Wednesday, 25 April 2012


The Frenchman is a twat.

He smirks when I talk, patronises me and tries to undermine me constantly. He is late to the meetings or doesn't turn up. Or just rolls up univited and derails them completely. In short, he's a fucking nightmare. I am icily polite and devastatingly pragmatic with him which drives him up the wall.

But there is one more thing I know about him. The more he smirks, the more he patronises me the more I see how he looks at me. A glance here or there. He may hate me, but he would still fuck me. Oh well.

A difficult meeting turns into a quagmire of corprate shite and one upmanship of the 'my cock is bigger than yours' variety when there are far too many men in the room. And the French prick is the biggest cock of them all, only metaphorically speaking.

I am sitting opposite him but quite close, at the edge of the table. We argue over the remit, the purview whatever.

I am both bored and pissed off by now. He won't budge, I won't budge, the rest are staying well clear.

I get an idea. I excuse myself and head for the loo.

I sit myself comfortably against the wall, roll up my skirt, free my breasts from my bra and start playing with myself leisurely. I take my time. Sure enough, I am dripping on my own fingers, imagining someone kneeling over me, fondling my tits with one hand and wanking with the other. Like say, The Teacher did just the other day.

After a long and satisfying orgasm, unusually intense (I have to bite my fingers to stop myself from screaming), I get up and go back to the meeting. I do not wash my hands.

As I breeze back in, the men stop talking.

I sit next to the Frenchman.

"Sorry where were we", I say smoothing my hair. My breath is quickened, and I have that delightful hazy look in my eyes from having just come. I know I do because everything in view has just lost its edges.

5 minutes later and I leave the meeting with my remit and my purview intact.

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