My cock grew to full erection quickly. I ached to reach over, grab a fist full of her hair and push her mouth on my cock till it was lodged deep in her throat. "Well?" Zoe's voice snapped me out of my filthy daydream. "No, Zoe. Although you aren’t made of glass, you are susceptible to injuries," I sternly repeated. As much as I wanted her in my rope, I had to keep her career in mind. "Fine. I'll find someone who will. You had your chance, Gil, remember that. I begged you, and threw myself at you. You didn't even offer to just fuck me. I guess you're too dense to know when a girl is interested in you.” Zoe waved to the waiter to bring the bill, and added, "I've lost my appetite, and I have nothing left to say to you. Feel free to stay and finish the bottle of wine. My treat," she calmly informed me and dropped folded bills onto the table. She stopped next to my chair on making her exit, and added, "You have my cell number. Text me if you change your mind, or, if you're concerned with. The mixture of your perfume and of your arousal. I can still bring that up in my memory, as though it were happening now. I touch myself and think about things I should not think about. I think about words exchanged. About graphic words. About words without boundaries and without either intent or forethought. Simply words of the moment. I think about words sent out that are a quick fuck in a hallway, and not the romantic and planned night of two lovers. I think about words that are a hand job in a car-wash , or a blow job in an empty room only feet away from people who would not believe or who would not imagine…. I think about words that are two fingers slipped into a wet pussy in an elevator, but which are not a tuxedo and black dress with a corsage. I think about words that are a hand resting on an ass, or a quick squeeze of balls while walking into a restaurant, and not words that are an expression of love and commitment. I touch myself and think about words written solely to.
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