John

John

25 years old

6′ 3″

175 lbs

Auburn, softly curled hair

Brown eyes

It was two in the afternoon. My office was warm, sunlight dripping golden through the windows, lunch sitting solidly in my stomach, my eyelids drooping. The clock ticked softly in the corner, the rest of the room sat empty and still, and I was daydreaming. Imagining my slim fingers twisting and tangling through the thick, auburn hair of John, the office assistant. My eyes stared aimlessly out my window toward the front desk, where, on the other side of the wall, he sat, with his back to me. I’d walk up behind him, run my fingers through his hair, and he’d lean back, eyes still on whatever blog post he was reading, relaxing into me as my fingers lightly scratched his scalp. He’d moan softly, eyelashes fluttering closed, then spin the chair to face me. “What’s up?” he’d ask.

Wait. That was real. There was a real person. At the window. I shook my head quickly to clear it, and my eyes focused on John, forehead pressed against the glass, grinning at me. “What’s up?” he repeated. I smiled back, wheeling over to the door to let him in. His shoulders filled the doorway for a second, before he flopped into the chair at the adjoining desk.

“Not a thing. You?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m loving this. Super stoked. Just really happy to be here.” he deadpanned.

“Ready to go?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got my stuff in the car. It’s only three hours, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. Are we in the same hotel?”

“Let me check.” he said. Then he stood up, crossed the room, and bent down next to me to use my computer. His shoulder literally pressed into mine, the heat from his face making my cheek blaze. God, he was perfect. My stomach clenched just at the thought of the next weekend.

It hadn’t always been like this. It wasn’t all my fault; circumstances were hard. 25 years old, already four years into an ill-advised marriage to an abusive husband, I had just relocated to a new city, when I interviewed for this job, and I met . . . John. And he was so . . . mildly disheveled, his overlong limbs draped akimbo over that damn desk chair, when I first walked in the door. He wore soft sweaters, nerdy glasses, khakis and a ballcap. He had freckles. He was naive, and funny, and despairing, and the only bright spot in an utterly miserable business. He hated the office as much as I did. The minute I saw him, he felt like a kindred spirit.

The first conversation I had with John, he was gushing to me over some 80s movie featuring a young Mark Wahlberg, “You know: back when he was cute.” So, for the first few months, I assumed he was gay. I pranced around in my silly little outfits. I flirted with him incessantly. But when he finally started dating, then broke up with, a girl . . . that was when the trouble started.

I couldn’t go ten minutes without thinking about touching him. His thick cottony sweaters! His biceps! His hair, God, his hair. Curly and red, overgrown, mussed into some semblance of a mop. I imagined threading my fingers through it – or, more accurately, twisting my fingers into it while I bruised his mouth. One day, he had to come into my office to train me on some new software, and he snuggled right up into my shoulder for a full forty-five minutes. My entire face could have gone up in flames.

There were other times, too, when he’d ask me to come with him to grab a cup of coffee down the street. Sometimes, he’d come knock on my office door all official-like, say “Hey, can I talk to you for a second,” then come in and just want to hang out. Why these innocent niceties made me want to climb him like a tree, I honestly don’t know. I was just starved for connection.

So after titillating myself all afternoon, I’d come home, strip off my skirt, and get myself off to the thought of fucking John. Everything John did made me want to strip naked and beg him to take me. I was afraid to talk to John, for fear he’d somehow see how much I wanted him to dick me down. And days when the office was empty, like today, I’d wheedle away my time letting my mind wander through any of a dozen scenarios that ended in me straddling that receptionist boy in his desk chair, and fucking his brains out.

This weekend, his boss had opted to send him to a two-day training seminar three hours away. And when my boss had heard about it, she’d decided I should also attend the same two-day training seminar, three hours away. He was clearly feeling very normal about it. I was . . . not.

First, I drove us to the train station, because he was protesting fossil fuel use, and rode his bike to work. Adorable.

Then, we waited for the train, side by side at the station. I would have sat a few feet apart, but no, receptionist boy sat right next to me, the heat of his body melting me into an absolute puddle as he talked.

Then we got ON the train, and as I slid into the window seat, he slid in right next to me. I was down BAD. My breathing was shallow. All my fantasies, combined grandbetting yeni giriş with the drought that was my actual life, had put me in a truly untenable position. I was short-circuiting. He was talking.

