The Writer

She’s working diligently; head down, fingers bouncing off the keyboard, a small furrow between her brows. To the casual observer, she could be a freelance web designer or accountant, HR consultant or researcher – the millennial uniform of smart-casual jeans, ankle boots, tailored jacket would be out of place in neither a wine bar or a boardroom.

After a few frantic bursts of key-tapping, she pauses. Stares blankly across the bustling coffee shop, pursing her lips before returning her attention to the laptop screen with tunnel-vision focus.

The privacy screen hides her work from the eyes of passers-by, perhaps she is composing a confidential email or business report on which a career or a company’s future depends. An international treaty or human rights investigation with the potential to save lives or determine economic futures?

She smiles to herself as the words pour from her fingers onto the screen. Words of desire and debauchery; words of lust and lechery. Words she would not say aloud in the presence of her mother. Words to provoke desire, power arousal, raise the pulse and bring a flush to the reader’s cheeks.

Every time she shifts on the hard wooden chair, the uncompromising plug of glass within her makes its presence felt; sliding and stretching in its coat of lube, enclosed in the tight grip of her anus. The slick of lube in her knickers has long since been surpassed by the flood of her own arousal, if she reached into her jeans right now, her hand would emerge slippery and sweetly musky. There is a pleasant yearning ache deep within her, a longing to grasp and clench and slide, to feel filled and stretched and demanded.

When she’s finished this piece, she can go home and reward herself with release. 296 words done, only another hundred to go.