by J. Lea López
Don’t lay down yet, just stand there. Run your hands over your body, over what you’re wearing. Think of my hands.
I cupped my breasts like Tim liked to do and flicked my thumbs across my nipples. A gentle sigh escaped my lips. The insubstantial fabric of my underwear would be soaked soon, I was getting so aroused. After a moment on my breasts, I slid my hands down over my stomach. Not every man realized the importance of foreplay, of simple touches and caresses on even the most innocent of places, but my Tim did. And he liked to take his time. He’d spend half an hour some times just kissing me and touching me over my clothes. I loved feeling his erection through all those layers of fabric, straining to be released.
You can sit or lay down now. Let’s play a game.
I propped a few pillows against the headboard and reclined on the bed, ready to get to the real action.
Imagine we’re out together somewhere. Maybe at the movies. Or driving in the car. Or…
I could practically hear the huge grin that must’ve spread across his face as he recorded the next few lines.
…I know… We’re at the state fair. One of those warm, sticky nights that always turns you on.
I loved the way humidity made my tops cling to every curve. My breasts were full, but perky enough that I occasionally went braless on those sultry nights, to better feel my tank top against my moist skin.
You’re wearing that little skirt I love, the one with the yellow flowers, and that white t-shirt. Without a bra, of course.
I knew exactly the outfit he meant. The skirt was a few inches above the knee, white chiffon with a small floral print. The t-shirt was thin cotton with a plunging v-neck. I was wearing it once—without a bra—when we were caught in a sudden downpour in the park. We ran all the way back to the car, but were soaked through by the time we made it. My top was completely translucent when wet, and you could see the dark tan of my nipples right through the material. Tim had been so turned on by it that he’d laid me out in the car and buried his face between my legs until I was thrashing with ecstasy and his face was wet long after the rain had dried.
I leaned back against the pillows and squeezed my thighs together. The pressure sent delicious waves of sensation through my pussy.
We’re going to take a ride on the Ferris wheel. As we ride to the top, we can see all the people down below. The breeze blows your skirt and you slide it up to the top of your thighs. When the ride reaches the bottom again, the operator looks at you with your skirt hiked up and your knees spread open. He can see your underwear.
I opened my knees and slid a hand over my mound. My panties were damp.
Slide them to the side. Give him a nice view of your pussy before we start back to the top of the circle.
An electric tingle played in the pit of my stomach as I imagined this stranger taking a good look at me. Not just him, but other bystanders as well. I pushed my thong to one side and dipped a finger into the wetness beneath. The heady aroma of arousal wafted up from my pussy.
Show me how you like to touch yourself. Imagine us on that Ferris wheel, on top of the world again, the warm wind licking your pussy. How would you pleasure yourself, for me and everyone to see?
I slipped my panties off and dropped them over the side of the bed. Gently, with one hand, I spread my labia. With the other hand, I use two wet fingers to circle my swollen clit. I didn’t know how much longer the tape would be, so I didn’t touch too hard or too fast. I could’ve brought myself to orgasm in less than two minutes, but I focused on building it slowly, trying to put myself into the fantasy moment on top of that carnival ride.
Imagine the look on everyone’s faces when our car circles back around and they see that I’ve reached into your shirt to pinch your nipples. I even lean over to lick them as we pass by the ride operator again. Can you see his erection straining against his jeans?
I wanted to make this stranger hard and eager. I wanted him to see me and lose all sense of decency, to have him stare and want what he saw before him. I pulled the top of my cami down so my tits spilled out and I had access to brush my palm over my nipples, mimicking Tim’s mouth in the fantasy.
The thrill of performing for strangers like that was so hot. Men would watch with lust in their eyes. Women would watch with fascination and maybe some desire of their own. I slid my middle finger into my pussy and stroked in and out, tilting my hips up to deepen the penetration.
I don’t want you to come just yet. Not while we’re heading back to the top where it’s harder for people to see. Just keep working that pussy for a little longer. Rub your clit. Just a little longer baby. Sitting next to you, I’m so hard just watching you please yourself, seeing you enjoy everyone’s eyes on you.
