Her Buring Desire - Sex Stories

Her Buring Desire

... that, when I bend over, one can just barely see a hint of my purple knickers (I've always loved that word – it's naughtier than "underwear" and less trite than "panties"; the fact that I'm not British is of little concern to me). He turns the faucet off and then there is silence. I assume he's still at the counter but don't dare turn around to look. I pray to every God and Goddess that has ever existed that he is looking at me, thinking about what might be waiting for him under my skirt. Of course, there's always the possibility that he's looking at me with amusement, thinking my efforts silly or too transparent. I would die if he asked me to cover up. Then again, I would die if he asked me to take it off. Please, I beg, just fucking kill me already. Mr. Thompson's footsteps break the silence, becoming louder as he briskly makes his way over to my table. My heart threatens to choke me but I remain composed – I hope. He is standing beside me, surveying my work. I happen to be shading the woman's left breast, relying on neon yellows and navy blues to give it a more three-dimensional appearance. "This is coming along beautifully, Mireille," he says. "I really like how you've decided to go with unconventional colors. They stand out nicely against the black background." He gestures to the work I've already completed around her face, those beautiful hands moving in ways that both excite and transfix me. I also can't help but relish the way my name expertly rolls off of his ...

... multilingual tongue; he obviously speaks French. "Thanks." I am nervous and can't seem to raise my voice above a loud whisper, but the emptiness of the room negates the need to project myself. "Do you think you'll have it ready by next Friday?" His blue eyes follow the brush as it strokes the underside of the painted woman's breast. He does not look at me, which I find to be both a blessing and a tragedy. I stare up at his face longer than I should, marveling at the sharpness of his cheekbones and the angle of his jaw. His beauty is cruel, unfair. "I think so. The outline is almost finished, so all that's left is the shading." He glances at my face and I feel his gaze penetrate me. My insides knot up and my groin tightens. I bite the inside of my cheek to distract myself and avert my eyes back to the painting; the woman's stare mocks me. "Well, let me know if I can help in any way." He turns and slowly retraces his steps to the back office but does not shut the door. My thoughts race as I think of all the things I'd like him to help me with. For starters, he could help me out of my skirt and stockings. After which, he could help himself to my virgin cunt – damn, I love that word. My mother absolutely cannot abide hearing it but I use it every chance I get. Cunt. My tight, virgin cunt. My hungry cunt. I really must stop before I lose my composure, as I've already begun u*********sly squeezing my thighs together and rocking back and forth. The fact that I have to urinate only draws ...