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Woman sells her soul to the devil for good sex.

I imagined Thomas' hand reaching up and taking a hold of my breast. With my own hand I slipped my fingers under my bra and shivered at the sensation of fingers rubbing my nipple. I pictured Thomas' tongue doing the same thing.

Ready to go to the next level, I slowly moved the vibrator up towards my clit, which had been craving some touch for a few minutes now. I thought I could move around it until I found my release. But once the tip of the vibrator found my clit, it was all over.

Oh...my...GOD! All the pictures in my head went into vibrant colors, then were overtaken by flashing and music and trying to breathe and squeezing and my feet slipping off the desk and onto the ground and my legs clenching and both hands now holding the vibrator and my stomach clenching and my walls tightening and hearing my own voice making noises I didn't want anyone to hear and slipping off the chair and finding myself on my knees, one hand gripping the edge of the desk to support myself.

I could hear my own breathing, and that sound brought me back into focus. I still felt my legs shaking a bit, and I wasn't ready to stand up yet. After a minute of catching my breath and listening to the steady tick of the clock on my office wall, I shook my head and got back up. I dropped back into my desk chair and looked around, chuckling to myself. A faint buzzing underneath me showed me where I had dropped the vibrator, which I picked up and turned off.

"Well that was certainly a toe-curler," I said into the silence. The rest of the evening turned out to be quite productive, more than making up for all the hours I had wasted during the day.


I was nervous the next morning, heading in to breakfast. Thomas was already there, and he stood to greet me. It seemed like such an old-fashioned habit, standing when a lady entered. I commented on that, and he said, "My parents trained me that way. Sometimes my teachers would joke that I was born in the wrong century."

"I bet you got tired of hearing that," I said.

"All I had to do was remind them what life was like for a man of my ethnicity in previous centuries and that quickly ended those comments," he said seriously. Then he broke into a broad smile. That led into an engaging discussion over racial issues in his upbringing, some of which he had only begun to understand and process through the class I had taught.

"Which reminds me," he said, leaning forward. "I still don't know Doc Lock's story..."

"A tale for another time," I said, looking at the clock. The hour had flown by, and I had lost all sense of unease.

"Tomorrow?" he asked.

"Perhaps," I said coyly and headed out of the clinic.

We went on like that for a few weeks- spending our breakfast times sharing stories, talking about issues, and overall enjoying one another's company. In the meantime, Tom was finding his way into more and more of my fantasies. I tried to justify it by saying that it was only the excitement of the idea- it wasn't something that would ever happen in reality, so it was safe to imagine.

But as Glen had told me all those years ago, imagining leads to wanting, which leads to more imagining which leads to more wanting. It was a dangerous cycle that I was unwilling to put an end to. It made for some wonderful orgasms, with or without the vibrator; and there was a sliver of unacknowledged hope that just maybe it could happen.

Why did I want it to happen? That was the question that bugged me.

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