Wordsmoker

I’m telling you about some of the women I’ve had sex with. For some reason I prefer to give them a number – rather than a fake name – in order to protect both our identities. I like calling them “Girl” because I find it sweet and it turns me on.

This story is about Girl Number Seventeen.

Girl was hot and I don’t think many people caught it.

If you didn’t spend the time getting to know her you’d have thought her immensely shallow. Get a couple of drinks or five down her rather shapely neck, she’d open up and talk deep. Sometimes she’d cry. Talk about her rather sexless marriage. I knew her husband’s name before she told me.

She had an incredible figure, but hid it like David Copperfield would if all he had as props were shapeless pantsuits. Girl had maybe D cups with some beautiful gradients if you looked closely while being wise about it. A gently-curving stomach. A Curvy ass underneath the most mediocre of materials. None of what I’d ever seen her in had done her any justice. We were working together and I got a lot of time to check her out because I have testicles.

While she was busy.

Because I have testicles.

Quick glances over her, finding the details, because I have testicles. The way her breasts dangled when she bent over because I have testicles. Her ass and seriously visible panty line when she was reaching for something while atop a ladder Because I Had Testicles.

The Ladder Moment was a Moment, Indeed.

That was before Everything Else happened. But The Ladder Moment is indelible, linked to What Happened Afterwards with the two of us. That was the first Real Moment I felt just like slowly reaching out and grabbing her by the hips from behind. Gently. Strong, and persistent. Spreading my thumbs slowly. Running them over the cheeks of her ass in those now-not-so-terrible pants. Feeling her stiffen for a second, body gone prone. Frozen. All those emotions running through her mind in an instant while I’m behind her taking my chance and gently feeling her ass because enough was enough and dammit I Have Testicles And They have made my mind up -

Yeah. I’d been finding her increasingly attractive.

She’d let slip when drunk one time that she wasn’t Getting Enough (if Any) from her husband whose name I already knew. Now – here I am, at the bottom of a ladder and experiencing what I’d refer to later as “The Ladder Moment” – looking up at her beautiful ass – cock now rock-hard – and because then I realized that

because I have testicles

the testicles had told me that the Gods had spoken and that the time was now and my testicles were not in the mood for accepting no as an answer. No sir.

I never did, though.

Touch her, I mean. I didn’t.

Not then.

I just stared at her ass, her shoulder blades through her blouse, her ankles. Just took in the view for around 10 long, beautiful seconds. Cock throbbing away – enjoying the illicit proximity of it all. I just stared. Girl, from behind, was art. Damn.

Fast forward weeks. A month. We’re still working together, running a project in tandem, we’re both managers, equals, with 20 others under us together. We spend a fair bit of time together. Dry meetings which we both have to attend. I discover that Girl’s obviously shy. That Girl’s got a dry, cynical humor of her own. Girl no longer comes across as sour. I genuinely warm to Girl, but I’ll be honest – I’m a man, I wouldn’t be sitting listening to Girl moaning if Girl didn’t get my cock twitching which was becoming sometimes nearly regular now. Also – Girl thought herself as “plain”!

It was only as true as much as she believed it was.

Because Those Eyes. That Figure. Girl didn’t smile much, which was a shame. Because it felt nice to make her smile now. I mean – I don’t mind the serious look. The I’ve Got The Blues Look. Girl had a Serious I’ve Got The Blues Look. But making her smile was worthwhile.

Fast-forward to this;

late Friday night in a bar somewhere.

The rest of our team have gone home, mostly drunk. Girl and I have drank them off and Girl can hold her drink. I mean, she’s slurring her words sometimes, but Girl is cogent. And open – I’ve seen her drunk like this a couple of times, sitting there, staring into space for 30 seconds before re-joining the group conversation. I like seeing her like that, fixated on something rattling in her mind, because her face relaxes and she goes an interesting type of blank. Girl’s looking at the floor with those big brown eyes of hers flashing in the gloom. Sometimes Girl smiles like this. And at some of the things I say. I like that. Girl more laughs-than-smiles at some of the things I say when I say them – but when I see Girl smile like that, I know I hit a real nerve somewhere inside her. Then I smile.

Well – Girl’s Crying. I don’t realize this for a while mostly because I’m a man. She’s talking openly about her husband. How crap their marriage is. I agree with silence. Just let her get it out. She looks good in profile, Little Miss Big Brown Eyes. Her hair – which she never does anything with and which I kinda admire – is tucked behind her ear. A strand comes loose – her head is lowering and she’s confessing to the floor because gravity effects everything more when you’re down and she flicks the strand of hair behind her ear and

My heart leaps into my mouth. My cock stiffens immediately against my thigh and I’m glad it’s dark under the table.

But

She needs a hug for real. I’m lost, confused, direction-less in this moment and she’s beginning to show actual fucking tears and here I am with my cock hardening and my heart-pounding in my ears and damn I somehow have to do the right thing. Girl deserves that for a change.

I go into friend mode without realizing it and reach out slowly, put my arm around her shoulders. A solid grip from my hand. I pull her closer, but not too much. The bar is busy, but the chatter is gone now. I’m surprised how genuine and non-sexual my hug is. My hand stays there. She’s gone silent. My grip is still solid, but I loosen it. Intensity is all well and good in a moment - sometimes it’s not terribly reassuring if you continue it beyond a certain period of time (this rule has just popped into my head as I write this in retrospect) and the time lapses and I loosen my grip and keep my hand there, around her shoulders. It feels natural and easy and correct. Girl was birthing some crocodile tears. Just because I’m a very naughty boy doesn’t mean I’m sometimes not a very good man.

My hand lies there. She’s stopped crying. Or talking. She just looks at the floor. I look away from her. I just want to be someone hugging her for a while. My cock softens, the sensation of it’s existence from a lifetime ago.

I look straight ahead in silence. Don’t really see anyone, anything. Hear anyone, anything. There is only the comfort I feel with my arm around her shoulders. My hand had been left there because time itself had somehow stood still and it would have seemed rude to start moving anything, anywhere. The laws of physics changed in my head.

I stayed in that moment for a couple of eternities a second then came out of my daze. Girl was still in hers. Maybe more drunk than I was and I was fairly drunk and girl could hold her drink but she’s hit a wall and

my arm is still there, and I look at her, the hair tucked behind her cute little ear her chin her left cheekbone her neck her neck looks good her little double-chin thing which is so cute just scanning her. Seconds pass. These are not glances any more – I’m seeing all of her, every minutiae, with abandon and Girl is what I’m drinking now. Every little thing about the woman I’ve got my arm around I drink down like she’s the first beer, after work, on a hot and shitty day. I’m reminded by myself that the contact with her feels good. My Hug still feels right. I’ve got no idea how long my arm has actually been around her could be hours days doesn’t matter then

I finally see her eyes. Those Big Brown Eyes. They look dark in the light of the bar. Tears have been slowly rolling. Tracks are visible, but only if you get time to look. And only if you’re as close to her as I am now.

Her face fills my mind.

I’m not fully aware of it, but my arm is slowly, surely, moving down her back.

(to be kinky continued)