What's to be done?

I am sitting at your office at work right now.

Don’t be too afraid…it’s late and there’s no one around. I had a…talk…with the night janitor downstairs; he likes me now. He likes me like you like me, like a number of men like me. He’s given me a key to your building, a key to your office.

I am sitting at your desk in my jean mini, a loose sweater falling off my shoulders. I am playing with your computer, your company computer—surfing the internet in many dodgy places. I’m downloading pornography. I’m printing out DIY pipe bomb instructions. I’m shredding important letters. I’m emailing dirty messages to your coworkers.

I’m all alone and thinking naughty thoughts. I want you to come find me; to bend me over your desk, in your office, slide my snug skirt up over my hips and spank my bottom until that night janitor downstairs can hear my screams, my repentant begging. I want you to press my naked ass against the cold window and spread my legs, find me drenched-soaked-sillywet with need. What will you do to me then? My head swims, frenziedly. I am desperate.

I am calling the operator, “What is the number for China? For India? For Siberia?”

I want to leave a trail of my misdeeds in my wake; I want you to punish me for days, exquisite torture, pain and humiliation. I want you to make me cower, to cry, to trickle sloppily between my thighs, to growl, to moan. You make me want, and then you decide what I am allowed. I want. Oh, I want.

I know that you could thrash me for the sake of thrashing me; you can do whatever you desire, of course. But you threatened to take that away, and so I have become crafty, devious, chaotic, trying to get what I need from you. What I want. I am a bad girl…and I’m calling you at home right now.

Hopefully, I’ll get your wife, I think, grinning wickedly.

To be continued with S...
And continued with S...