table, the knowledge of my hidden mess brings a fresh stirring of desire. My secret sits with me, invisible to them but overwhelmingly present in my awareness.
I’m already counting the minutes until I can return to my office, to my stories, to the next forbidden release.
