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Recovering from the Christmas and New Year tide requires patience. Ten days after the seasonal degustation – blowjob included – and recovery is almost complete. The only issue that remains is the sexual follow up.
Avoidance isn’t one of my New Year’s resolutions. I returned Luke’s call and there is a date arranged within the coming fortnight. That’s what I like about modern mating: relationships are arranged around busy schedules and this may not be considered a positive thing for those into spontaneity – which is a good thing. My problem relates to following up a rather spontaneous sexual tryst with another dynamic sexual moment. At what point do blowjobs enter the conversation?
Men don‘t usually say: “I did enjoy the blowjob you gave me after the Christmas Party. Do you think you can do it again? After dinner perhaps? We can go to your place!”
Imagine that?
For me, it’s always the awkwardness over dinner and behaving as though nothing happened between alcohol laced festivities and the burgeoning sexual tide that followed.
Days after the event, and my inside tingled. Winding back to the moment, to get through the tedious work moments, and my face pleasantly flushed, as did my pussy and it’s been a long time between daytime or 9 to 5 sexual arousal (after all, there is nothing remotely exciting about jammed photocopiers, calls on hold and frustrated co-workers).
Then I’d think about Luke and return to what I’d written and experience the flush again, to dip into my mini sextoy chest and decide between a sizeable vibrator or a nifty clit stimulator, that I can pop into my handbag and discretely use during ‘office hours.’
So I chose the latter and the near silent hum became the naughtiest enabler. It’s not that I’m not disorganised, but I don’t take holiday leave over the Christmas period. I just think that there are other times of the year where holidays are beneficial. All week, I’ve enjoyed the quietness of the office space. With my head filled with my breakthrough sexual moment and the palm sized clit stimulator, I’ve sought the reasonable surroundings of a clinically sound toilet cubicle with my panties around my ankles, trying out various masturbatory positions.
Already, my head has broken down the last sexual interlude into favorite scenes. They may be micro scenes. There is the first lingering kiss. There are the first micro seconds of Luke’s fingers entering my pussy; the sensation of the stretch followed by the sense of being filled to groaning proportions. It’s easy to translate it all and utilise it to climax at work.
Sitting on the toilet seat isn’t an option. I prefer to stand, with my ass facing the closed door. I’m not a germ phobe, but a toilet cubicle is a toilet cubicle. After wiping down the tiled wall above the toilet, I position myself and use the clit stimulator over my vulva. It’s a light touch at first, up and down my labia. The toy’s hum is a really minor disturbance. I doubt that anyone can hear it beyond the thick toilet door and when I shift the curved point and position it deeper, the soft vibration is almost muffled by the increasing moisture between my labia. Then it’s a question of waiting and deciding whether to elongate the play, until my clit bursts with need or press down and slowly expel my breath as my mind flutters like a butterfly.
So far, I’ve arranged a fast climax during morning tea and a drawn out orgasm at lunch, which leaves me extra time to wipe myself down. Up to and during the heated moment, I visualize a tawdry collection of sex acts. It’s amazing how inhibitions drop during the orgasmic build up.
After the climax or hours after the climax, the idea of following up the post Christmas party blowjob because a daunting task.
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