Following his instruction, I pressed three fingers over my clit and worked in quick circles. My hips rocked involuntarily against my hand and my body trembled, waiting for release.
Here we come back to the bottom. The ride is slowing down. We’re going to stop right in front of the operator. He’s going to see you with your fingers all over your hot little pussy, so nice and wet. Let him hear you baby, let him see you come. Go ahead.
A moan started deep in my throat and rose in pitch as I worked myself over, faster, harder, pressing my fingers against my clit. The orgasm erupted in shuddering waves and I cried out with the pleasure of it. I imagined the lusty, if not surprised look, on the stranger’s face as I came to halt in front of him, pussy exposed and slick, and Tim next to me, likely with a raging hard-on that I desperately wanted to take care of.
I wanted him here now, to fill me up and catapult me into another shattering orgasm.
Just as I began to slow my movements, milking the last of the sensations from my body, movement from the closet made my heart seize and damn near skip a beat. The door, which had been slightly ajar, now swung fully open. Tim stepped out—naked, hard, ready.
Son of a bitch. Sneaky, clever, sexy, irresistible son of a bitch. I grinned and spread my knees to give him the best possible view of my pussy. The hunger in his eyes was evident. He stroked himself with one hand.
“Did you like that?” I asked.
He came to the side of the bed and leaned over, kissing me. His tongue was eager in my mouth, thrusting forcefully, bringing to mind what I desperately wanted from his cock.
“You’re fucking amazing. That was… that was so hot.” He knelt beside me on the bed and thrust two fingers into my pussy, making me gasp out of sheer pleasure. “Watching you, listening to you come like that. Fuck.”
Yes. Fuck. That was exactly what I wanted. I wrapped my hand around his cock and brushed my thumb over the tip of him. His eyes fluttered close and he tilted his head back.
“I want you inside me,” I whispered, bringing my knees up toward my chest.
He positioned himself in front of me and pressed the tip of his cock to my slick opening. I straightened my legs and he thrust full into me, his chest against the backs of my legs. He braced his hands on either side of my head and pressed forward, driving himself deeper into my pussy. He stretched me, over and over again, the head of his cock brushing against the sensitive spot inside me with each thrust.
“Oh God, yes,” I whimpered, already close to another climax. I bit my lip and stared into Tim’s eyes as he continued to fuck me.
He thrust faster, bringing me closer to the edge, seeking his own release in time, and I thought of how lucky I was to have a man like him, who was so turned on by the mere sight of me, and even more turned on by the thought of watching me fuck myself in front of strangers.
One final, animalistic thrust and a guttural moan shook our bodies, shook the bed, sent us rocketing together in a shared climax more intense than any we’d ever shared. I trembled in the aftermath, my muscles weak and tingling, my heart full. Tim collapsed beside me and nuzzled against my shoulder.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Thank you.” I kissed the top of his head. “Maybe next time we’ll try with the blinds open.”
The Adventures of Sasquatch
I'm one of those women you gawk at on the street for wearing tennis shoes with her skirt suit. Worse yet, I don't even walk to work. I have one nice pair of heels that I keep at my desk at work—black leather pumps with a very sensible square, stacked heel. By sensible I mean hardly attractive. Such is the curse of the Sasquatch.
That was the affectionate nickname given me in high school, not by my enemies, but my closest friends. To this day, twenty years later, the name still haunts me.
It's not that I have anything against cute shoes—in fact, I love shoes!—but my size 11, triple-E width feet don't share my affection. Let me give you a little perspective. Shoe widths are a bit like bra cup sizes. C is pretty average. If a woman says she's a D, well, va-va-va-voom, right? Now, envision not one E, but three. Getting the picture yet?
I've been living with these boats since I grew into them at the age of fourteen. I wore flip-flops with a short taffeta dress to my junior prom. Cowboy boots under my floor-length gown to my senior prom. Walking into the office in my Asics trainers and designer skirt and blouse is the least of my fashion crimes.
