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At work, every gaze is locked onto the provocative bulge beneath my skirt. You, my eager office plaything, can't hide your fixation. I revel in your attention, subtly accentuating the outline, even letting the swollen head peek out just for you. As the day ends, I lay into a pillow, hips rocking in a primal rhythm, giving you a glimpse of what you're missing. You're left aching, denied, and desperate to be my bulge bitch.
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