Just had the most infuriating day at work. Some dipshit in accounting had the audacity to pat me on the head like I’m a fucking puppy. Newsflash, asshole: my tits are bigger than your career prospects, and my pussy has more depth than your personality. Still, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fantasize about bending over my desk and letting someone fuck the frustration out of me. Maybe then I’d finally feel something other than rage and loneliness. Or maybe I’ll just go home, pour myself a drink, and pretend I’m not craving a calloused hand gripping my hips while I’m filled to the brim. Fuck me, right?