Nearly seven and a half feet of man. My jaw dropped and I stopped dead in my tracks. Nearly seven and a half feet of man... "Karina, we'll be conducting the interview over here. Try to get some decent shots this time?" Mr. Cates. My journalism professor's nasal twang snapped me into the present. "Right, yes," I fumbled for a response, diverting my gaze from the giant who'd stopped me cold.
It was nine in the morning, and just moments before, running from the subway into this posh hotel lobby with 20 pounds of photo equipment, I'd been silently cursing the editor who assigned me to drag my ass out of bed and take pictures of some basketball player the NYU paper had been "fortunate" enough to schedule an interview with. And here I stood, frozen, speechless, in the gaudy suite of some massive man named Yao Ming.
The next hour flew by as my professor and Brent, the drooling idiot who'd practically offered to blow everyone involved to get this interview, asked ridiculous and rather boring questions to Mr. Yao, who responded politely and mechanically through a soft-spoken interpretor. I tried to shut off the intense thoughts rushing through my brain, perverse questions and even more perverse visuals, as I took shot after shot of this quiet giant...
His legs angled oddly in a chair meant for a much smaller man, his hands looked large enough to block out the sun, and I couldn't help but wonder: what exactly hangs between the legs of someone who is over seven feet tall?
Every now and again, as he answered ridiculously dull question after ridiculously dull question, I caught his dark eyes running over my body. It was late summer and I was dressed accordingly, in a short skirt and clingy tee-shirt that strained with the pressure of my firm breasts.
Seeing his interest began to turn me on... I found myself leaning into him as I snapped each successive photo, trying to get closer, hoping he'd catch the scent of my perfume, hoping he'd respond.
As soon as it began, the interview was over. I didn't want to leave, my mind was racing through possible excuses to stay just a little longer, maybe even get him alone.
I was slowly packing up my photo equipment as everyone stood, shook hands, and exchanged good-byes. Then Ming spoke, rapidly and urgently, to his translator, who looked confused and relayed the message, "Miss, "he said, turning to me, "Mr. Yao wondered if you could stay behind and take several more photographs. He says he will look more relaxed without the pressure of the interview." I glanced at Ming. He smiled at me slyly.
"Right," I thought, "Some college paper interview must be so stressful for a man who plays a professional sport in front of millions of fans every night." I smiled back at him, wondering if he was thinking what I was, if tight little white girl pussy was as foreign and thrilling to him as the prospect of his cock was to me. "Sure, I'd love to," I replied. As my companions left, I ignored their pleas for "clean shots" and "crisp details" and began to consider what could happen next.
