Feverish?

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Are you really feeling feverish? Or are you looking for a reason not to go to work?  You’ve already missed the first bus dawdling over your hair. None of my business; you don’t work for me. Go in, don’t go in, go in late-that’s up to you. But are you sick? I can’t judge sick, I don’t know how you feel really. If you’re sick stay home.

But if you tell me you are feeling feverish…you know I’m bound to check.

It’s convenient before you’re dressed-come on over here. Just flop down. Chatter nervously about what is on your desk at the office as I take the top off the thermometer and snap the lid off the lube. Go quiet and lay your head over crossed arms as I spread your cheeks with one hand and dab a tiny dollop on your little butthole. A sharp intake of breath as I insert-then the conversation starts again albeit slower and quieter. My hand rubbing the small of your back, I listen.

The thermometer beeps, you push backward slightly, opening, so I can withdraw. You don’t ask, but it’s normal. Just to be sure I insert again. You flop your head to the other side and softly tell a story about your office mate, a woman I’ve never met but you’re sure I would like. I pat your bum gently as you talk…You don’t sound tense but I feel it back here.  Is it the poking or the prodding or the anticipation that the pat, the rub, could quickly morph into a slap-a spank or two-or more? The clock says it won’t. Not if you’re making it into the office.

The machine beeps again. Slowly I withdraw with a tiny wiggle. Still normal. You sigh. You guess you’ll go in. You’re all made up and everything. You draw yourself to your knees and, leaning over, give me a kiss-a deep, hard and long kiss. Something you’d never do once you got the lipstick in place. Thank you, you say. My pleasure, I reply. I’ll be here when you get home.

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