I met you at the office. By the Goddess, you were hot. You were dark haired and pale skinned, stocky and hairy; quiet as a well. All the things that get me wet. I wanted you from the first glimpse. I wanted to go facedown in your crotch. I was spending half my day watching you secretly as you worked, fantasising about what exactly was in your pants. I tried to start up a conversation with you in the coffee room, but you just listened to what I had to say. I love quiet men! I'd never been more turned on but you were cryptic body language nightmare. I wanted to ask you out, but I couldn't tell whether you were fascinated by me or bored.
After a month of this torture, you sidled up to my desk one day. I thought you wanted a spare pen or a F30 form.
"You want to go out Saturday?" you said.
I agreed, trying to mask my enthusiasm.
"There's a party. I'll pick you up a seven. Don't wear heels; I like to dance sometimes."
That was all you said and you went back to your desk.
You were late that night. As the minutes ticked past our date time, my stomach churned. I had been in an almost constantly aroused since you'd asked me out and if you bailed, I feared I would break my trusty vibe trying to work out my "anxiety". I think my pussy thanked the pussy gods when you finally showed up.
We drove for nearly an hour to get to the party. You said nothing the whole way. I nervously filled the silence whilst becoming even more turned on by your silence.
