When Howard unhands me and leaves me alone in the file room grinding through a thick stack of legal briefs, my attention turns back to the window, where it was before he walked in.
On the street below, construction workers in hard hats and jeans are repairing the street or something. Who knows what construction workers are doing? I've never even really thought about it. They're just constructing. What's more important is that they're doing it with their shirts off, with their tan skin stretched tight over hard, knotted muscles, glistening with sweat in the hot sun. I don't care what they're working on, I just fantasize about them working on me.
Grant has been on my mind even more than usual today because one of the construction workers reminds me of him. The same broad back, the same thick beard, even during a hot summer day. I had never seen Grant wear a sleeveless baby blue t-shirt like this guy, though. The most dressed-down I had ever seen Grant was when he wore a polo shirt and chinos. But he looked damn good in that polo and chinos.
When he had his polo unbuttoned, a tribal tattoo on his chest showed just enough to make my imagination run wild about his bad boy potential. But he always treated me like his innocent, little princess. Maybe the rest was in my head. But it was in my head frequently, vividly, and passionately.
So here I am, a pre-law student at this prestigious, coveted internship at the city's oldest, most successful law firm, where I am supposed to be plunging vigorously into a new law career, and all I can think about is some sweaty bearded blue collar worker plunging vigorously into me.
I need to take a break. I need some water. I check my watch. It's 10:37 a.m. Is that too early for lunch? I'm going to take lunch now.
I get an hour for lunch. Technically, I get an hour for lunch, but no one really notices whether I'm gone for three minutes or three hours. This coveted internship doesn't really have much interpersonal communication beyond that initial "I know your daddy" conversation. For the past few weeks, I've been alone here in this file room getting paperwork together for cases that I am pretty sure get settled out of court anyway. Laying the groundwork for my future, I am.
Bottom line is, I'm going to go fingerfuck myself for half an hour and then grab a banana and an iced mocha latte. I haven’t had a dick in me yet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like to cum.
I head downstairs to the private restroom I've been using for that purpose since these construction workers started creating inappropriate working conditions in my underwear. When I get there, it's occupied. I'm not the type to pound on a door and strike up a conversation with someone toileting, so I accept that the locked door means my fun will have to wait.
I'll grab my sustenance first and grab myself by the pussy afterward.
~~~
My usual path from the front door of the law firm to the bistro across the street doesn't offer a view of that construction worker eye candy. Today I decide to walk around the building just to catch a glimpse. There's another cafe in that direction that I have been meaning to check out. It shouldn't be too busy at this time of the morning, is the totally made-up logic I'm going to go with for this adventure.
I spot him right away. Even from behind. Even now that he has taken off that sleeveless baby blue t-shirt. His back is just as strong as I had envisioned. The hot sun has tanned his sweat-glistening manflesh. Even from a distance, I think I can make out droplets of perspiration tracing their way along the hills and valleys of his body. I am lost in the ripples of his back muscles when I notice that another construction worker has approached my man and started talking to him.
I run through their imaginary dialogue in my head.
Say, Friend, me and the boys are going to pound a couple beers and a couple broads down at the Hammered Inn after work, you in?
No, Buddy, not this time. I'm holding out to meet me a young professional woman from one of these here shrines to capitalism.
Suit yourself, Pal, but there ain't no 19-year old college girls hanging out around here looking to get her potholes filled by a blue collar grunt when she can have her pick of high-power lawyers and businessmen.
I chuckle at how well my imagined conversation fits the coworker's gesturing... until I realize that he actually is actually really actually gesturing toward... me. I turn to look behind me. Maybe there's a crane or, I don't know, a wrecking ball or something that they're discussing. Just coincidence that I happen to be standing right here.
But no.
It's just me.
My beguiling bearded beau turns back to behold what his buddy is bugging him about. And his eyes lock on mine.
Holy scheisse.
Nope, nope, nope. I am not prepared to make fantasy reality. No, that actually has not even crossed my mind. I only imagine what he would do to me. Imagine. That's all I do. I haven't actually taken it to the next level and imagined it as if it were something that could actually happen. He was porn and here I am, locked in eye contact and unable to clear my browser history. Not ready for this, nope.
"Celia?!" he yells toward me, smiling and waving. That smile.
Holy scheisse.
I know that smile.
I know that tribal chest tattoo.
I know that man.
"Grant!" I yell back. I'm frozen. I can't move. I can't... oh wait, no, I am actually rushing toward him. I can't even feel my legs. I must be floating.
I do notice his coworker look at him amused, and bemused.
"It's just a nickname," I hear Grant tell him, and then explains, "Don't I look like Cary Grant?"
"I don't know who that is," the coworker says. "Is he that Civil War general?"
"Yup," Grant says.
He looks even better up close. He looks even better now that I remembered him looking. I want to jump into his arms, but he stops me. I'm wearing a gray linen jacket and skirt and he is absolutely filthy. As considerate as ever.
"Are you headed somewhere now?" he asks me.
"Lunch," I say. Grunting single syllable words is the epitome of grace and charm when reunited with a man you have adored for most of your life and thought you would never see again. Cut me some slack. I am totally enthralled.