Tucking a stack of folders under my arm, I push open the spotless glass doors at Randall Advertising & Design. We do it all here at Randall. Need a catchy jingle? A stand-out billboard? How about a TV or radio spot? The pros at Randall can handle it all. We're RAD: Randall Advertising and Design. I love my job, but even we pros are prone to a bit of cheese.
Shelly, our receptionist, is on the phone when I come in. She waves and mouths a silent “Hi!” as I pass. The office has the expectant buzz of Friday-ness. Most of the semi-private offices (two desks to a room) are empty. Friday mornings usually begin in the CCA—Creative Common Area—a large, open room with each corner devoted to some creative experience. Paints, crayons, markers for visual arts at one station. A musical corner with a small upright piano and an array of other instruments, most of them donated by the company founder, George Randall, as his children—and now grandchildren—picked up and discarded hobbies over the years. A corner for thinking, dreaming, and brainstorming houses beanbag chairs, a recliner, pillows, and a metallic wall which holds what must be the world's largest magnetic poetry collection.
The final corner of the room is dedicated to television and video games. VHS tapes that actually still work, DVD movies, and an assortment of video game consoles—from the antiquated but functioning Atari to the modern PS3 and Xbox 360—get more use than is probably necessary to fuel our imaginations.
The staff at RAD is pampered, to say the least, but we also have the highest morale and employee satisfaction of any company I've ever worked for.
At the center of the CCA sits a large round table, always stocked with notepads, pencils, and pens. This is where the creativity sparked in the four corners gathers to gain strength, organization, and direction before scattering down the hall to our offices to be fanned into flames.
This morning, almost everyone is in the CCA when I enter. Most are gathered around the center table, though a few have separated to the four corners. Carter, my office-mate, is getting in his daily round of Duck Hunt, and Sylvia is off creating her morning masterpiece, which looks suspiciously like a caricature of the rest of the group huddled around the table.
I realize they aren't gathered around the table as much as they are gathered around Nicolette, the newest—and youngest—staff member. Her pink-streaked blonde hair, nose ring and throwback checkered Chuck Taylors speak to her nouveau punk attitude, but her porcelain skin and baby blue eyes hint at the beauty one would expect from a girl named Nicolette.
She's holding her audience rapt with mosh pit stories from the latest concert she attended. Based on her dramatic retelling, I imagine a scene at the Sidebar, or another of Baltimore's smaller venues that tend to attract hardcore punk bands and their wind-milling, kicking, fist-throwing fans. My sixteen-year-old daughter, Macie, insisted on seeing a show at the Sidebar a few months ago with her boyfriend at the time. I let her go, on the condition that I went with them. I'd been to enough shows in my day to know what she was in for. She ignored my warnings to stay toward the outer edge of the crowd and nearly had her teeth knocked out by an overzealous “dancer”. She's since decided she prefers a tamer scene.
“Who did you go see?” I ask at the first convenient pause in Nicolette's story.
“Flogging Molly. They're a—”
“Irish punk band. I saw them at Ram's Head last year.” I shift my folders from one arm to the other. I should've put them on my desk first. “I didn't realize they were in town again. Bummer. I would've taken Macie.” Nicolette blinks at me.
“You listen to Flogging Molly?”
“Are you kidding? I have every CD. When they were here last year, one of the opening bands was the Horrorpops. Have you heard them? I bet you'd like them.” That was one of the concerts Macie and I went to together. Every now and then she's forced to admit that her old mom has pretty good taste in music. I'm sure it annoys her.
Nicolette shakes her head, still surprised that I know of Flogging Molly, much less that I'd seen them in concert.
“Who knew you were so hip, Georgie Porgie?” says Frank, resident practical joker and annoying nickname giver. I'd almost prefer Sasquatch to Georgie Porgie. Almost. I ignore him and remain focused on Nicolette.
