I began noticing him weeks ago. He came into the sandwich shop every day at 1:25 after most of the lunch crowd had dispersed. I would watch from the window as he came from the high-rise across the street. He always had a copy of some financial newspaper under his arm. He wore an expensive suit and I surmised that he must be a financial consultant of some kind. He was maybe early forties, casually handsome, with a hint of gray at the temples. He had the most beautiful, piercing, light-green eyes I had ever seen. On two different occasions our eyes had met and locked. But both times ended quickly when he averted his eyes and his face flushed crimson. So I figured out that he was very shy.
He always ordered the turkey club without cheese and a soda. He would sit near the window and read his paper while he ate his lunch. He was always alone. He wore no wedding ring. His cell phone never rang and he never called anyone. He seemed oblivious to everyone and everything else around him. He would spend exactly 55 minutes in the sandwich shop. Then he'd clean his table, fold his paper, and head out the door and across the street to his building.
My fantasies of him began shortly after I learned his daily lunch routine. As I sat alone at my table across the room from him, I'd try to imagine how he kissed. I wondered what he looked like underneath all those expensive clothes, his cock hardened and ready. I wondered what those nicely manicured fingers would feel like stroking my nipples. I wondered how he would taste if I ever got his manhood inside my mouth. I wondered how he'd sound moaning and groaning at the pleasure I could give him. I wondered how it would feel to have his throbbing dick thrusting deep inside my hungry pussy. I had mental pictures of him throwing me onto the table, pushing my tight skirt to my waist, taking me fiercely, his expensive trousers undone just enough, his turkey club falling onto the floor.
I would watch him eat and read I would imagine walking over to him, reaching down and taking hold of the bulge beneath his zipper. The more I fantasized about him, the more I wanted him and the more daring my fantasies became. I imagined him fucking me hard from behind, his tie brushing across my nude backside with each hard thrust. I imagined him watching me as I played with my wet pussy, my fingers dipping in and out in an erotic show accompanied by my sighs of pleasure. I imagined him spurting his hot cum all over my face and in my hair. I imagined his hot breath on my neck and my tits. I wanted this man. I needed this man. I had to have this man.
I began to look around for closets or private places to take him for a 55 minute lunch fucking session. I wanted him to forget that turkey clubs existed or that financial newspapers held any interest for him. I wanted his attention on my naked body. I wanted him fucking me anywhere and everywhere. I wanted his cock. In my hands. In my mouth. In my cunt.
And so everyday my lunch ended the same; with soaked panties, a rapid heartbeat, and a new fantasy to add to my repertoire. The lust I felt for him grew and grew until I knew that I had to make some kind of move. But how did I do it? He was shy and I was shy. I couldn't just walk up and ask him to please take me right there on the table. And then, one day I had a revelation. I suddenly knew that I had one way to get his attention.
I am an amateur photographer. I love taking nude photos of myself. I would take them often for my ex-husband and surprise him with them in emails. He had always told me that I had an ass to die for. And I had caught other men's eyes on my ass many times. So I knew that I would use my greatest ass-et to catch the attention of Mr. Turkey Club.
