Summer Breeze (a Twitter story)

I woke up from a particularly filthy dream this morning, still smelling of oil after last night’s photo/massage session, and with an erection that barely subsided in the 45 minutes it took me to get out of bed, dress for work, and take the Tube two stops up the Victoria Line to Vauxhall.

After I’d settled down on the train, I started typing out what I could remember of the dream, and it quickly became a short, filthy series of tweets, which I thought I’d share here too. The format/style probably works better in 140-character format than as a big block of prose, but if you do enjoy it, let me know here or on Twitter, and I’ll aim to post more in future…

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Picture a park bench in a courtyard somewhere. It’s warm and you’re in a short dress, the sun on the back of your neck. You’re straddling me, knees either side of my thighs. Directly behind you is a ground floor office in a glass-fronted building.

Slowly I slide my fingers up the back of your legs and lift the hem of your dress. You’re wet and fidgety, and suddenly anyone looking out from the office can see your plain cotton underwear. You stare down at me, your face serious, and I smile back in mock innocence. You can feel my cock through my suit trousers, hard and thick, rubbing against your cunt. You try to grind down onto it, but I settle my hands under your bottom and lift it off my lap, just far enough to make you pout and wriggle in frustration.

I squeeze one arse cheek, fingers digging in hard, and you’re instantly still – you understand who’s in charge right now. With one palm on the small of your back, I reach down between your legs and calmly pull your knickers to one side. You’re bent forward, grasping the wooden bench in front of you, and the cool breeze feels absolutely glorious on your exposed cunt.

I don’t touch it – I just gently part your labia and make you wait. Anyone glancing out of that busy office right now would see everything. See the wetness glistening on your skin, see you open and desperate to be fucked. 10 seconds pass, then 20…30…

It becomes a game. How long can you stay like that, on display for those bored, horny office workers, rubbing themselves discreetly under their desks? How long before you bury your head in my neck and curl back down onto me, laughing and shaking, fingers reaching inside my shirt to tug at my chest hair?

I keep waiting for your nerve to fail. Your breathing is ragged and you can feel a flush of embarrassment spreading across your chest.

But the sun is still warm on the back of your neck, your cunt is aching to be filled, and you’re not quite ready to move. Not yet.