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Twenty-eight was not a great year for me. Four years out of college, two years out of a bad break-up, I was settling into my mundane, workaday rut and facing a “quarter-life crisis.” In school, each semester brought change, new classes, new people–and new opportunities to meet girls. The call center where I now worked as a stockbroker, by contrast, was just the same tired routine and the same 200-odd people in the halls day in and day out.
How was I ever going to meet anyone again? In the grocery store? At a bar? God help me! I’d had a dry spell of more than a year and it seemed like the only way to break it would be something like online dating. Not that there’s anything wrong that, but it just feels so forced to me–I want to just meet someone naturally, not because I have announced my availability to the marketplace like a company listing on a stock exchange.
Just when I was ready to give up and start posting on dating websites, things changed. We’d had a few shift adjustments at the office and I’d moved to an evening team–we’re in central time but we were fielding calls from traders on the west coast–and it was there that I met Claudia Minton.
I was new to the team and happy to find there were some smokers (I’m glad to say it has now been years since I’ve smoked but, at the time, huddling around the ashtray in the courtyard on a crisp autumn evening was the best way to socialize with coworkers). One night I ventured down to the courtyard on break to find three women from my team, Claudia, Kristen and Cynthia, all laughing out loud and, as I approached their circle, I could discern a conspiratorial tone in their laughter–they were laughing the way someone (especially a woman, to my male ear) laughs at blue humor: a bit blushingly.
As I drew near I caught bits of what they were talking about. “The nursing mother’s lounge on three!” One said.
“Dude, c’mon. You’re so getting caught in there I swear–like that whole call floor can’t hear?”
“I’m telling you, janitor’s closet, fifth floor elevator lobby.”
“Right, ’cause nothing puts me in the mood like dingy mop-buckets and Pine Sol stank. Very hygienic.”
Then, with an askance glance in my direction, Cynthia quickly said “All right, all right,” and the three of them fell silent, their ebullient laughs quickly fading to suppressed chuckles and smirks. I strode up to join their circle and asked for a light.
I fired up my cigarette with deliberate slowness, allowing plenty of time for conversation to resume. When it didn’t, I gave Claudia back her lighter and said: “So, what was so funny just now?” Laughter instantly burst out of all three as though from somewhere it had been stored under pressure, its container punctured by my question. There followed a chorus of unconvincing “Nothing!”s. “Nothing,” I mused, taking a thoughtful drag. “Because,” drag, drag, “if a person didn’t know better,” exhale, “they could get the could get the impression you were just debating the relative merits of various dark corners of the office–” I paused for another drag, savoring the patient expectation with which three pairs of smiling female eyes were fixed on me–“as suitable venues for illicit office sex.”
Another eruption of laughter.
“Busted!” Claudia cried.
“For the win!” Kristen chimed in.
I had that warm feeling you get when you’re the only man among women and you make them laugh, your stock going up due to temporary and artificial market scarcity–in my case the happy accident that none of the male brokers from our team happened to be down there smoking at just that moment. I caught them in dirty girl talk and was allowed to join in. I was in their sanctum and feeling suddenly high.
“Do you mind if I ask what prompted this scintillating line of discussion?”
“The uzhe,” said Claudia. “Gossip. Catty gossip.”
“Oh!” I said. “You mean somebody actually…?”
“There’s a rumor,” said Kristen. “That girl Shelley on five? Supposedly in the mother’s lounge.”
“God, boring!” Claudia rolled her eyes. “Her freaking husband! Like she just snuck him in or whatever. What’s the point of office sex if you bring it in from home? All the risk and none of the novelty.” Everyone laughed at this. She lit another cigarette, then she asked, with what I thought was a note of flirtation, “Where would you go, Bart?”
“You.” Okay, more than a note.
“Well, I obviously haven’t given it as much thought as you nice upstanding ladies, but”–more laughter here–“you know how the second floor is all rental units? I never see anyone in those offices past 5, 6 latest. So my vote is second-floor restroom.”
“We should get going,” Cynthia said to Kristen. “We both came out at quarter of.”
“See you guys.”