“Do you want to watch a movie? I have my library downloaded.” he said over his shoulder, digging through his backpack.

“If you want to! No pressure though. I’m happy to hang out by myself.”

“I’m a group film viewer, myself. What kind of stuff do you like? I’ve seen them all, most probably twice.”

“You’re really into movies, huh?”

“Not like your husband is, but I try.”

It was like a shard of ice to the heart. I swear my eye physically twitched. “Can we just not talk about it?” burst out before I could stop myself.

He glanced over at me, his eyes dark and inscrutable beneath his dark hipster glasses. “Sure, no problem.” He paused, fished out a tablet and some earbuds. “What about National Treasure? That’s always a classic.”

If he was trying to put me at ease, he’d already succeeded. “I LOVE National Treasure!”

His grin was back. “Perfect. Everybody does.” He handed me an earbud. “Here. This’ll take up some of the trip.”

So we watched the movie. It did, in fact, take up a good amount of the trip. But I did not, in fact, remain at ease. First of all, he was a very nicely-sized individual. His shoulders were broad. His thighs were thick. He had soft reddish leg hair and little freckles splashed across the warmth of his skin. He took up SPACE. And with the tablet on his lap, sharing an earbud like fucking teenagers, he was all up in mine. Our shoulders touched, then our arms, then our legs, and he was like the sun and I was a very tiny, very cold little plant, pulled inerrantly in his direction. It was all I had to resist.

I really didn’t want to violate him in my mind, while he was right next to me, all comfy and relaxed and safe, but he was so cute, and so thick, and I couldn’t HELP but wonder how thick he was underneath those chino shorts. It had to be thick too, right? God, and his jaw was so chiseled, I wanted to lick it. And see what he’d do if I kissed that spot under his ear. So it was during this movie, in an incredibly horny stupor, while he sat completely unaware, that I devised a plan.

The first step in the plan was simple: Ask him for drinks when we get to the hotel. He’s a twenty-something frat boy who still lives with roommates. He’s always down for drinks. Mission: accomplished.

The second step in the plan was also simple: Drink. Bourbon makes my inhibitions fly right out the window. I sat facing him at the hotel bar, balanced on top of a tiny barstool, leaning towards him, both my knees between both of his, my eyes locked on his lips. His soft, warm, kissable lips. He talked. I asked questions. Everything was going great.

The third step in the plan was not so simple, hence the bourbon at the bar. We got into the elevator. We pressed our respective buttons. The elevator started to move. I was too nervous. I had to make a move. Time seemed to move impossibly slow. I was missing my shot. The elevator dinged. He was getting off. “Wait – ” crossed my lips before I could even stop it. My hand grabbed his sleeve.

He stopped, looked back at me. “Everything all right?” he asked.

I was mute. I could not speak. Could not breathe. Just gaping at him like a dying fish. The elevator doors started to close. I pushed myself forward, heels clacking on the vinyl. One step, two steps, and then I kissed him. Carefully, slowly, with no pressure or expectation, pressed my lips up to his, our bodies barely touching. His eyes fluttered closed for just a heartbeat, and with my heart in my throat, I pulled away. “Come back with me,” I almost-whispered, and his startled brown eyes met mine for just a fraction of a second, before the arm my hand was on was wrapped around my waist, and he was kissing me again, this time hard and open-mouthed, his tongue thrusting into mine.

The elevator dinged again before I could even think, and I pulled away before the doors slid open, waited a beat, then walked out into the hallway. He followed silently, stood just behind me as I fumbled with the key, trying one, two, three times before it clicked into place. I opened the door and held it while he entered the room, then shut and locked it behind. I realized it was probably the longest I’d ever heard him go without speaking. Finally, into the darkness, he said, “Are you sure about this?”

I smiled, almost laughing from the relief and the nerves. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You’re married.”

I hedged, instinctively using the same line I’d used on the train. “Can we just not talk about it?”

He turned and squinted at me, trying to decide. “Is he a good guy?”

“No, he isn’t.”

A pregnant pause, then he smiled. “Alright.”

