Sinful Sunday: Rumpled

I’ve never seen the point of ironing my shirt-tails. I work in the corporate world, where it’s important to show up looking at least moderately well put together, but even on days warm enough for me to leave my jacket or jumper at home, those last few incriminating inches are always tucked safely out of sight, under the waistband of my suit trousers. No-one is ever likely to see them.

Except you.

You’re the one who wants to yank at my belt in the office toilets, or under your desk while I stare out into the busy corridor.

You’re the one who doesn’t have time to pull my boxers all the way down – or maybe it’s just that you’re not patient enough to wait that long before sliding your lips over the head of my cock.

And you’re the one who’ll straddle my bunched thighs; who’ll look down at me, fringe flopping over your half-closed, sex-drunk eyes, as one hand curls round my shaft and the other works steadily under your skirt, drawing out that delicious anticipation for just a few more seconds.

Frankly, I’m not sure you care how creased my shirt is today.