70 words per minute

Somehow, it kept returning to me. Like a slightly disturbing scene from a movie from which I had tried to turn, away but failed. My mind retaining against my will an indelible technicolour glimpse.
Really, there was nothing to see. Nothing except a girl, well a woman really. A woman typing. A woman dressed, so dressed, in what seemed to me to be layer upon layer of black garments. Pale hands and face the only skin on view and the occasional flash of calf clad in thick black tights, or were they stockings.
I always wear stockings. I like the way they stop and leave an area of flesh available. I find there is something ungainly about tights, ill considered, unaware. I thought she probably had tights on and why was I thinking that anyway. Was it because she sat unknowingly fulfilling much used fantasies of mine? I attempt now to push them from my mind and talk practically about the matter at hand. Exchange pleasantries; maintain a respectful physical distance, almost.
It is not the sort of thing one mentions on a third or was it fourth encounter, so she wouldn't have been thinking like me how to loose those buttons or hooks or whatever they were. Feel the fabric give way as I court with my hands her breasts that I have visited in my mind, driven by lurid detailed descriptions. Consider the accuracy of the stories I that have been told, allude to them perhaps, just to see the look on her face. Was it because she slotted so neatly into other much-frequented musings that pre date the details I make him expose? The secret whispers and groans meant for his ears only, originating from where I do not know.
Their she sits, busy, engaged in some task of my design, I sit on the desk close to the screen, perhaps I touch her face, perhaps not. With my foot, I prise her legs apart, she doesn’t look up, nor does she resist. She carries on working as I run the sole of my foot up her thighs and to the top of the stockings she has been instructed to wear. Sometimes I tell her to come without knickers, I check before I let her in. Today I have allowed her to keep her pants on because I didn’t want her on public transport in a mini skirt and a bare arse. I am regretting my benevolence as my toes brush against the warm fabric between her thighs and pushing slightly, I feel the hot sliminess of her cunt behind it. She shifts slightly, letting her legs fall further apart sliding her self forward to the edge of the chair so I can poke and tweak at her. I stuff the now sodden crotch of her panties right inside her; stroke her clit with my big toe, gently then a little more. I enjoy the moistening as evidence of the delicious warming sensation causing the rhythm of her nimble fingers on the keyboard to slip. Looking down I see my painted toenail nestling in the silken folds of her pussy, nudging teasing.
I have practised this and nothing can prevent the ache that develops in the sole of your foot after a while. You just have to hope that you can make them come before it develops into an inevitable searing cramp in your calf. But it's worth it! Just to see their thighs slack and wide, to be able to sit back and watch them squirm, to indulge in the hot squidge on the sole of your foot.
A sensible question interrupts my reverie. I have no idea what she has said. I wonder what, if anything I was talking about in the split seconds between her last comment and mine. Have I been in antisocial silence for some time? Have I been gazing into the distance, inadvertently whetting my lips at the lurid taste of my dreamings? Some answer is made and I try to get my mind on the nearly done job, doing my best to sideline the somewhat tacky lapse into base pornography that will befall my intellect as soon as my eye traces those close clad curves. My gaze flickering past leaving a trail of mixed emotions and a quivering, a quickening because I can't help imagining the lie of his lips as he sucks at her. How he loves to do that. How well and with such detailed hunger, sucks at he squeezes and nibbles at her. What sounds crept from her mouth? Her voice is quite high I would like to hear her squeal as I am sure he has when he slipped those magic fingers into the recesses of her quim, played there insistent, deliberate, persistent in this as in all things. He likes to see them melt, likes to find the special places that leave them gasping, likes to drip with the juices from their gushing, gaping cunts.
Did I say that aloud? For a moment I am not sure but then reason tells me that had I voiced such thoughts it is unlikely that she would be sipping her coffee and rolling a cigarette and saying something, 'I'm sorry what did you say?'
It's all done the work, and there is no apparent reason for her to stay, I have enjoyed it more than I expected, more than I intended, but perhaps that isn't true, perhaps. Well never mind.
More politeness follows, Chelsea kisses on the cheek and off she goes, closing the door. I think that I would put my money on tights.