I’m not gonna lie: I practically ran those few feet in to him. Our lips crashed together in an absolute frenzy. Both my hands pulled his face grandbetting giriş into mine. His mouth was hot and wet on mine, and I was desperate for it, open-mouthed and wanting. He grabbed my ass, hauling me up against him, and I wrapped my arms around his neck for balance. I stuck my tongue down his throat, and when he moaned, sucking on it, my whole body lit up like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

My back arched into him, my hair falling down my back as we kissed, and his hands started moving over me. He caressed my ass, slid over my hips, grabbed my waist to pull me closer, then his thumbs were skimming the tops of my breasts, the soft skin above my collar. I whimpered, and twisted my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He took the opportunity to bend down, kissing and sucking and nibbling and leaving a blinding hot trail down the side of my neck. My head lolled sideways, and I melted into the strength of him.

He backed up slowly, until his legs hit the bed, and abruptly sat, putting his eyes at exact level with my chest. Without missing a beat, he kissed over my cleavage, and my whole body swayed toward him. He slid back further, and I followed, leaving my shoes behind on the floor, straddling him with my knees, my little black skirt riding up as my thighs spread. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he whispered, and for that I rewarded him with a kiss from above, sloppy and hot, lowering myself into his lap as I unbuttoned the front of my blouse.

His shirt flew off after mine, and I got a few precious seconds to appreciate the view. I let my fingers wander idly, exploring the softness of his skin, the hard rigidity of muscle, while my lips followed the exact trail I’d imagined following on the train, licking up his jaw, planting tiny kisses all over the sensitive spot beneath his ear, my breath coming hot and heavy over his neck. He leaned back onto his hands. “God,” I muttered into his ear, as I traced his biceps, “do you work out?”

“Occasionally,” he quipped, breathing quickly. “You like it?”

“Hell yeah,” I admitted, then caught a quick glimpse of his smile before I kissed his mouth again, sucking and nibbling at his lips. He responded, sitting back up into me, pushing my skirt all the way up my thighs, and pressing his pelvis into my dripping center. My hips couldn’t help themselves; they ground up against the thick bulge under his shorts of their own volition. He could probably tell how wet I was through all three layers. I almost didn’t care.

Then he was tonguing my nipples through the lace of my bra, and I really didn’t care. I was writhing in his lap, bracing myself on his shoulders while he tortured me, one big, warm hand holding my waist, a thumb brushing across one nipple, and his tongue teasing the other. Once that one was hard enough to cut glass, he switched, licking then nibbling. When his teeth latched down, I let out the most pathetic whimper, and he finally reached around and unhooked the bra.

My cream-colored breasts spilled out, bright white against the darkness, dusky nipples hard against the smooth, pale skin. The heat of his mouth finally met my cool skin, and I almost sobbed with relief. Every stroke of his tongue on my breast felt like he was stroking my clit. I was burning up. I couldn’t stand it. I needed him inside me more than I needed air. I pulled at the tight button on his shorts, struggled with the zipper. He finally obliged, and leaned back, pulling them down in one smooth motion, leaving me kneeling over him in a pencil skirt, naked from the waist up, as his cock sprang into view.

My mouth immediately watered. It was beautiful: the smooth head, the ridged shaft, pulsating in the light. I was completely entranced. Before he could sit up, I was on him, bent over with my ass in the air, my lips drawn to his cock like a moth to a flame. I held him in two fingers, and licked him root to tip, and he sucked in a breath. As he exhaled, I went down on him, taking the whole of him in my mouth in one fell swoop. I felt it pulse harder against the length of my tongue, sucking on it, and he groaned my name aloud.

I hummed a little against the mushroom head in my throat, before setting a pace, bobbing and stroking his length, getting sloppy with it, letting it glisten in the dim light from the window, letting him watch my ass in the air and my tits jiggling. I let my fingers trail down his stomach and caress his balls, tickling them with the tips, holding him, feeling their weight. I got lost in it: hearing his breathing quicken, feeling myself drip down my thighs, smelling his sex and tasting the salt of it in the back of my throat.

His hips started to press up into me, his eyes locked into mine. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m coming,” he groaned. He thrust deep into my throat, his head thrown back, and his eyes squeezed shut as he fired rope after rope of hot jizz deep into my stomach. I held him there until his body relaxed, then slowly, languorously, slid my lips off the top of grandbetting güvenilirmi his cock, sucking it clean. He came out at half-mast, and he looked up at me. “That was amazing.”

I primly flipped my hair over my shoulder, and smiled. “I know.”

He grinned, sitting up and leaning toward me. “That’s cute. Take off your skirt.”

“If you insist.”

