Monitor

Over the monitor his eyes monitor her: his office mate Abigail. Those bulging breasts of hers, huge udders trapped beneath that jumper, never to blurt out into the office. And on the monitor his eyes flick over flesh: naked human woman flesh, via a million miles of bot, to here. Click, click, click to his eyes.

Abigail has gone now. His eyes imagine her back, wandering about the room, her cunt sopping, her breasts squirting. And Amy here too, and other sluts, a room full of sluts; all the lovely female flesh of the world, conjured here; O for an office world full with slut and beauty. Click, click, click to his eyes, and almost it's true.

Abigail has gone now. Under the table, I am her mouth. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Then I am her tits, bounce, flop, bounce. Then I am her cunt, slop, slurp, fart. Then I am her hand, yank, yank, yank. Then I am her ass, ooh, aaah, eee.

And now, will I be the paintball trigger, that squirts white everywhere? White across the walls, white over the desk, white over the net, white over all the lovely bot-brought female flesh of this world, a blanket of white over his monitor and eyes? Of course he has the fist - but just not the guts.