22 F4M- Hurry Home.

If you were to get pulled over now, and honestly told the cop why you were speeding, you’d have a hard time believing that he’d actually write you a ticket. It started this morning, and you haven’t had an hour of reprieve.

First there was the pair of panties in your brief case, the red lacy thong…yes, THAT red lacy thong from that night you still find yourself thinking about whenever a board meeting gets too dull. Then the exceptionally forward note in the lunch I packed you: a dirty coupon valid for any single act of depravity you so choose, set to expire tonight. Then the phone message left on your cell at one thirty while you were busy in a teleconference on your office line, a message filled with nothing but the sound of me moaning while I pleasured myself. Finally, the last nail in the coffin, the text message you received not twenty minutes ago: Hurry home. NOW.

Thankfully you make it home without the detection of the local authorities. You leave the car in the drive and hurry into the house, following the trail of discarded clothes from the front door up to the bedroom. When you open the door, you find me sitting on the edge of the bed, my legs crossed with a glass of wine in one hand and my cell phone in the other. When I look up at you, I uncross my legs and open up my body, exposing what has to be the most revealing and pathetic excuse for lingerie in existence-black and strappy and leaving absolutely nothing up to the imagination. I watch you tense as I spread my legs and grin.

“Twenty seven minutes. Not bad, baby.”