I dedicate this to you, the one who begged for a Halloween tale. We’re bound by words here, not cocks… uh, queues (winky face). You wield words like a pro, knowing silence screams the worst pains. Pages of prose mean shit if they don’t touch the hurt.
Knees pulled tight to my chest, arms hugging them hard, I press my ear to the massive office clock. Tic-tac. Only that rhythm now. It drowns the open-space buzz. Printer whirs in the corner. Coffee stench mixes with her perfume—sharp, musky, boss bitch scent. My heart syncs: slower at thirty-seven, quicker at forty-three. Sixtieth resets it. Predictable. Safe.
The Building Tension
These quirks? Mine alone. Words tangle inside me, burst out wrong—shrill, messy. Colleagues stare, pity in their eyes. But this clock? It gets me. Door clicks locked earlier—her doing? Mouse clacks echo from her desk. I hide here, ambitious exec turning feral before the big meeting.
Tic-tac. Heart matches. Slow at thirty-seven, fast at forty-three. Routine. Until she returns. Expected. She’s the director, Françoise. My boss. I crave her chaos—her pulse erratic, wild. Love her vibe, even if unspoken.
Promise: no screaming this time. Head taps wall softly. Light at thirty-seven, hard at forty-three. Silent plea. Crazy? Maybe. Clock rules my world.
Door creaks open. Lock snaps back. Hall light stabs the dark. I curl tighter. Footsteps clack—heels on tile, too loud. Heart races. Stay in rhythm. Thirty-seven, forty-three, sixty.
Ear glued to wood. Pendulum swings. Her voice cuts through, soft, commanding.
“Maryse… it’s me, Françoise.”
Boss. Who else? Barely shift. Eyes on floor.
“Look at me, Maryse. For me.”
Voice pierces. I tilt chin. Her right hand: glittering fairy mask, tiny wings. Left: drawing—fairy on rainbow, from my fave repetitive jingle. Colors scream. Too perfect.
Fairy feel fear? Speak? Count? Drawing’s mute. Mine? Chaotic scribbles, like my lust—twisted lines, color blasts. Unread screams.
Her drawing? Lie. Too neat. Back to clock.
She kneels. Sets drawing down.
“Halloween today. Fairies like you emerge.”
Frown. Listen close—I like her.
“Put on the mask, ride your clock like the rainbow. Control time. Fast or slow. Yours to command.”
Mask shimmers. Wings quiver like pendulum. Seductive pulse. Control the chaos? Fuck yes.
“No words needed. Just wear it. Be free.”
The Raw Explosion
Fingers hesitate. Tic-tac urges me. She slips it on. Perfect fit. Wings brush cheeks—va-et-vient tease.
Eyes shut. Stockpile beats. Strength builds.
She guides me up. First step from clock. Her hand warm, firm. Fairy now. Time mine.
World softens. Lights dimmer. Noises muffled. Coffee-perfume haze thickens. Her eyes lock mine—hungry.
Heat blooms low. New fire. Heart independent now.
Open-space glances earlier burned—coworkers sensing my edge. Dossiers piled high. Door shut us in.
She shoves me back. Desk edge bites thighs. Skirt hikes. “Fucking fairy slut,” she growls. Lips crash. Tongue invades.
Printer hums. Mouse clicks forgotten. Her fingers rip panties. Wet already. Clock ticks frantic.
“Ride my time, bitch.” She yanks my hair. Mask stays. Wings flutter.
Pants unzip. Cock—wait, strap-on? No, her fingers first. Three plunge deep. Pump hard. Thirty-seven slow grinds, forty-three rapid thrusts. I buck. Desk rattles.
Coffee mug tips. Spill soaks papers. Perfume chokes. “Cum on my clock, Maryse.” Her mouth on neck. Bites.
Flip me. Ass up. Skirt bunched. She straps on—hidden in drawer. Thick. Slams in. Raw. No lube needed—I’m dripping.
Tic-tac pounds match her hips. Slaps echo. “Take it, ambitious whore.” Grunts mix with whirs. Door locked holds.
Explosion hits. Walls clench. Scream muffled by mask. She floods—fake cum squirts hot. Collapse.
Panting. Adjust skirt. Wipe desk quick. Mask straightens—fairy facade.
“Meeting now. Act normal.” Her wink.
Grab dossiers. Stride out. Open-space stares. Head high. Tic-tac inside. Fairy owns time. Lighter. Softer world.
Reunion starts. I shine. Secret heat lingers. Mask off later, but fairy’s mine forever.