Chapter 7: Daydreaming
Brenda stared blankly at the spreadsheet shimmering on the screen. Columns of figures blurred into meaningless grey blocks. All she saw was the amber glow of their bedroom lamp, the desperate hunger in Harold’s eyes, and the impossible, mind-shattering fullness. Her thighs clenched involuntarily under the sterile metal desk.
Harder. Fuck me with both of them. Her own voice echoed in her skull, raw and demanding. The memory wasn't just visual; it was visceral. The deep, familiar stretch of his main cock splitting her open, the burning, exquisite pressure of the smaller one forcing its way into her ass… the sudden, shocking rigidity of both at once. And then… God, the feel of them afterwards. Her fingers, slick with sweat and their mixed fluids, tracing the length of the smaller one.
"Brenda? Brenda, you with us?" The voice sliced through her reverie.
She flinched, blinking rapidly. Mark from Accounting leaned towards her across the conference table, his brow furrowed. Four other colleagues stared, expressions ranging from polite expectation to mild annoyance. Brenda’s cheeks flamed. How long had she been zoned out? "Sorry! Yes, Mark. The… the Q3 projections. Right. Um…" She scrambled for the printed report in front of her, fingers fumbling. "Margins look… tight. Very tight. We need to re-evaluate vendor costs." The words felt hollow, automatic. Inside, her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the dull ache lingering deep in her pelvis.
Was it growing? The question was an insistent drumbeat. During that final, explosive climax, when the little one had erupted inside her ass with that sharp, focused intensity… had it pulsed larger? Thicker? Or was it just the insane, overwhelming sensation? The memory of her fingertip tracing its post-coital swell, the undeniable heft it seemed to possess compared to before… it felt real. Too real.
The meeting droned on. Interminable. Talk of KPIs and market saturation washed over her, meaningless noise. All she could feel was the phantom stretch. The ghostly pressure of being impaled on two distinct, hard lengths. One buried deep in her cunt, the other a burning brand in her ass. The image wouldn't leave her: Harold beneath her, groaning, his face a mask of primal ecstasy, both cocks visibly straining upwards, thick and demanding. The wet, obscene sounds of her body struggling to accommodate them.
Heat pooled low in her belly, an insistent throb that intensified with every breath. Her nipples tightened against the lace of her bra. She shifted in the ergonomic chair, the slight movement sending a fresh wave of awareness through her sensitive core. Fuck. I can't sit here.
"Excuse me," Brenda blurted, pushing her chair back abruptly. The legs scraped loudly on the linoleum. "Bathroom. Won't be a moment." She didn't wait for acknowledgment, striding towards the door, her heels clicking a rapid, desperate rhythm on the floor. She felt eyes on her back, burning with curiosity or judgment. She didn’t care.
The cool sterility of the women's restroom offered no relief. She locked herself in the farthest stall, leaning her forehead against the cold metal partition. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. The scent of industrial cleaner couldn't mask the phantom musk she swore she still smelled – sweat, sex, lavender, and him.
Her hand shook as she fumbled with the button and zip of her tailored trousers, shoving them and her panties down to her knees in one frantic movement. She braced one hand against the partition, the other diving between her legs. Her fingers found her clit immediately, swollen and throbbing under the thin fabric of her tights. She groaned, low and guttural, circling the hard nub with urgent pressure.
There. The fantasy slammed back, vivid and raw. Not just the memory, but an amplification, a fantasy... Harold’s larger cock, impossibly thick now, stretching her cunt to an unbearable limit, the head bumping deep inside, making her scream. But it was the other one that consumed her. The smaller one. Growing. Not just stiff, but swelling. Thickening as it pushed relentlessly into her tight asshole, stretching the resisting ring of muscle wider, wider than last time. The burning stretch was agony and ecstasy combined.
"Fuck, Brenda, look at it," Harold’s imagined voice growled in her mind. "See how hard the little fucker gets for your ass? See how thick?"
Her fingers plunged into her pussy, two then three, fucking herself hard and fast, mimicking the brutal double penetration. Her wetness soaked her hand, the slick sounds loud in the tiled confines. She imagined it wasn’t her fingers, but that thickening, rigid shaft spearing her ass while the monstrous main one pistoned into her cunt. The stretch was immense, overwhelming. She could feel the distinct ridges of his smaller cock rubbing her inner walls, the hot, hard length buried impossibly deep, pulsing as it grew larger with every thrust.
"Take it! Take both!" her own mental voice screamed. "Fuck my ass, Harold! Stuff me full! Make me feel it GROWING inside me!"
She rubbed her clit furiously, the pressure building like a coiled spring. Her inner muscles clenched rhythmically around her fingers, mimicking the spasms of her imagined climax. She pictured Harold roaring, his hips slamming up, driving both engorged cocks impossibly deep as he came – the hot flood from his main cock filling her womb, the fierce, staccato spurts from the thickening, still-growing smaller cock erupting deep in her bowels. The sheer, filthy fullness of it.
The orgasm hit her like a freight train. A silent scream tore from her throat as her body bowed, slamming her shoulder against the stall door. Her pussy convulsed violently around her thrusting fingers, the muscles in her ass and thighs locking rigid. Waves of white-hot pleasure radiated outwards, centered on that deep, stretched ache, the phantom sensation of being split wide open by two impossibly rigid, growing cocks. She gasped, shuddering, riding the intense, almost painful crest.
Slowly, shakily, the tremors subsided. She sagged against the partition, slick fingers still buried inside herself, breathing ragged. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, brutally bright. Reality crashed back: the smell of disinfectant, the cool metal under her cheek, the sheer absurdity of what she’d just done in a work bathroom stall.
But beneath the shame and the fading tremors, the question roared louder, echoing in the hollow silence: Was it growing?
She pulled her fingers out, wiping them roughly on the inside of her discarded panties. Her hand trembled as she pulled her clothes back into place. She stared at her reflection in the polished metal of the stall door – flushed face, wild eyes, hair escaping its clip. The woman looking back was a stranger, consumed by a filthy, terrifying hunger.
What the hell is happening? The thought wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was a tremor of fear beneath the lingering heat. She splashed cold water on her face in the sink, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror above it. The coolness did little to soothe the fire inside, or quiet the desperate, exhilarating, terrifying image burned into her mind: Harold’s twin cocks, harder, thicker, larger than before, straining for her. Waiting.
She straightened her blouse, smoothed her hair. The meeting, Mark’s expectant face – they were a world away. Only one thing felt real: the phantom ache deep inside her, and the urgent, clawing need to get home. To see him. To know. Her hands, still trembling slightly, gripped the edge of the cold porcelain sink.