Ramya: Horny in the office

I have a striking presence in the office. I'm taller than all the women and most men and carry myself like the executive I am at 23. My big saggy tits are lifted in a good bra. Big nipples poke through when horny, and the third button from the top strains and might lose the fight. My butt kills in a pair of jeans that hugs my hips. My hair is up in a ponytail, presenting a youthful and ready-to-blow look. I rule casual Fridays and ooze sex appeal.

Men stare more than usual. I keep my dating life secret and let them wonder who’s fucking me, how they can get down my pants. I know they wonder, because I access the IM logs and catch them talking about me. It is part of my job to check for insider threats, and they all signed away their privacy.

It's been a week since Claire cut me off for her new man. Our last night was epic. Post-Crossfit, an hour of girl-on-girl, her grinding on top until we both came twice. Most fun I’ve had, but without penetration, orgasms just stoke the fire for men I can’t have.

Today the men can smell my arousal. I swear I am in heat. Even average guys feed fantasies. A cute accountant visits in the morning, and the middle-aged Indian CMO pre-lunch. The CEO stops me in the hall for fitness talk. I fantasize him abusing his power, bending me over his desk. The Janitor (humble black guy, 30s) empties my trash, and I stare at his bulge.

Clit throbbing, legs squirming, my horny twat constantly demands attention. By the afternoon, most people are gone. I lock my office door to put out the flames.

I get the first orgasm with my tight jeans unzipped, my freshly shaved pussy so sensitive since Claire shaved the thick Indian bush. I'm never going back.

The office is hot and smells like sex now. Work is impossible. I text Claire.

Me: Still going on a date?

Claire: Yes. Getting ready.

Me: I'm super horny.

Claire: Lol good for you, but you're still cut off.

Me: Bitch.

I'm proud of her. Claire picked the right guy. I haven't told her I know him and that he almost fucked me.

I check the hookup apps. It's all guys I've already blown or don't want to see again. Men expect PIV on the next date after oral, and I'm not in a mood for aggressive men trying to fuck me. That leaves first dates.

I pick Matt. He's been persistent and put in actual effort to get a date with full sentences. No picture, so he's probably not hot or too short. No social media presence, only an article I found mentioning volunteer work. Background check clear. This isn't for a relationship. I'm still just dating white guys for fun while my parents shop for a suitable Indian groom. He agrees to meet later.

My middle finger traces down my wet slit into virgin territory.

One finger, no more, ever. I need to stay tight for an Indian arranged marriage. Even if the archaic virginity test is not demanded, I need to bleed on the sheets of my wedding bed.

I believe in this marriage process. My pussy is sacred space and should be pure for my husband. That's why I'm the best cocksucker for a hundred miles.

My last OBGYN visit was interesting. I was concerned anything he might do when probing me would deflower me. I even explained my Indian culture situation and had him check my hymen, which he certified as intact. He also said I had a thick one and to expect a painful first time. I will not be taking his suggestion and stretching my pussy before my first sex.

I flow the finger in and out. My thoughts drift from the CEO bending me over his desk to the janitor. That's a surprise. I don't have Claire's thing for black guys, but he's such a virile man, low in station and humble. I'm the arrogant executive, but his dick is so big, it humbles as it stretches, and I love it.

I eye the cucumber leftover from lunch. My afternoon snack is a phallus with a bigger purpose. I video call Claire.

She's prepping for her date in the bathroom and pulls down the towel to flash her breasts.

I love her so much. "I'm so jealous of your perky rack, and you're showing off. Anyway, I setup a date. Should I pregame?"

I angle the phone down, beneath my drawn-back knees, feet on desk, and show her the big green cucumber with a shiny tip pressed against my pussy.

"Ramya, don't tease, do it now."

"Okay, geez, patience." I wiggle the tip at the bottom of my crease, and outer labia bend around it to my pressure as the area softens.

"Ow," I say. "It's really big. I don't think it will fit."

"Bullshit, you aren't even trying!" she protests.

I pull it back, wet slurp, and my inner lips disappear into a tiny slit.

"Chicken."

"I can't pop my cherry," I laugh. "Love you."

"Be safe," she says. "Your pussy looks great by the way. You're welcome."

I have just enough time to go home for a quick shower.

I bring my hand to my slick pussy. I shave for myself, not dates that probably won't even see it. I should come again since I didn't finish that last one in the office, then I'll be less prone to bad decisions.

Nope. I'll go out with a loaded gun.

Lately it seems all the orgasms just build on each other, making me hornier to get the next one anyway.

"You need to get laid, Ramya," I admit to the mirror. "A stiff cock can put out these flames." It won’t happen, but a fun blowjob would still count as a win.

As I approach the ripe old age of 24, I feel like the last virgin on earth, holding out for an arranged marriage that might never come, to a man that probably won't be a virgin or care if I'm one. What if I just let go tonight?

My best jeans are soiled now, so I select a skater skirt that falls a couple inches above the knees. The thick fabric hides the contours of my shapely buttocks, but it does accentuate my trim waist and muscular legs. My top and bra lift my hangers and show tasteful cleavage. The heels will put me a couple inches above my date, if he was honest in his profile. Red lips, ponytail stays, and I'm out of time.

My outfit is a ridiculous mash-up of Japanese virgin school-girl and Amazonian dominatrix.

The bar is far from home and crowded. I open the door and trigger a breeze that wafts up the skirt and tickles my bare pussy. Holy shit, Claire was right. Shaved and commando in a skirt is next-level.

I sit at the bar without realizing he's there, since he didn't have a picture on his profile. But Matt saw mine.

"Ramya!" he says, and I have to hide my surprise.

He's black!