Desperation was the name of the game. She checked her phone like one checked on a wound, constantly, carefully, waiting for any sign of change.

The buzz of his message sent a shiver through her, right to the bone; right to her greedy cunt.

“Be over at 7:15. I’ll have you under my desk while I work. You can touch yourself while you suck me off but don’t make a sound and when I come don’t dare spill a drop.”

And the worries and stresses of the day were already fading as she called a cab. To be of use to him was everything in that moment. To hurry over to be his toy was exquisite.

To be a toy was the antidote for a week of being a rock. To be a hole was to be empty of worry or concern.

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