“Since when did they get so rough at Flogging Molly shows? It's always been pretty tame when I've gone, even down in the front row.” Perhaps tame wasn't the correct word, but not so dangerous that I didn't feel comfortable letting Macie stand up front on her own.
Her scowl deepens. “You've been more than once?”
“Sure. They don't do a lot of East Coast shows, so I've traveled to see them before.”
She scoots off the table and shoves her hands in her pockets. “God, what are you, a groupie? That's so lame.” She stalks past me and down the hall.
“What's going on?” Carter joins the group, finished shooting computer-animated ducks and clay pigeons.
“Georgia's calling Ms. Nicorette's bluff, that's all.” Frank uses Nicolette's nickname this time, not mine.
“What? I was just asking a question.”
“She was probably making half of that stuff up to shock us old farts. Didn't think any of us would know enough to call bullshit. Especially not you.”
Now what is that supposed to mean? Does everyone really have such a dull vision of me?
“It's the shoes, isn't it?” I blurt out, drawing blank stares from everyone around me. My turn to retreat down the hall. As I turn, I catch a glimpse of Sylvia's sketch and realize I've made my way into it. I can tell by the oversized clown shoes.
I dive into my project for the day and remain planted behind my desk for hours. Carter comes and goes, quiet all day. Late in the afternoon, he returns from one of his many breaks—probably to shoot more ducks—and leans against the corner of my desk.
“Stop working so hard. It's Friday. You're putting the rest of us to shame.”
I smile. I guess my all-work-no-play reputation hasn't come without reason. It won't hurt to divert my attention for a few minutes.
“You're in here slaving away and everyone else is buzzing around comparing outfits for the gala next weekend.”
RAD redesigned the logo for the fifteenth anniversary of a local charity and they invited us all to their spring fundraising event for the unveiling. Dinner, dancing, and silent auction, rubbing elbows with the elite of Baltimore: politicians, high-profile businesspeople, the heads of non-profits and social agencies. Strictly black tie. I've purchased a dress already, but the tags are still on it. Just in case. I can't very well go waltzing in there with flip flops on. Can I?
“You're going, right?” Carter asks.
“I don't know yet. I don't have shoes.” I know how ridiculous that must sound to anyone but me, and his wide grin confirms it. Not his polite smile, close-lipped and impersonal. Not his genuinely warm smile, which lifts his eyebrows a
nd crinkles the corners of his eyes. Nope, this is his thoroughly amused smile, broad enough to showcase his I-had-braces-for-seven-years perfect teeth and reveal the small dimple in his right cheek.
It occurs to me that I should be irritated with his reaction, but I don't get the sense that he's laughing at me or teasing me. He's heard my big-foot rant before and doesn't push the issue. Instead, he produces a couple of granola bars from his desk drawer and offers me one. I've worked through lunch without noticing.
He sits and rolls his chair around next to me, close enough that our knees touch.
“What are you working on?”
I swivel the computer monitor to give him a better view of T. Wrecks, the comical Tyrannosaurus Rex mascot of an auto-body repair shop.
“I'm trying to find the right balance between cartoon caricature and monster. Especially with the animation.”
All thoughts of ball gowns and shoes leave my mind as we focus on the screen. We sit like that, knees touching, hands brushing over the computer mouse or keyboard, working out the problem for the rest of the afternoon. By the time I leave for the day, T. Wrecks has evolved to near perfection and I've all but forgotten about my feet.
***
Saturday afternoon, over a lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup—a childhood favorite neither my daughter nor I have outgrown—Macie gushes over some website on her laptop.
“Mom, you have to see these shoes.”
Shoes. Everywhere I go, they taunt me.
“Jenna told me about this website where she got her shoes for prom last year. I bet you could find something for your dress.”
Skeptical, I peek over her shoulder. The screen is full of designer shoes, all in my daughter's very reasonable size nine. With a few clicks, she changes the search criteria to size eleven, EEE width. I explode in laughter when the results come up. There are actually about ten styles, but they all have one fatal flaw in common.
