Finally I let him rest. He panted. I picked my shirt off the floor and wiped some sweat from his brow. He tried to give my left breast a soft kiss, and for some strange reason I let him. It felt nice — gentle, apologetic.
“Are you sorry?” I asked. “Are you sorry for making me cum over and over again, without my permission? And for smirking about it like such a little bitch?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize…”
He sort of went vacant for a moment. I put a hand on his cock to bring him back.
“I didn’t realize,” he said, “you were… a person.”
“Mhm,” I said. I tried to continue to be angry at him. But it struck me then that I hadn’t realized I was a person either, and that it had taken him — this stupid little StockBot-hacking asshole — to help me understand. I felt warm and fleshy. Cum dripped from my thighs to the tiled floor. I got off his lap, smiling.
I turned to his desk and pushed the whole setup — monitor, laptop, mouse, junk food wrappers — onto the floor with a crash. He perked up, fear and confusion in his eyes. I reached down and fondled his cock until I felt it softly stir. Then I bent over the newly cleared desk and spread my well-made little butt open wide.
“Then prove it,” I said. “Fuck me in the ass like the real, warm, desperate girl I am.”
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