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I can’t pin point what it is. It’s different each time to be perfectly honest. It’s the couple of heart beats in which he towers over me. It’s something about his cheeky grin. It’s his posture. It’s that whiff of cologne that lingers. It makes me want to turn around and call after him, trying to find some excuse to lure him back into my vicinity. It makes me want to bite my bottom lip silently as I try to not make my hitched breaths seem so apparent. It makes me want to snap my arm out and grip his forearm. The clap of our flesh meeting would echo between us. I know he would give me a look of shock, possibly even one of disapproval. Then his eyes would search mine and find my hunger there, it would awaken his own.

He would know that my thighs are taut and trembling. They are wanting to wrap and squeeze around him, they want to walk away with little finger bruises from his passionate grabbing and pulling as he thrust between them. He’d know that my folds are already slick with honeyed cream in anticipation for his size to stretch my tight, fertile cunt; for him to delve deeper and deeper, bottoming out in my womb.

That sudden realization of what he is being presented with, what’s being offered so freely. The ability to touch, to take, to dominate… to breed. To give it to me primitive and natural. To conquer me raw. To assault my ears with growls and grunts as he ruts like an animal sating that unspoken, base need to secure one’s lineage. One’s permanency. That deep pull down in his gut that urges him to unclink the chains of social reservation and lay his own special branding to wombs of the feminine bodies that cross his path daily. Like our primitive ancestors who didn’t know much else other than death comes on swift wings and there is only one way in which to finalize one’s manhood. One’s womanhood.

The tonal ring of a device awakens us from out unmet hungers. The chains of social etiquette don our loins once more and we shake from our fantasy. We give one another cordial nods and go through out our day. Back at our desks we hold little focus, our bodies and desires swirling, ravenous for another chance. Perhaps the next one will not be wasted.

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