The guy's wife was cute.
Some women look terrific, they know they look terrific, they carry themselves with confidence, they dress to show off the figure that they know is great, they flash their legs, their cleavage too, maybe their waist, depending on the weather, they wear their sexuality like a millionaire will wear their Cartier watch, or drive their Porsche. Not Mike's wife. Not the woman that I met that night. But she was cute. Extremely cute.
My first impression was that his wife was one of those women who do not realise just how cute they are. The kind who never think about how best to dress, or wear their make-up, or their hair. For whom that does not matter. So their clothes are not that sexy, maybe tops and jeans that do not really fit, or boring paisley patterns, or even tiny flowers, instead of leopard skin or snake, and always cotton, never silk or skin-tight lycra or risqué leather, none of those.
Mike's wife had made an effort just the same. She wore a dress that just about could be described as little, black, and, yes, a dress. But not too daring. Nothing much on show. No cleavage. The neckline was too high. But her breasts were full beneath the inexpensive polyester cotton, and her back and shoulders were still bare, her flesh pure white. No thigh was being bared. The hem was cut too low, right on the knee. But her calves were slender in the black nylons that she wore, and her butt was cute and shapely. She was definitely good enough to fuck.
I like cute. Maybe I should say, petite. Neat women turn me on, especially those with good sized breasts, trim waists, full hips. Pocket sized, but hourglass. Given the kind of height of woman that I like, maybe more a thirty-minute timer than a full sixty-minute hour. The same proportions, but the small-scale version, a woman you can lift onto your cock while standing her against a wall, or walk around the room, her legs around your waist, your hands beneath her butt, your cock lodged deep inside her cunt, the head nudging up against the inner recesses of her womb.
Mike's wife was definitely cute like that. She just seemed to be one of those second types of women, who did not know how cute she was, who had a look almost of naivety and innocence. At least, that was how she came across right then.
Not that she was young. Thirty, maybe. Black hair, worn shoulder length, the waves natural, not from some high class salon, green eyes, almost emerald, an aquiline nose, Streisand strong, not Kidman cute, full lips, high cheek-bones, all of which would have made another woman look confident and self-assured, but with over-sized, round, black framed glasses that gave her a geeky, rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights, kind of look instead.
"This is Marilyn," Mike introduced her, as I did my rounds.
Part of the job. You run a floor of twenty personnel and when it comes to office parties, you have to circulate and spend a few moments chatting niceties with each of your staff and the partner they had brought along.
Mike was new, just in my team five weeks, so this was his first freebee on the company's account. We held them every quarter, to celebrate our turn-over, good, bad or indifferent, the theory being that, either way, they will always serve to boost morale.
"John," I said, holding out my hand.
Hers was small and slender, soft and warm.
Normally you just press the flesh and then let go and that is all there is, but this was different. Something more. A definite vibe. Not just her hand in mine, her presence, right up close as we were introduced. She may have been presenting as unexceptional, modest, plain and unpretentious, but there was a sexual undertone about Mike's wife that I could feel through that brief contact of our hands, that pulsed through my body, that stirred something at my groin.
Not just the touch. Her aura. Something alluring, mesmeric, drawing me in, calling me closer. Enthralling, beguiling, enticing. I was tempted to reach out to her, remove those glasses, reveal and appreciate that face without the distraction that they were. She could look incredible, if she just knew how, and made the effort, but I guessed she did not realise her potential, or else she did not care.
Apart from lip gloss, she was not wearing make-up. Not even eye liner. Her black lashes and brows were strong enough to frame those beautiful green eyes all on their own. Ethereal, hypnotic eyes. Making me think thoughts so out of place, but overwhelming just the same.
"John manages the sales team," Mike explained.
"Nice to meet you," she said. "Thank you for inviting us."
"My pleasure," I said, still totally transfixed.
Not that the invitation had been mine, not personal. The event was not just for my floor, but the entire company, the best part of one hundred and eighty employees of all sorts, in a hotel ballroom suite that the company had booked out for the night. The invitation was automatic, for anyone employed there at the time.
"I hope that you're enjoying the evening," I continued.
"It's lovely," she said. "The dinner was really nice."
Small talk. It makes the world go around. It is also boring as hell, but it has to be done, so I forced myself back to reality and played my role, all the while picturing her without the black rimmed glasses, or the dress, or anything at all.
