I watched my fingers creep slowly down the slope of my belly, edge into the wispy brown forest covering my mound and disappear into my wet and waiting hole. Then I snuggled deep into my warm bed, turning slightly into my pillow and reached out to Jane Carter.
In the past few weeks my fantasy had become increasingly familiar. I would meet Jane accidentally at a grocery store, Jane would ask me to dinner and there would begin the exquisitely slow revelation that we loved each other. The fantasy would start with subtle words, move to even subtler touches which would lead to the torrid love-making I had never had. But the story was a huge stretch to my imagination because I didn't think of myself as gay and I suspected Jane didn't think of herself as ... anything.
My name is Sally Parsons and I've been laid eight times in the past 12 months, each time by a different guy who was invariably drunk and who inevitably fled. On my 29th birthday, spent entirely alone, I came to the conclusion that I will never get my man, simply because I will never settle for any man I can get.
When I thought about this, and I often did, it didn't depress me, not at all. I'm plain and plump and had accepted my physical limitations all the way through high school and college — and now in the working world. I once wished I'd grown up thin and pretty and popular, but that was a long time ago. Not any more. Now, I fully accept myself, with all my blemishes, and I'm successfully building a life I thoroughly enjoy.
But there is a slight flaw. It isn't my job, which I like: a financial administrator for a federal government department. And it isn't my lifestyle; I'm essentially a passive spectator surrounded by movies, TV programs, trashy novels and gossip mags. No, I rather like my life and don't mind at all that I'm not forced to cook and clean for a guy who would be as plain and homely as myself. No, my problem is that I really like sex; like to think about sex, read about it, write about it and like to engage in it. Most of all, I like the feeling of sex, particularly feeling a warm body coming alive beneath me.
And that's what I am thinking about as I lay on my bed with my hand between my legs and my face pressed into in my pillow: the warm body beneath me: Jane Carter.
I don't know Jane Carter, don't really know much about her. Jane is director of public affairs in my branch but because I'm tucked away in finances I don't have much chance to see her, just a brief glimpse now and again. I've asked about her of course, but no one seemed to know very much. All I've been able to learn is Jane Carter is in her mid-forties, very good at her job, has never married and is, by all accounts, polite but cool and aloof, if stylishly so: she's always immaculately turned out.
I like to play with my pussy after I cum. I like the wetness, the smell, the taste and, recently, I like to imagine Jane's grey, intelligent eyes watching my fingers nibble at the edges of my pussy. In the past few days I do something else, too: after I cum I strategize and plan because I've decided to try to make my fantasy with Jane Carter come true.
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"Jane?"
Jane Carter looked up from the pyramid of mellon, "Yes?"
"I'm Sally Parsons ... from work."
"Oh, yes, Sally, hello. Finance, isn't it?"
I was so surprised she knew anything about me I stammered, "Public Affairs," then realizing my stupidity, I added with a laugh, "You're Public Affairs, I'm Finance."
Jane smiled, "Right," and returned to the mellon.
I hadn't actually planned to talk to Jane tonight. I had chosen this night, Friday night, to stake her out because to me Fridays are the most adventurous night of the week and therefore would probably offer the greatest insight into Jane's world. I had taken a cab and followed her bus. When she got out, so did I and I followed her into the grocery store. As I said, I didn't plan on confronting her. Really, I just intended to watch her for the evening, see where she went, where she lived and what she did, but bravado, and perhaps a little desire, pushed me into the introduction but because I hadn't got this far in my planning, once done I didn't know what to say. I settled for, "A relaxing way to spend Friday night."
Jane looked up from the melons again. "Relaxing?"
"Well ...," I shrugged, then, realising it was a stupid thing to say, I said the first thing that jumped into my head, "I'd ask you over to my place for supper but it's so small ...," I shrugged again.
She seemed flustered. "Oh, no, no. That isn't necessary."
Her reaction surprised me and somehow gave me more confidence, "But I'd like to get to know you." Then the idea struck me. Why not? "Hey, maybe I could buy the food and cook it at your place?"
It was next to impossible to suppress my giddiness. I was stunned by how easy it had been; shocked that I was walking down the street with Jane Carter — and we were heading for her place!
Earlier in the day, alone at my desk, with my hand under my skirt, stroking my pussy, I had no thoughts that I'd ever get this far, this soon; at the time, my excitement was only that I was about to try. So my success was a little unbelievable, and a little frightening, too because I hadn't a clue what I was gong to do next.
Nothing about her apartment surprised me. It was stylishly, with big rooms and cathedral ceilings and it was immaculately furnished. And nothing about the place offered up any clue about her, either; it was soulless: the rooms seemed almost photographs from an up-scale magazine, attractive but without emotion, like the owner. If there was a hint of passion anywhere, I couldn't see it.
All this occurred to me while I waited on the couch where I concluded that Jane lived in the very centre of a very small world and she wasn't going to let the inconvenience of a visitor disturb her routine. After we'd put the groceries on the kitchen counter she had walked away and only when she reached her bedroom door did she look over her shoulder and explain, "I'm going to change."
But she could cook: that was obvious, not only in the efficiency of preparation but with the results. Right from the first bite the complexities of tastes of the stir fry were exquisite, the problem was, there were just so few bites. She might eat well, but she ate like a sparrow.
Two people, with absolutely nothing in common, can have a tough time communicating, particularly when the host is indifferent to the presence of her guest. We settled on bios.
One of the beauties of being 29 is that when someone asks me about my life I can pretty much cover it off in a few minutes. But 45, as Jane revealed herself to be, requires a lot more time and is usually a lot more interesting.
Not in Jane Carter's case. She was raised on a farm in the Mid West, got her communications degree at the state college and for 20 years had risen through the ranks of the federal service. She was an only child to parents now deceased and had never married. That seemed be about it!
Hard to believe because she appeared to have it all. She is attractive, in a fragile, elegant kind of way, tall and thin, small boned, with a long patrician face framed with lustrous brown hair and dominated by intelligent eyes, aquiline nose and rounded chin. And she is toned, clearly, she is toned: the only perceptible fat on her are her large breasts that press against an expensive grey blouse.
