I bit down hard on the washcloth to muffle a moan, and sped up the fingers stroking along either side of my clit. My skirt was hiked up around my waist, my shirt was pulled up above my breasts, and I’d had one bra cup pulled down to expose a nipple. Not two minutes ago I’d been playing with it, stroking my fingers across it…but since I’d decided against bringing any toys to work…there’d been other things I needed my fingers for. I’d become desperate for penetration, and had my first and middle fingers tucked neatly up my snatch, beckoning gently with them to stroke the front wall of my dripping cunt. I could feel one nipple pressing against the lace of my bra, reminding me that the other breast was on display to anyone who came through the door. Which did it, my mind offered me an image of Jason walking in to find me displayed like a pornographic buffet…twat open, tits out, head back. In my mind his eyes painted a path down my body to where my hands were busy. He sinks to his knees in front of me, his hands stroke up my thighs, catching my arms at the elbows and using them to pull my hands out of his way. He lowers his mouth to my clit, and slides his own fingers slowly into my dripping cunt. I run my fingers through his gorgeous black hair, feeling his head move as he worked me to a fever pitch. Too much, I’m ready to go over the edge. In the real world I fuck myself faster with one hand, while the fingers of the other hand start the final spiral around my slit to end rubbing circles on my clit until the stars stop popping behind my eyes.

I catch my breath slowly, reassemble my outfit, and pull a fresh pair of panties out of my purse. I brush my hair back into its twist, and carefully collect my washcloth. I had made quite a study of the 5 minute quicky at work over the last week. I now knew a dozen different routes to the 4th floor wheelchair-friendly restroom, lots of legroom and two solid doors between me and the outside world. Everyone in my group thought I’d taken up smoking. In a way, I guess I had. The washcloth had been yesterday’s addition to my “at work pleasure kit.” Worry about my moans attracting attention had gotten to be too much for me the first day I’d tried this. Spending the rest of the day all worked up after a lack of orgasm was, it turned out, much harder to work through than just my usual absent mindedness. Especially since that was the day Jason started resting his hand on my shoulder as he looked past me at the draft board. I was crossing my legs just to get some pressure on my aching clit. I finally pleaded a headache and went home early, where I promptly used every toy in my arsenal to get out the screaming orgasm that’d been stuck in my throat. Not again. Ever since I’ve been sure to have something I can bite down on when I take my trips to the 4th floor. The washcloth is my current favorite. With a quick stop at the mirror to fix my hair, renew my make up, and make sure that the buttons on my blouse are done up (that was Tuesday’s mistake), I decide I’m ready to face that three o’clock meeting.