"Deli Savalas is a couple blocks over and it's really good," he says. "We can, uh... if you want to?"
"Yes, please," I say. Come on, Celia, get it together.
"Unless you already had plans," he says.
"No," I say. "Please take me... I mean... I want you to come on me. WITH. WITH me."
Oh scheisse.
"I want to have lunch with you," I say as plainly as I can.
"I mean if you don't want to..." he says with a laugh.
"No, I want to," I say quickly. "I just don't want to make you come if..."
"No," he says, "I'm going to make you come."
Yes, please.
"Pete, I'm going to take off for lunch now," he says to one of his coworkers, maybe a boss.
He also puts his shirt on, and that makes me very sad. Then he washes his hands at a portable hand washing station. I have never noticed that construction sites have those. It makes sense though, I guess. For someone who seems perfectly comfortable working in filth and grime, Grant sure does wash his hands like a surgeon. My dirty man has clean hands.
~~~
The bank across the street has shiny windows that act like mirrors reflecting the sun. In the early morning and late afternoon, the glare makes it impossible for drivers to see where they're going. The glare isn't too bad right now. Still, getting across four lanes of traffic without getting mowed down is an adventure.
Grant has to grab me and spin me out of the way of taxi careening by. He holds me in his arms for a little longer than he has to. It feels a little better than it should. He smells a little better than he should.
Then he releases me and keeps walking.
"Remember when we used to dance," he says, "and I would pick you up and spin you around like that?"
"That was a long time ago," I say.
"In your cute little sum
mer dresses," he says. "Do you still wear those?"
"I was like nine," I say.
"Have I really known you for a decade?" he asks.
"Your little girl is all grown up," I say. "You missed my eighteenth birthday. You just disappeared."
"Your dad was an asshole, but he was a good friend," Grant says. "He wouldn't let me turn myself in. He took the fall for both of us."
"But you still had your part of the money, right?" I ask. "Why are you doing manual labor? Shouldn't you be double-fisting Bahama Mamas right now?"
"Let's take a shortcut," he says, leading me down an alley. "I got lucky. It was my wake-up call. I turned my life around. Part of that was I gave all the money to charity and signed up for vocational school under a new name. I'm Dan now."
"Dan?" I say.
"It came with the wallet," he explains with a shrug. "I didn't deserve to be picky. It's grown on me."
"I can hardly handle my one identity," I say. "I don't know how I would start a new one. Not that I haven't wished it."
"Why would you wish that?" he asks. "You're a smart girl with a good head on your shoulders. I figured you'd be off at Harvard or Yale right now."
"We lost everything but the house," I say. "I couldn't afford anything better than Ames State."
"You aren't mad at me?" he asks. "For being free when your dad isn't?"
"Why would I be mad at you?" I say. "My dad's an asshole."
"I'm an asshole too," he says, his hand brushing against my hand. Accidentally? Accidentally on purpose?
"You were always good to me," I said. I brushed my hand against his. Accidentally.
"You were easy to be good to," he says, taking my tiny hand in his big, masculine hand. Big clean hand.
"Do you miss it?" I ask. "The power? The money?"
"I'm still the man I always was," he says. "It doesn't matter what's in my bank account. I have everything I need, and..."
He stops and pushes me up against the wall. I gasp. I didn't expect that. My gray linen outfit that he had been so careful with earlier is going to get all filthy now.
I am not thinking about saying no.
"... now I have everything that I want," he says.
His hands are clean, but the rest of him is dirty. The wall is dirty. This is going to be dirty. So deliciously dirty.
He pushes his filthy body up against mine, pressing me to the wall. His hand brushes my cheek and he holds my head. His face moves close to mine, so close to touching me. His lips are so close to touching mine.
But he just looks into my eyes. His cheek comes close to mine and as he breathes me in, I do the same to him. He smells like a man. He smells like him. He smells like everything I've wanted since I knew how to want.
"Do you know how long I've wanted you?" he whispers in my ear.
"I've wanted you longer," I say.
I can hardly say anything at all.
He has barely touched me and I am already surprised I am able to stand up. I don't even know if I'm standing by my own volition or if it's the force of his body keeping from melting all over the pavement.
"I've wanted this," he says, kissing my neck.
"I've wanted you to do this," I say, tilting my head so he can buy his mouth in the base of my neck.
He puts a thumb on my chin to turn my face toward him and his lips do touch mine. He wants to kiss me as bad as I want to kiss him, but he is teasing me. Lips brushing lips.
The closeness and the intimacy are making me salivate, and making me wet. My lips tingle in anticipation of him. My pussy tingles too, and I open my legs to allow his thigh to press between them. I grind against him.
He doesn't stop kissing me as his hand wraps around my throat, pinning me to the wall with his strong hand. He holds me just tight enough to spike my arousal straight through the roof, but not enough to scare me. Maybe a little. Maybe that's part of the thrill.
That hand stays around my neck while the other hand travels down my body. He rubs my tits through my silky baby blue blouse.