I laid back on the bed, shimmying out of the little black skirt and thong. He followed me, laying down next to me, his weight suspended on his arm. All of a sudden, his body felt huge. He was looking at me. I was nervous. I gulped, looking up at him, feeling his eyes travel down the planes of my face, the hollow of my neck, the luminous white of my breasts, the soft slimness in my waist, the jut of my hips, my drenched slit, thick thighs. He used one hand to stroke down my side, tracing its curves. His silhouette was dark against the window. His cock twitched.

He took one finger, and ran it up my slit, over my shaved mound. I relaxed a little, and he pressed deeper, massaging my clit. All the lust came rushing back. I might have made a whimpering noise, my hips rolling into him involuntarily. He asked, “Is this okay?”

“Yes, please,” a little breathless, and I pulled his head down to mine to kiss him again, spreading my legs, giving his hand full access. The heat of his mouth pressed deep into mine, his tongue slipping between my lips. Two thick fingers slid down over my clit, into my pussy, hooked inward, then back up over my clit again. In and out, up and down, over and over again. I couldn’t decide which I needed more: the sharp arousal of his rough fingertips across my sensitive nub, or the deep pleasure of his fingers filling and massaging my insides. It was slow and it was torturous, and my body betrayed me.

His fingers were drenched. My back arched into him, brushing my nipples against the hair on his chest. My hips bucked up against his hand, humping him frantically. I moaned aloud, begging him. “John, please.” His fingers circled my clit, sliding frictionless against the wet heat. And then he dropped his head down to my tits, sucking my nipple into his mouth. I cried out in relief at the roughness of his tongue circling my areola, flicking the tip. He sucked harder, pulled, and released it with a pop before switching to the other.

I was a haze of sexual frustration, barely aware of myself fucking his hand, my head tossing side to side, my mouth moaning grateful approval. Finally, his teeth scraped my nipple, and he bit down, hard. His fingers flicked over the head of my clit one last time, and I shattered, seeing stars. He shoved three fingers into my cunt as I came, spasming around the thickness of them, body arched and shaking, his mouth still nursing the soreness in my breast.

Breathing hard, as soon as I could speak, I slid down underneath him. “Fuck me.”

I felt the thickness of him throb against my thigh as he looked me in the eyes and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Fuck yes. Please.” I said again, running my hands over the wall of his chest, the muscles in his arms, the taut v of his hips, stroking my fingers up the length of his shaft, wiping a drop of precum onto my fingertips.

He got up onto his knees, and grabbed his wallet from the nightstand. I laid under him, spent, hair strewn on the pillow, watching his fingers grip his own cock, roll the condom carefully down to the base. I shivered. “Cold?” he asked.

“No, excited,” I responded, spreading myself lewdly for him.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he breathed, lining himself at my channel. He sheathed himself in one full thrust, his cock slamming the back of my cunt as I moaned in delight.

“Oh my GOD you feel so good,” I groaned as he started to move, my eyes closed, reveling in his mushroom head massaging my walls. I could feel every inch of him stretching me open, so, so full.

“Mmm, you like getting fucked, don’t you?” he said as he smacked into me once, twice, three times, making my tits jiggle.

“Oh, God, yes.” I humped him back, thrusting my hips up and into him, urging him faster. My hands grabbed his ass, nails digging in, grinding my clit against his pelvis, sending sparks shooting through my body.

“Fuck yeah, you do,” he grunted, pushing my legs wider, fucking me deeper, and I gasped. I was getting so close. His cock was getting so hard, so fat, so big – he pulled out, giant cock bobbing in the air, balls tight. “Turn over,” he said.

I obliged wordlessly, pussy dripping down my legs as I rolled over, shoving my ass into the air, back arched, my sensitive nipples pressed down into the mattress. His hands caressed my ass, grabbed my hips. He leaned around to look into my face. “Touch yourself,” he said.

I wanted to, oh, how I wanted to. My hand went immediately to my clit and started frigging desperately. He slid his shaft through my folds once, twice, then slid home, filling me just the way I liked. We both moaned. He groaned my name as he started to move at a punishing pace, pushing my face into the mattress, stroking my channel while I touched myself. Everything felt so good, so complete, the pain-pleasure in my pussy, the electricity from my clit, the warmth of his hands on my ass, the titillation of the friction of the sheets against my raw nipples.