Woman of His Dreams

She was 5'10" and her body was absolutely my wildest fantasy. Put that together with her beautiful face, long flowing auburn hair, and exquisitely sexy clothes, and maybe you can understand what happened to me.

The first time I saw her, I did a double-take, because she looked so much like the supermodel Stephanie Seymour, about whom I'd had countless wet dreams. She was washing her car while wearing a skimpy black bikini in the condominium parking lot. I lived less than three miles away, but had arrived for a tennis match with a friend.

As I walked past her on the way to the courts, I couldn't help but ogle her ass as she bent over to dip the sponge in the bucket of soapy water. She noticed me looking, and as I caught her eye, she straightened up, looked right at me, and gave me a real friendly smile. "Hi," she said; I couldn't have continued walking if I'd wanted to . . . and I didn't want to. I stammered a hello, and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Nicole – when I told her my name (Pete), she smiled again, and I felt like I had walked into a dream. After she had thoroughly and deliberately wrung the excess water out of the sponge, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time, I excused myself by saying I was headed to the tennis courts for my match.

About midway through my match, I noticed her sitting on a bench outside the court watching us play. She was wearing a skimpy white t-shirt over her bikini top, but nothing else but the bikini bottom was covering her. I tried not to get too distracted, or to make it obvious I was staring at her, but when I waved hello, she grinned ear to ear and gave me a friendly wave in return, and uncrossed and re-crossed her long, tan legs. As crazy as it sounds, the semi-hardon I'd begun to feel when I talked to her by her car had continued nonstop and was still there.

When our match concluded, my friend took off (he had to work) – he hadn't really even noticed our spectator. I walked over to speak to Nicole – she stood up and looked me right in the eye as we talked. It was all I could do to keep myself from blatantly checking out her body as the somewhat damp t-shirt clung to her perfect tits, and her bare legs shone in the sun. I asked her if she'd like to see a movie that evening. She smiled again, and said "Sure, I'd love to. Do you have something you can write down my number with?"

I wore navy blue shorts and a black t-shirt (we'd decided to dress casually) when I picked her up for the movie. She was wearing a short silky patterned skirt, with a tank top that almost covered her belly-button (but not quite), and a pair of "fuck-me" pumps. When we got to the cineplex and found our theatre, I was sort of happy when she wanted to sit near the back and off to the side where not a lot of people were around.

We began to hold hands and watch the movie. After about 15 minutes, she let go of my hand, and rested her hand on my leg, sort of running her fingers over my inner thigh. I tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary was happening – play it cool. (It wasn't easy. I'm about 6'4' and considered very good-looking, but it's not exactly common that I meet a Stephanie Seymour lookalike and have her hand touching my leg three inches from my crotch all in the same day.)

After a couple minutes of this, she leaned over, and began to whisper something in my ear. It was heavenly to feel her warm breath and her soft hair so close to my ear. She whispered, "Pete, do you mind if I touch your cock?" I turned to glance at her, and she pressed toward me again, saying "Right now?" I smiled and shook my head – I didn't mind, but for some reason I couldn't choke out my approval verbally. She smiled and gave me a kiss.

I guess I must have sort of expected her to "touch my cock" through my shorts, because I was surprised again when she used her long, sexy fingers to unzip my shorts, fish into my briefs, and retrieve my cock. I wasn't worried we'd be seen; nobody was really sitting very close to us. (By the way, in case you're wondering why we did this at the theatre instead of at one of our homes, I don't really know – I was 28 at the time, and she was 25. It's not like we were teenagers.)

She held my completely stiff pole in her hand without moving for what seemed like forever. She simply held my cock and watched the movie. Then, without warning, she fished back into my briefs and sort of tugged at my scrotum, until my balls were out too, and she rested the palm of her hand there for a while. (For you readers who are beginning to sense what's going on here, that's right – she now had my balls in the palm of her hand. It wasn't until much later that I realized the full significance of that statement.)

Then she started to stroke my pole – up and down with the tips of her fingers running over my shaft. The relatively tight opening on my briefs provided additional friction around my balls and the base of my tool as she moved it around. I reached the point where I began to think less about how great I felt and more about shooting my load (I think my male readers all know exactly what I mean.)

But she continued at about the same pace, until I felt like I couldn't hold back. She suddenly squeezed the base of my cock and pulled all the skin between the base and the tip down toward the base. I felt my cock swell and she kept squeezing down. It was too late. The load began to ooze out of my engorged rod. But her squeezing had at least prevented any embarrassing contractions and 6-foot spurts of come. As she eased off her grip (still not looking), the come oozed out – the whole load came out in what seemed to be one long, thick stream, and it ran onto my navy blue shorts. When she let go of my cock, it sort of flapped back against my black T-shirt, depositing a load of ooze there as well.

I didn't feel any satisfaction at all, however. Just embarrassment, and, strangely, the desire to ravish Nicole. I really needed to climax!!

What happened next is something to this day I don't understand. Nicole, who had been watching the movie while her hand was making this all happen, looked over and saw the thick gobs of come on my dark shorts and T-shirt. She looked up from my cock to my face, looking me right in the eye. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. "How could you do that to me?" she asked. "I can't believe you would shoot your load at a time like this." I stammered that I hadn't "shot" my load, it just sort of oozed out unintentionally. She looked at me and said, "Oh, and I guess you think that makes it all right?"

Without another word, she got up from her seat and clip-clopped out of the movie. Obviously, I couldn't follow her immediately. In fact, I wasn't sure how I would leave the theatre at all – we hadn't even stopped to get popcorn on our way in and I didn't have a single napkin. By the time the stains dried, the movie had ended, and I walked into the lobby, half-expecting to see Nicole waiting for me. She was nowhere to be seen. I decided to head for home.

I got out of my clothes and went to bed, my mind (and balls) still reeling from my experiences of the last 12 hours. I could not get Nicole out of my mind. After tossing and turning in confusion for what seemed like hours, and having a hardon that would not go away, I turned on the light. For some reason, even though I needed a shuddering, spastic orgasm so badly I could scream, I didn't want to masturbate. After feeling Nicole's hand on my balls, I didn't want to come alone.

Then I made a decision I still don't completely understand . . . and which changed my life forever.

At 3 in the morning, I picked up the phone and called Nicole's number.