Neat, cherry like nipple stubs, or wide areolas, or somewhere in between? Shaved pubis, or just trimmed, or maybe she was one of those who did not bother, wild, black curls not just on her mons, but her inner thighs as well, or rising towards her navel? A slit, or peeping labia, or inch long curtains? I would have loved to know.
Those lips looked succulent. Her mouth. The gloss was somewhere between pink and scarlet. The colour of my cock head, when it is primed and gorged and full of blood. Those lips would feel so good around it. My cock would love to get to know them. It was already hoping it would get to feel them some time soon.
The small talk we engaged in does not matter. All that matters from that brief conversation was that when I moved away to do the same again with another of my staff, my cock was hard, and I was grateful that the pleat-cut flannel of my business suit and the firm hold of my underwear, meant that its hardness would be unlikely to be spotted by anyone I passed.
What happened later on that evening was not planned. Some things are just fortuitous. They fall right into your lap. You do not have to work for them. You do, however, have to be ready to take the opportunities that circumstances offer you. Which is exactly what I did.
The bathroom corridor. The hotel's facilities were not immediately adjacent to the ballroom, but a walk down one leg of a corridor, a turn, another walk, and then the choice of male, or female, or unisex disabled. Whichever category applied.
I used the male, of course. I did as nature required, my cock not rigid now, but thick with thoughts of her, washed, rinsed, dried my hands, checked my tie was straight, and headed out the door. She was right there. Walking past the male door, which she would have had to, returning from the ladies' room. Pure chance. Or luck.
I should have looked more carefully. Instead, I walked right into her. Took hold of her. To retain my balance and to prevent her from being pushed against the wall.
"I am so sorry."
It should have been me apologising to her, but it was her voice saying the words. Cute, naive, and unnecessarily apologetic.
I was still holding her. She felt almost fragile, like a doll, her waist slender beneath the thin fabric of her dress. What happened next took only seconds. Purely instinctive. Unrehearsed. The handle of another door pulled down. The one that had the wheelchair logo. I turned her, and then we were inside, door closed again, and locked.
No resistance. Nothing. Just Mike's wife looking up at me through those wide lenses, blinking nervously, while I was still holding her around her waist. She was breathing anxiously, breasts rising and falling, her lips parted, her teeth immaculately white, her mouth just made to kiss.
Nothing romantic or sexy about our surroundings. All functional. Sanitary ware, steel plumbing, emergency cord with bright red handle. Nothing erotic. Not that I cared.
Her glasses had to go. I used both hands. Folded the legs and set them on the basin at the back. Without them she looked suddenly so much sexier. You could lose yourself in the forest green of those amazing eyes, wander on unmarked pathways, in between the trees, and never find your way back home again, nor want to.
No longer being held for just that moment, all she did was look back up at me, her face almost devoid of expression. Waiting. My move to make. Not hers. But not protesting.
One hand beneath her perfect chin, I raised her head a little more, bent mine to hers, and found the succulence of her lips. They opened wider. Whether in submission, or as an invitation, I could not tell, but I enjoyed her mouth, tongued it, probed it, explored the smoothness of her teeth, her gums, played tip-touching with her own tongue, backed just enough to turn our heads the other way, and did it all again.
My cock had hoped that this would happen. It rose to the occasion. Already semi-primed, it hardened. Struggled to be free of underwear constraints. Still without thinking, instinct in control, I backed her to the wall, the only wall devoid of fixtures in the room. Groped at her dress. Scrabbled at it. Pulling it up. Finding the hem and gathering everything below her waist to lift it up and out of my way.
Stockings. Suspender belt. Not what I expected, but no reason to complain. Bare thigh flesh. Intriguingly, a thong. Not tights, or panties. Not the wide hipped cotton knickers that would have been in keeping with her style. No need to try to get those down. No need to rip a hole. Only a cotton triangle, covering a copse. The hair beneath it wild and dense. Au naturel. The first time I come across a cunt that had not at least been neatly trimmed.
No time to slide the thong down and off. No easy way to do it either, but no need. It was just elasticated string, and so I eased the cotton to the side. I finger probed amongst the curls, seeking the opening I desired, and found wetness of her keen and eager slit.
