Sub, Conscious

I was surprised to find my panties damp at the end of this workday. No — more than damp — they were drenched. Am I so charged, always, that I must carry an extra pair of panties wherever I go?
 
Apparently my thoughts turn to the erotic so often, and with so little persuasion, that I hardly notice when they do.
 
Dangerous daydreams, and, at 5:05, my body is primed for action. I recalled the day’s activities, what was said, who did what, the looks that were exchanged.
 

Perhaps, when I called the CEO “Sir”, it triggered a memory of begging my own Sir during my most recent spanking. Please stop; don’t stop; I can’t take it; give me all you can, Sir.
 
I suppose it could have been the “Sir”, that small word of great significance in my life, that cranked my juices into overdrive.
 

Or, more than likely, it was the VP’s commanding tone on his conference call as he admonished an underling — calm, calculated, clipped, in control. His precise wording left no question who was bossing whom. I, an eavesdropper, paid attention from my own desk, feeling my back grow rigid as my fingers fumbled a pen over my forgotten task and a blush began at the base of my neck.
 
It was probably the VP who made my panties wet.
 

But then, I bent in the copy room to reach for a ream of paper. Bend…ream…my thoughts followed: me bent over the wooden horse, reaching toward the floor to anchor myself as he assaulted me from behind. Spank, thrust, spank, he pushed me until my hands were filled with carpet and my body filled with him.
 
I blame my soaked panties on copy paper.