And just like that I was alone with Claudia. I put my cigarette out in the ashtray and bummed Claudia’s lighter again to start another. As I was lighting it she said, “second-floor illegal bahis restroom, huh?” I looked up and she was staring straight at me with what seemed to be unabashed suggestiveness. I felt a bit of a tingle in my pants. Could it be my imagination? Was she coming on to me?
She was very beautiful and seemed to know it, despite having features that many in our society alas don’t associate with conventional beauty. She was–how else to put it?–quite fat. Fat has never bothered me; on the contrary, I find the big gals quite fetching, but Claudia was the kind of fat chick who caught the eye of even unreconstructed skinny lovers. The guys on our team would say things like: “She’d be fine if she lost the weight,” or “She’s kind of cute even in spite of…well, you know….”
But they had it all wrong. Not all fat women are hot, but the ones who are hot aren’t hot in spite of their weight; they’re hot, at least in part, because of their weight. Claudia’s big cushiony roundness was a huge part of the attraction for me. I hadn’t been on the team that long but Claudia had already figured into my fantasies; I imagined throwing my arms around her broad, soft body and collapsing into her warm, bountiful rolls, kissing her all over as I plunged my naked shaft into her steamy hot hole.
But I think I know what the other guys’ hang-up was. She was a beauty of the, shall we say, bellylicious variety. She stood about 5’6″, probably weighed about 180 pounds, and carried quite a bit of it around her ample middle. I’ve noticed a lot of guys who dig skinny chicks can see getting with a girl who’s big on top, big on the bottom, or both but, for some reason, a big bulging belly tends to be a deal-breaker for them. Well eff ’em, I say, more for the rest of us!
Claudia was 25-ish, at least half Hispanic, probably Mexican-American, but with very light brown skin that she probably got from the same place she got her surname. She had long, straight black hair that she usually wore down, and quick, bright, intelligent eyes that bespoke confidence and self-possession. I finally had to look away from those eyes; I was blushing and pretty sure she knew it, even though the sun had been down for hours. “You shouldn’t tease,” I finally managed.
“Who says I’m teasing?” she replied immediately.
“Well, um,” now I was really back on my heels–I couldn’t believe how strong she was coming on. I mean: the balls on this woman! “Well, either you’re teasing or….” I trailed off. She only held my gaze and raised her eyebrows, the corner of her mouth curling up almost imperceptibly in the hint of a smile. My pulse was already racing but now the floodgates opened down below and blood flowed into my cock, stirring up a big yearning boner that was arriving way ahead of schedule–I still had to get through the lobby to the elevators and there would be no hiding my condition en route. “We’ll, uh–we’d be late back from break.”
“We’ll just have to be quick like bunnies,” came her smart retort.
Oh my god! I think I must have visibly winced. And I swear I felt my tip moistening.
But for some reason I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Buying time, I stammered: “Let me, let me just think.”
“Take your time.”
Damn it, Waylon! Damn, damn, damn! What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I close the sale? Sale hell, this was an oasis in my dry spell and all I had to do was take a drink. What made the situation strange, however, was the eerie repetition of history: a little over ten years earlier, I had lost my virginity (1) to a large Hispanic woman (2) in a bathroom stall (3) at the office where we worked together. How’s that for a coincidence? But what happened to the stones I’d shown at 18? Where was all this hesitation coming from now? I’m still not entirely sure about that but I think maybe the two situations were too similar; maybe part of me thought it would be disrespectful to the memory of my first time to relive it as though part of some weird theme. Or maybe it was Claudia I didn’t want to disrespect: What if we started dating, fell in love, married, had kids? I’d go the rest of my days feeling like I’d found the love of my life and the mother of my children through some creepy fat-Latinas-on-toilets fetish. Classy.
She let pass an appropriate interval of awkward silence before finally saying, in resignation, “A’ight. Gimme your phone then.”
The sexual tension immediately began hissing out of the bubble that had surrounded us as I reached down into my pocket beside my now rapidly shrinking cock to retrieve my phone. Handing it to her I said “I’m sorry, I–“
“Oh don’t apologize!” she interrupted, flipping open my phone and thumbing her number into my contacts. “Just make it right sometime.”
