And it’s fucking torture. I have God knows how many guys ministering to me—four? Five?—and what a fucking waste, because instead of sating me, they’re tormenting me. The hands and the mouths are teasing me, winding me higher so gradually, so carefully, that I’m almost tempted to employ the safe word. I use what little brainpower I have available to console myself with the fantasy of screaming spreadsheet! at the top of my lungs. They’d have to untie me, and then I’d rugby-tackle Mr Spreadsheet McSexy to the ground before clamping my thighs on either side of his handsome head and violently
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