Typing away on my Olivetti M24 my crotch narrows fast. My office fills with the faint smell of my love for 15 years now, Poison from Dior. But it’s morning and she is at home, taking a bath, her nips pointing out of the frothy foam.
No, that thought is not causing my arise. When I look up, there’s this new girl, a temp, because my secretary is giving birth or something. Petite, coffee milk Moluccan Evie, too much my type! And she wears Poison, not as generous as my love, but enough to give me lovely discomfort down there.
Later, after a lot of comings and goings of Evie, my love phones to announce we will be eating out tonight and I tell her of my torment. She giggles. And at six she is there, opens her black persianer and her Poison announces her, forcefully and naked. And yes, I take her then and there, on my desk, filling her essence with my all-day hard, staining my blotter with big splatters, to enjoy the next days. Luckily we are the last in the office, so she can yell her cummings to heaven.
We were eager, greedy in our long forgotten wild love making, that autumn of ’84. The M24 has witnessed us many times, getting her 6 empty slots wet, the 2 others filled with PCOS and graphics card. Each time was, when Evie wore the perfume. Never told her how she excited us, but at the end of her three months I let her blush, thanking her with a -more than 120 guilders- bottle of eau-de-parfum de Poison.
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