Maybe it was the long dry spell, maybe the forcefulness of her overture, or maybe some combination, but I could not get her out of my mind all night. Back at my cubicle I kept replaying our banter in my head. Every few illegal bahis siteleri minutes I was pulling out my phone just to look where she’d typed “cm” as though that entry on my phone bore some totemic residue of her sexual spirit. I began indulging visions of us together in the bathroom downstairs, me seated on the toilet and her with her back to me–a position I hadn’t experienced in my deflowering a decade before–her giant round bottom rippling repeatedly as it slapped hard again my belly.
Now safely concealed beneath my desk, my cock began to swell–one of those big, urgent, agitated boners that you get when you know, when your body knows–when your cock knows–that real honest-to-god sex is in prospect. I don’t know how my cock knows the difference but the boners a woman gives me are a whole different predicament from the ones I summon at home for my daily prostatic flushing. This boner was alert, willful, demanding, like a caged carnivore late for its feeding.
Fuck it, I thought, I’m emailing her. My hand hovered over the mouse for a moment but then I thought better of it. I needed this job; I had rent, a car payment and student loans. Even assuming we were going to risk getting it on at the office I couldn’t leave evidence, couldn’t set it up over email. And this being a call center all our office calls were monitored. Cell phone use, it should go without saying, was heavily discouraged. An image popped into mind of me sauntering past her cube with affected nonchalance and trying like a middle-school student to pass her a paper note. I cracked a momentary smile at the absurdity of the image. Well, fuck it then, I thought, I’m rubbing one out at least, and I willed myself to think of other things for a few minutes until I had drained off about three fourths of my tumescence and then hastily departed my cube for the second floor.
The sad part, the part that was mocking me, adding insult to blue balls as it were, was that the restrooms in this building were positively perfect for what we had in mind. The architect had gone to a great deal of trouble to give them an executive feel, all marble and brushed aluminum and, most important for our purposes, each individual stall was set off by floor-to-ceiling walls as part of the building’s actual structure. And each stall door was an actual wooden door with a doorknob and a doorjamb and everything–albeit with ventilating louvers, but still much better than what you see in a typical public restroom. You could theoretically be in flagrante and have someone walk in and you could just wait it out without getting caught; there was no crack for anyone to peek through, no panel that started a foot above the floor exposing the extra set of feet in the wrong-gendered shoes. It was almost ideal.
I grabbed a few towels from the dispenser on the way to the stall and plopped myself down on the commode to try to yank out a quickie. At first my angry real-girl boner rewarded my touch with gratified waves of relief up my spine, happy as it was to be freed at long last from the purgatory of my pants. But then it was as though it figured out the scam: Hey, where’s the pussy?, it seemed to complain. You said there’d be pussy! Almost immediately my Claudia-induced boner was back in coach class, dwindling down to the firmness and urgency of a mere daily jerker.
I tried to summon her vision. What had she been wearing? She was always dressed impeccably; I remember outside in the courtyard she’d had on a black leather jacket but I could not recall what her top looked like underneath. I remember she’s worn a black tiered ruffle skirt that hung straight down to the knee, proudly advertising the mighty breadth of her backside, and that it was composed of an unseasonably lightweight material calculated to fill horny onlookers like me with the false hope that, at any moment, a stiff breeze would be all that was needed to whisk up her skirt a la Marilyn Monroe on the subway grate. She was wearing black knee-high leather boots with heels and, I’m pretty sure, no pantyhose.
I grabbed my dick and tried hard to picture what it would be like. I decided to leave the jacket on her since I couldn’t recall what was underneath. I started stoking slowly. I’d give her deep crimson panties–figured they’d have to be dark because the skirt was, but I didn’t want black because it would obscure the texture of those big gorgeous hams that composed her protuberant posterior. In my mind her backside faced me, I felt up the sides of those warm thighs, up under her ruffles which she then helpfully gathered in a bunch and held at waist level exposing the entirety of her lovely behind. Her panties would have lace trim and a satiny sheen–she’s usually not the type to sport a VPL but with the ruffle skirt she was safe to wear frilly panties underneath and I thought her the type to do so when the opportunity presented. I started jerking faster now, her enormous crimson bottom taking clear shape in my mind’s eye.
