No bell needed..

Say what you will about the behaviorists' testing methods (stupid ethics committees, always interfering!), but god damn- Pavlov had it 100% right. It's all about the conditioning.


All about stimulus ... and response.


Cell rings ... and I'm annoyed. Worse still, it's the 'general' ringtone and not one of the assigned ones, but either way it's been a long, very odd day, I'm on edge for a variety of reasons, and I don't want to talk to anyone.


How quickly that changes.

A deep, smooth, accented voice that I recognize immediately ... and there's no pause between it hitting my ears and my panties becoming sopping wet, my skin flushing with arousal, my nipples hardening.


Does he have any idea what he does to me with something as simple as the sound of his voice?


Probably.

Stimulus ... and response.


Is your office door locked ... and my heart threatens to pound straight out of my chest as I make sure it is, hyperaware of how much my hand is shaking as I turn the bolt- so much that I actually miss on the first try.


Put your hand in your pants and fuck yourself, hard ... and I was halfway there already before I thought to ask permission, a small breech of etiquette but I simply can't help myself. Now that I have my orders, I move the rest of the way and whimper with relief as it becomes startlingly clear that this was *exactly* what I needed.


An ocean and several time zones away.. how did he know? When even I didn't?


Not even trying to keep quiet, not a single glance toward the windows; neither of us has much time and truthfully, the second my fingers came into contact with my hot, slick folds I lost most of my outside awareness- little else but his voice, all I need or want right now- and with that any concern about being discovered. There's a slight hitch as he speaks because he's..


Oh, *fuck me*. Sorry, darling readers.. I won't tell you specifically what he's doing, though you can likely guess the generalities. Suffice to say his description of it even now creates a picture in my head that, had I not been sitting down, would have had me on the floor twitching with excitement.


Not that I can think of anywhere I'd rather be than on my knees in front of him.


Gods, he is.. indescribable. Pushing me quickly to the edge with little more than moans and invective. Part of me aware enough to briefly wonder if I do the same for him, and my whimpers take on a higher, more insistent pitch at the thought. Please, I beg.


Stimulus ... and response.


I order you to come.. show me what a slut you are ... and that is not a problem. Loudly, as requested, harder than I anticipated, and blissfully it seems to go on forever, wave after wave making the muscles clamp down on my still-pumping fingers. So overwhelming that when he asks me a question afterward, I literally cannot put an answer together for some time. Words have meaning, I joke, knowing that I am simply not making sense, and unable to focus on anything but the aftershocks..


.. and the knowledge that I haven't heard *his* release, which means that there is still quite the treat left for me in this conversation, if such a thing would please him..


Thank you, sir..