"When you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him." George R.R. Martin
"Are you trying to manipulate me? It's working." Bridget Moynahan
*****
Steve Jones. Even his name was anonymous. Pretty much everything about Steve was as non-descript as...the midsize Ford sedan he drove. No, he did NOT drive a Fusion because he was in the nuclear power industry. It was a practical car, inexpensive, comfortable, reasonably powered, good resale value, and dammit, it was American.
"Mr. Jones?" the cute young receptionist caught his attention in the lobby after he cleared the security screen. "A, um..." she read from her computer screen, "...Eleanor Perkins...called this mornng. I just sent you the memo." That e-memo would go to admin too. Security was as tight as the receptionist's sweater at Advanced Energy Solutions, given the very sensitive government projects they attracted.
Steve let his eyes roam a second or two over Jenny's cuteness, how her young breasts stood up so proud and her lips looked so luscious in gloss. She never noticed him looking, or would have made anything of it. Or would have particularly cared. Steve Jones was virtually invisible to most of the female population of the planet.
He kept himself in good shape. He was smart, no, intelligent. Perhaps too much so, in some ways. He was confident. He was aggressive, when he needed to be. He was comfortably positioned in the stock market. But his job didn't give him access to a lot of women, nor men friends, for that matter. His work mates were mostly older odd duck genius engineers who couldn't tie their shoes but could calculate the half life of any quantity of nuclear waste just using their fingers.
Steven Jones was just plain...regular. He was Clark Kent's less exciting brother. He was the kind of guy they use in the soap commercial because he's less interesting than the soap. He was the guy you went to high school with who was super smart, nerdy, was nice, did science projects and you couldn't remember his name.
That's why Steve's internal bullshit detector went off when he first met Eleanor Perkins. She was exhibiting subtle signals that she was attracted to him.
Not that it didn't flatter him. Eleanor Perkins turned out to be a saleswoman for a small firm that represented companies that manufactured custom engineered parts to the highest military standards of precision. Ms. Perkins was...stunning - very beautiful in an exotic, seductive kind of way. She even had an intriguing personality, a fascinating mixture of canny smarts, an encyclopedic knowledge of the industry, and a polite, respectful and efficient manner. But it was her looks, her runway model's dream bod, porn goddess curves, sensual, sleepy eyed, fuck me face - even wearing glasses - and the moves. She had the grace and bearing of a panther. She turned grown men into rabid dogs. His colleagues could barely keep their eyes and tongues in their heads as she walked down the hallway and into his office.
When Ms. Perkins, during that first brief but pleasant meeting, batted those big brown eyes, flung her hair back just so, pointed her magnificent mammaries in his direction, and squirmed in her chair as she crossed her legs, it was all very subtle, but to Steve, obvious.
See, despite his having a personality that came across, on first impressions, to be as bland as milk, Steve knew a thing or two about the wily ways of women. Sure, that sounds like the kind of pathetic swagger and brag every loser dude in the world rants about having, but Steve Jones had actually received intensive training on that subject at the hands, bodies and minds of three very good teachers - Clara, Sara and Bernice, his three stepsisters. His mother married his stepfather when Steve was eighteen. During that first summer right after high school when they all lived together, each sister had been kind enough, patient enough, and horny enough, to bestow on Steven a series of lessons that most men would never learn in a lifetime.
The most important lesson each of his amazing sisters taught him was how to read body language. Steve, being a normal eighteen year old boy had, of course, developed the normal fascination with the female form. But being the overly intelligent type, he didn't just ogle T and A. He made a project of studying the overt and covert signals women projected with their bodies. That's how he seduced his sisters. Well, in truth, he let them seduce him. He had approached each to ask for advice, and for lessons, on how a woman sends signals to a man she is attracted to. And how a man does so as well.