I decided canlı bahis siteleri to leave the panties on too. She would simply pull them to one side as she lowered her astonishing rump into my lap. I’m there now, and before I know it I’ve got handfuls of flank fat and I’m pulling her against me, that rollicking crimson-clad booty slapping my middle, my cock splashing in an out of that tight wet hole, and each time she grinds into me I feel our pubic hairs mingle messily.
In my fantasy I don’t want to come inside her so I tap her bottom in warning but, as I’m pulling out, she releases the elastic too quickly and it snaps back in place, trapping my penis inside her panties where it makes an awkward bump under the taut fabric covering her right buttock. I’m right on the brink of coming and I try clumsily to pull free of her panties but it’s no good–they just stretch with me! And then…
I was jerking furiously and about to get what I had come down here for–or at least sort of. I imagined losing my whole load inside her underpants. I imagined apologizing profusely and her taking it in sporting stride, nonchalantly throwing her panties away in the waste basket (I’d have to remember to come back and steal them out of there before leaving for the night) and joking wryly about having made guys come in their pants before, but never having had one come in hers. I saw it all.
And then I was back to reality.
And in reality the tablespoon load that dribbled out of me came with only marginally greater force and volume than my dailies usually did. It was nothing like real sex–none of that transcendent euphoria you get when you paint her cervix with seven or eight hearty ropes, or that childish satisfaction you feel when, after a five minute crescendo of jackhammer pumping at the end of a long night of lovemaking, you pull out at the last possible second, just in time to see the first stream launch all the way to the headboard almost five feet away.
Nope. This was just a plain vanilla load. It had to be done, of course, but it was a huge disappointment. That does it, I thought. I have got to get in that woman’s pants.
The other thing about that pathetic little toilet wank was that it didn’t even really work. It was like the Chinese food of wanks: I was horny again an hour later. Pretty soon my cock started to rally, demanding more attention. Two cigarettes with this woman and I’d built up a head of steam that would take two jerk off sessions to relieve! I remember I began caressing my cock on the drive home from the office that evening. Claudia had really gotten under my skin.
When I arrived home I switched on my computer, poured a glass of wine, and grabbed a whole roll of paper towels from the bathroom. I started trolling for fat brunettes on internet porn sites. I planned to slay my angry horn, go straight to bed, and call Claudia in two days. That was the rule so as not to appear eager. Two days.
Two hours and four glasses of wine after jerking out another pathetic teaspoon at my computer, I broke down and called Claudia.
“Who is this?”
“Oh that’s right, I never gave you mine.”
She let out a long sigh, the kind of sigh that accompanies a head shake, an eye roll. “You’re really ringing my cell at midnight? That’s how you’re playing this?”
“Not showing much game here, am I?”
“Ain’t about that, just… do you always make things so much harder than they have to be?”
“Well, what prompted my call on this particular evening is that you made something a lot harder than it used to be.”
She exhaled heavily. “You know what…all right. Where you live at?”
“I mean, I can come there or whatever–I’m a little lit up though. Is it gonna be weird for you I’m lit up?
“Not as long you can fuck. My place is wrecked. I’ll come past yours. Where do you stay?”
After hanging up I was frantic. The first time with a woman can be nerve-wracking–there’s all that unfamiliarity and performance anxiety–but booty calls are supposed to be the opposite of nerve-wracking. But to have the first time actually be a booty call–that was just too strange. There was no protocol for it. I couldn’t just do the door grab and a quickie, could I? Except if we had done the restroom thing that’s basically what it would have been like. I had no idea how to handle this.
I kept my butterflies at bay by sprinting here and there in my apartment, spraying down the toilet with disinfectant, restocking the hand soap and toilet paper, making the bed, brushing my teeth–did I have time to shower? Better not–she might need help finding the place and call on the way.
When I was satisfied that everything was as presentable as I could make it, donned a button shirt, threw a Duraflame in the fireplace, inadequately concealed it with real firewood, lighted it and sat on the couch to wait.
When I answered the door, I am sure my face betrayed my surprise. My surprise, of course, was wholly unjustified–there was no reason to expect that she had remained in her work clothes, nor that she’d had time get dolled up for our little tryst. It is in the nature of a booty call that it requires little preparation.
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