He easily unbuttons the top button of my blouse, enough to give it a plunging neckline. Enough to allow his hand to slip easily under it, and easily under my bra. He is still kissing my mouth, devouring me, while he massages the soft skin of my breast with his rugged man hand. His fingertips feel rough against the gentle flesh of my hardening nipple. He rubs it between his fingers, twisting and pulling, and the sensation sends a warm wave of desire radiating though my body.
He touches me with his clean hands. His strong, rough man hands. Not a lawyer's hands. These hands have been working hard for the past two years, but he never did have lawyer hands. He was always rugged and masculine. He looked like raw sexuality whether he's wearing an Armani suit or a sleeveless baby blue shirt.
His fingers brush down my belly, his fingertips barely touching my body. They continue over my hip and to my leg. Then back up my thigh, my inner thigh, between my thighs. Within seconds his fingers are massaging my pussy through soaked panties.
"We can't do this here," I say, but I don't push him away. I don't want to push him away. If I push him at all, it's with my pussy against his hand. Despite my words, there's no part of me that doesn't want to do this here. Right here. Right now.
When he pulls my underwear to the side and rubs my bare pussy. His finger rub circles over my soft, wet lips until they part for him and fingers slip easily inside of me.
I close my eyes and submit. I wonder if I'm about to get fucked in broad daylight in an alley like two blocks away from my entire career and future. That's so irresponsible. So uncouth. People are walking by but neither of us cares. I would care. Normally, I would care.
But this isn't normally. This is Grant.
I am not thinking about saying no.
His fingers buried deep in me, he rubs my clit with the palm of his hand. He starts out slow and gentle, but soon he isn't massaging me as much as finger banging me. The palm of his hand goes from caressing to slamming hard against my swollen clit.
I try to stay moan every time his fingers pound into me. He puts a hand around my mouth to keep me quiet and his fingers fuck me harder. And harder. And faster. And harder.
"We have to stop," I finally say, against every fiber of passion in my body. But the small act of self control is not quite heroic, since my body is already trembling in waves of ecstasy. I am already cumming on his fingers. Even now, even now that I have orgasmed all over his clean, rough, street worker hand, when I push him away, it's only for show. I'm holding him inside me just as much as I'm pushing him away from me. I don't want to lose his touch.
He pulls his fingers out of me and I feel like all happiness is exiting my body through my pussy. I have a primal need to get him inside me again. He puts his fingers in my mouth and we hold eye contact while I suck them clean. I have never tasted so good as I taste on his fingers in this moment.
I grab him by his shirt and spin him around and slam him against the wall like he'd slammed me against the wall. I smirk and he smiles back. He probably wonders what I'm going to do. So do I. My brain isn't working right now. I keep telling myself I'm not going to have sex in an alley. Right? That's not going to happen, right? That's not who I am, right?
I'm thinking about how good his cock would feel in my mouth, though. I mean, maybe no one would notice if I am quick about it. What am I doing? No, this is crazy. I shouldn't.
Without warning he takes a handful of my hair and he pushes me to my knees. The concrete hurts my bare knees. I probably deserve the scraped up knees for being a bad little fuck.
I want his dick more than I care about my knees though. I'm in a near frenzy when I rip his belt open, his button open, his zipper open. His cock springs out, hard and ready for me.
I have fantasized about sucking this man's cock for so many years and here it is. I had no idea it would be this big. Long, thick, and just veiny enough to make me grasp it in my hands and immediately start tracing the veins with my tip of my tongue.
T
he head of his cock swells impossibly big while I lick the shaft and the underside of the growing tip. I plunge it into my mouth because I need to feel it fill me up. I need to feel it against the back of my throat.
I don't get to think about it for long though, because the hand on the back of my head pushes my mouth down all the way to his balls. When his dick hits the back of my throat, I don't know if I'm going to be able to take him, but my mouth is so wet that it slides easily down my throat.
The fullness of my throat wrapped tight around the long, girthy cock feels so good. My eyes water as he pumps his dick in and out of my throat. He holds me by my head and fucks my face like I'm a dirty little fuck doll.
So basically, this is the best moment of my life.
He doesn't stop until I feel the hot explosion of cum in the back of my throat. He pulls out of my mouth slowly, letting his dick, covered with cum and saliva, drag heavily along my tongue. Before he pulls all the way out of my mouth, I suck the last little bit of cum out of the tip of his cock.
I swallow it all down. I wouldn't dream of spitting it out. I've swallowed his cum in my fantasies for so long.
He helps me back to my feet, and I try to regain any kind of composure at all. I straighten out my skirt and jacket and blouse buttons. He wipes the tears from under my eyes with his thumbs and I laugh with embarrassment.
We stand there, and he holds me close, just letting me be in his arms.
Then he whispers in my ear the three words guaranteed to melt a woman's heart.
"Are you hungry?"
"Very," I say.
~~~
I order a Co-Jack panini, and he orders a Hammy Kaplan.
"I was counting down the days," I tell him, purposely being vague. I want him to ask what I was counting down the days toward. And then I will say until my eighteenth birthday.
"So was I," he says, killing my punchline. "Leaving you was the hardest part. Leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever had to do."
Naughty Night Nurses Page 13