In the comfort and confines of their country home way out there in the woods of Virginia, it all was fun and sort of...uninhibited...for that one summer. The memories of the prancing, dancing, strutting, play acting, role playing, games, and little competitions and rivalries of those hot, endless summer days by the pool, the meadow and in the frilly, sweet smelling bedrooms of the three sisters, were burned deep into his memory banks. And what he had learned was sex is a skill. And, while porn is a great way to learn how the actual mechanics of sex work, it totally misses out on the most important part: the strategies, the banter, the courting and come ons and conversations that actually make sex happen. Those three willfully bold, crazy smart, deviously mischievous, and outright sexual young ladies also taught him the final mystery: that the dance that led up to sex is, almost all of it, a matter of signals sent between two people by their bodies. Sexual attraction is subliminal.
Of course, his stepsisters were all successfully married moms now, but in a part of his mind they would always be wild and horny girls using each other and their stepbrother's willing body and large penis to learn valuable life lessons.
Sadly, once Steven tried his newfound skills in the real world he quickly learned that most women's bodies, especially the fun, cute, sexy and sensuous types like Eleanor Perkins, were signaling complete non interest in him. The women that did project interest in Steve were the type of women who wanted a diamond ring as big as a testicle, two point five kids, a mortgage in the burbs and a husband for whom missionary sex on Saturday night was a wet dream come true.
Steve got different signs from Eleanor Perkins. Her body signaled something more: long, hot sessions of sweaty, panting, grunting, groping, probing, multi-orgasmic, oral, anal, pronebone, butt up, half stoned, half drunk, daddy issues, dirty talking, dom and sub, face creaming, nasty ass, obscene-lewd-cunt-fuck-jiz-spunk-creampie, cum drenched, mattress ruining, weekend long fuck marathons.
So, why would such a woman be interested in a man who drove a Ford Fusion?
When she texted him and asked him to lunch, Steve decided to see where this would go.
Lunch was a veritable feast. Not the food. The menu she offered was a lovely, tasty and enticing spread of nonverbal sexual offerings. Eleanor, El, used her outfit as the first course. Pants suit that was the, at first glance, the essence of professionalism, pin striped, with a high collar and padded shoulders. But the hints of what lay beneath, while subtle, couldn't be ignored: a bit too much cleavage, a semi sheer button up shirt with the top two buttons undone, lipstick the color of a dark, moonlit night, pants that stretched and clung to her every wicked curve and a pair of pumps with an inch too much heel for lunch with a potential business client.
But how she moved all that, the subtle shifting and displaying of her entire package was sheer mastery. Eleanor Perkins knew how to use what she had, and she had a lot - her two truly awesome, proud and prominent "ladies" as Bernice called them, the deadly curves and expansive sweep of her ass and thighs, the careful crossing and uncrossing of those killer gams, and especially, the masterful deployment of her eyes as two quite effective weapons - glance, stare, look away and then back again, roam over his body, hint, promise, hide, reveal, entice, push away, reel in. And, Steve had to acknowledge, she did indeed completely capture his subconscious, horny mind. It was an artistic and very pleasurable experience for Steve Jones to be the subject of such masterful control of sexual signals.
But he also knew that she was totally aware of every little thing she was doing to him. He was being played. Eleanor had designs. She was fishing. Spy fishing. And Steven Jones knew too that he fit the classic profile of the perfect fish who would willingly hook himself on the sharp barbs under Ms. Perkins sexual bait.
He smiled inside as she shook his hand and told him how much she enjoyed lunch and hoped they could do it again, then after a pregnant pause, turned her head a bit, looked back at him and added: soon? The soft touch of her fingers in his palm, the way she looked up at him from under those long lashes, her legs sort of squeezing together as though she couldn't contain the sensations coming from her crotch, overtly pointing her two ladies directly up at him. She no doubt thought he was what he looked like: a hapless nerdy genius type who hadn't been laid since college - and badly back then - a guy who spent weekends and evenings surfing porn sites, a loser who, after a few nights of sex, would reveal trade secrets and sell his company or country and himself for the promise of a couple of orgasms.
