This story was part of another experiment of mine. I wanted to write first-person stories written directly to the reader, as though the reader was a participant. Originally, I wrote this for a friend. I expanded it to the version you’ll find here. I’ll be posting it in pieces over the next few weeks.
As usual, I get to work around 6:00. I don’t have to come in this early. This is my choice. The custodian is the only other person on campus for the first hour or so. A trickle of coworkers begins around 7:30. For a solid ninety minutes, I’m as close to alone as I can be in this place. The stillness in the morning relaxes me. Most of the lights around the building remain unlit. The hallways are uncharacteristically silent. I face few distractions. This is my favorite time of the day. This is when I’m most alert and most productive. I thrive while others are dragging themselves out of bed. I plan to get right to work and I’m able to do so without disruption.
My office looks just the way I left it the day before. I have no voice messages for a change, which is a relief. The workday promises to be routine, but routine means busy. Much of what I have to do today depends on what my colleagues finished yesterday. I settle at my desk, turn on my computer, and check my work email. Looking over the first few messages is enough to tell me I’m going to have to wait on some people this morning. Why can’t anyone get anything done on time? Why do I try so hard while others around me slack? My urgency to get started with my day has diminished. Hurry up and wait. This is annoying, but another relief at the same time.
With newfound time to spare, I open my personal email. I only do this early in the morning. This morning I do it with purpose. Something has been on my mind. I know you get up nearly as early as I do. Sometimes you surprise me with a dirty message or a picture. I like when you do this, but there’s more. Last night you hinted at sending me an assignment at work. You have an assignment for me? That isn’t how this arrangement of ours works, young lady. Where do you get off thinking you can give me an assignment? I picked at you to explain it to me, but you told me to wait and see when you send it. Frustrating, but engaging. You keep this interesting. Even if you’re stepping out of line, our little role plays delight me, so I figure I’ll take a look.
As though you knew I’d have idle time this morning, you’ve come through. My inbox contains a message from you with an image attached. Sure enough, you’ve sent me my assignment. You go on to explain it to me. You tell about how you want to get yourself off in bed this morning while thinking about me stroking myself in my office to your picture. You want me to get off thinking about you, too. You tell me I need to open the image and get to work. You will demand updates. Some nerve.
The attached image shows you in a hoodie. You have it unzipped enough to show you’re not wearing anything underneath. The hood covers your eyes. Locks of hair tumble over your cheeks. I can see your lips. Your mouth is slightly open. You’re sitting, back arched forward, breasts almost popping out. You’re wearing a scandalously short pleated skirt. Your legs are spread, but you’ve pushed down the skirt between your thighs so I can’t see if you’re wearing any underwear. Your hands pin the fabric of the skirt to your seat. I wonder if you took any more pictures in this outfit. I wonder if you’re still wearing it.
Cautiously, I get up to see if anyone is near my office. I peek out my door and look left and right. As I suspected, no one is around. After gingerly closing the door, I sit back down to take another look. My cock is swollen already. My pulse is racing noticeably. This is such a hot idea. I’d feel ashamed to not indulge it. I don’t want to disappoint you. You have my interest, but how long will I keep yours if I tell you I just don’t have the nerve for this? No. A cheap thrill isn’t worth my livelihood. Merely looking at this image at work could get me fired. You want me to jerk off to it? You don’t have the right to expect this of me. Or am I being a pussy? None of the other games we’ve played have been this risky for you. My assignments for you have been mild in comparison. Maybe this is why you’re raising the proverbial bar.
I ponder the assignment. At work? Do other people do stuff like this? Right now is my chance, first thing in the morning. If I’m going to do this, I have a little more than an hour. Questions swirl. Anxiety mounts. I take another look at your picture. The irony of you making me uneasy doesn’t escape me. What a way to assert control. I wonder if I ever had any.
Staring at the image, my eyes try to pull down that zipper. My lips purse at the thought of tasting a soft, pink nipple and feeling it harden on my tongue. My hands tremble slightly thinking of you reaching for bulge in my pants and kneading it. I see myself pushing you back, pulling down the hood to uncover your face, and standing before you. You sit in my chair but turned away from my desk. I look down at you. I imagine brushing the bulge against your cheeks as you close your eyes, open your mouth, and gasp. Fuck it. I decide to play along.
Part 2 in a few days…