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I’d been flirting with you for probably about two months — like the second you started working at the paper — before it dawned on you what was going on.


You are aware of your cocks just about, oh — conservatively estimating — every other second, yet when a semi-decent-looking, hellaciously creatively intelligent woman all but throws her pussy up in your face, you are oblivious.

So I suppose I was willing to forgive your gender. Because I wanted that selfsame cock so very much. It was all I had thought about since the second I met you. Really and truly.

I didn’t see the lines in your face, nor the slight angle at which you tilted your body to stand, perhaps alleviating some old injury, but still thrusting a bit of a girlbelly forward. All I saw was this tall, dark, handsome brilliant man. And how big your hands were … which necessarily (intrinsically??) led to thoughts of the treasure hanging between your legs.

And then every time thereafter, when I saw you, I thought, “Cock. Cock. Cock.”

Now, I know I sound like a stereotype in associating physical size with dick size with ability to perform. And so I am sorry for that, because I really don’t judge on size, being on the larger size myself. It was only your sheer presence that made me equate one with the other … with the other.

OK, OK! So we’ve established that I saw you and lusted and dreamed of your penis. Stiff. Dripping. In my palms.

Where was I? Yeah! Flirting! That’s right. So soon after I met you I found reason after reason after reason to bring something work-related to your desk. And I grinned stupidly, sputtered what I hoped were intelligent responses still tinged with enough desire to draw you in.

And. Nothing!


Do you know what it finally took for you to see me in a new light? Because demetevler escort I do. I obviously had been waiting for it for so long that when it finally came it was like a goddamned Katy Perry song. “Firework!” Yes! Oh, yes.

It took me asking you out for a drink after work. Yup. Simple as that.

I saw the second the dawning sparked your eyes. Like the aforementioned firework.

I mentally constructed the response I guessed filtered through your understanding: “Ooooooh. Yeah. I guess this woman is interested in me beyond a professional level. She wants to see me OUTSIDE work.”

Yeah. Good job, dumbass. Why did I want to fuck you again?

Right … size … hands … treasure between legs. I had been thinking about how to make that treasure weep so I could taste its utter glory.

Seriously. I just lusted after the precum I knew would drip when I finally got my hands-face-mouth-pussy-any damn part of my skin! on you, on your body, on your legs, on your throbbing … sausage? I was about to write sausage as a euphemism for cock. Penis. Dick.

Who the hell cares, right?

Because all I wanted was your naked body on my naked body. All I wanted was skin-on-skin, no worries about pregnancy (Mirena) nor disease (clean.) I wanted you to rub your stiff cock on me until your cum burst forth in spewing ribbons all over my face (Please let me gulp it in?), my belly (I will rub it into moisturizer), to my thighs (There is no deeper meaning.)


It was with these no-expectations that I looked forward to our meeting after work for drinks.

Not at all, not ever, thinking of the slab of meat hanging in your crotch.


It was a Tuesday night that I had asked you, and we agreed to go out on Friday after work since dikmen escort it was our earlier night in the newsroom, with the next days off. Once the main deadline cleared, around 10, we’d be free — assuming there was no breaking news.

But it became quite clear quite quickly this wasn’t going to hold for that long. Still — otherwise working till midnight or 1 pretty much precluded any after-work activity, especially considering our respective, erm, ages. In our 40s the both of us, but, as least for myself, with the sex drive of the fabled 17-year-old teen boy.

Especially around you.

Which I do believe we have established, if you’ve been reading along.

It wasn’t just me this week finding excuses to drop by your desk. You wandered over a time or two or 12 extra yourself. Thursday night, when we were the last ones covering our respective shifts, you pulled out the chair from the desk next to mine and plunked your ass down.

“Something breaking?” I asked.

“Not a damn thing.”

“Too bad. I’m bored beyond belief.”

“I was about to head upstairs for a pop. Want to walk and talk?”

“I suppose we’d be safe to leave for a bit. Should I be worried about calls or wire or anything else?”

“Only about dirty old men.”

Caught off-guard, I could only stutter, “You’re not that old.”

This was met with a grin.

“Come on. Pick anything out of the vending machine. My treat.”

“How could a girl resist such a tempting offer?”

So I closed out of Facebook, where I’d desperately been trying to kill time.

The “cafeteria” — really just some vending machines, a stove, fridge and several tables — was upstairs. In the summertime, it was especially nice as it opened onto a rooftop veranda. But at the moment we were in the middle of the typical ankara escort Seattle season (i.e., pizzly rain).

I followed you out of the newsroom and toward the staircase, not-so-subtly watching your ass move. I know what they say about guys’ asses: They don’t have them. But I thought yours was looking all right. I admit, too, to trying to find any telltale bulges between your legs, glanced at from behind, but no luck.

About halfway up, right where the stairs broke to a landing before resuming around an angle, you misstepped and ended up sitting on your ass.

“God! Are you OK?”

“Um. Just a bit embarrassed.” Cocky grin.

“Are you sure? I mean — men at your age …” I broke off with a smile, sitting down next to you. “Maybe we better rest?”

“WHATever!” You grinned back at me, knowing this to be one of my too-oft-used expressions as of late. What can I say? I like to pretend I’m young and hip.

“Dork!” I replied, slapping you on your leg.

Before I could pull my hand away, however, you grabbed it. Which completely startled me.

“Wha-” I started to ask.

“I can’t wait until Friday, baby. I tried, but it’s just impossible.”

Blushing at the unexpected endearment, I tried to crack a joke.

“So you have a secret alcohol stash in the break room?”

“I have a secret stashed, but it’s not booze.”

And, unbelievably, you slowly moved my hand over, placing it on the bulge between your legs. My mouth went instantly dry, probably because all of the liquid in my body instantaneously gushed out of the treasure between my own legs.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you checking this out. I could pretty much feel my pants melting away a second ago as you followed me up the stairs.”

Emboldened, I tried a tentative squeeze. But the fabric over your crotch was stretched both by the angle at which you sat and the tautness of what lay beneath it. Still — you gave a slight gasp, followed by a barely audible groan.

“This is what I’ve been dealing with since you asked me out.”

“Well then,” I said softly, “how are we going to help you out?”

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