Claire was not a pretty girl. No, let's rephrase that: Claire had never been one of those girls, who made heads turn. Pretty in the common sense of the word. A bland face, blue-grey eyes, tight lips and hair, whose colour she didn't even remember after all the years of dying it. About the rest of her body there could not be said much of interest, as her long grown hair fell in a straight line from her tiny shoulders to untoned legs -- right over her nonexisting butt. And what was a girl without a nice ass in the 21th century anyways? Maybe she got her tits going for her but tits alone don't make up for a bland personality and a body without any remarkable contours. Her "friends" had let her feel that.
No, Claire was definitely not a beauty. And had always known that. The one thing she did not had known until recently was that she could take a beating right on the kitchen island.
But let's start at the beginning.
Upon turning 25 Claire realized that she was the only virgin she knew. The only fucking one. Well, unfortunately fucking was the wrong word to use here.
Of course she had... fooled around. But to her all of that never felt like sex. Real sex.
So she gave up on that in her teens and rather focused on what seems to be more worth her while. And so, after yet another divorce on her mother's side and yet another step dad who could not decide between ignoring her or ordering her around, she moved out and attended college with large aspirations in all... departments.
A few large disappointments later, she found herself with a PhD and job offer in hand and nevertheless sobbing in front of the mirror, which clearly reflected everything wrong about her. "Dull" was one of the nicer things, last week's date had called her.
The hurtful realisation settled in that the woman she was now would always attract men. But not the ones she had her eyes on. The, she struggled with the phrasing like so often,... strong (?).
No -- like she had so often explained to her roommate Anne --, not the gym bros! Nothing wrong a nice set of abs (been there, done that) but the strong kind that would put her in place. In a place she was not sure she could ever ask to be placed in.
A place shy and bland girls are not put in because they appear to be breaking when pushed against a wall.
And it was only a gut feeling that there may be a man out there, that would let a wicked side show that could encompass all these fantasies. Bring them to life.
Well, the gut feeling was now replaced with the fact that there was such a man waiting outside her place.
And a very different Claire now stared one last time into the mirror. The last months had paid off. Working out every single day, gaining muscles and at least some contoures on her slender body let her now put toned legs in some summer sandals. Blue shorts, a strict belt and a very low cut shirt accentuated her stature. The bra was worth every single cent for making her breasts perk like that.
Finally a view she could appreciate. It had been so damn much work! Every. Single. Day.
The finishing touches were just added this week, namely a tiny black piece of lace, which had cost her dearly, and a short hair cut with sharp edges like all the strong women she had always envied wore so brazenly. Her roommate wouldn't stop ruffling it -- and later on giggling when Claire had asked her (increasingly blushing) if she could come back on an offer Anne had made one late night months ago.
"I think", she snickered over her third glass of wine, "I've met someone who could fit your tastes. And you know, since recently I can hear rolling eyes. Must be a side effect from living with a bitch."
Claire honestly loved Anne and her midnight banter, midnight wine bottle and of course the obligatory talk about life and it's many purposes. But...
"Another blind date? Must I remind you of Marc? And Tim? And don't get me started on Jack..." Now she could really not hold her eyes back from rolling audibly.
"This time it's different!"
"...Henry..."
"I swear!"
"... Harry..."
"Shut it for a second, you sweet-titted bitch!" Anne was obviously in her best spirits today. "This man told me..."
"Anne, they tell you anything to get you into bed!" (Anne may or may not had a certain reputation for being very easy-going.)
"...that he would not fuck me even if I asked him to." Now that's a new one.
"He's impotent or what?" Claire couldn't contain a giggle.
"That guy? Noooo..." Anne started grinning. "Straight sex vibes. But in his words: I appear to be a girl he would be afraid to break. Sounds like something you could be interested in?"
Claire could see the fucking sparkle in her eyes when she winked at her.
In the end she was way too dumbfounded -- and admittedly drunk -- that night and after joking dirtily ended up snuggling up to Anne where she nearly instantly fell into a dreamless but cozy sleep. (It should really be mentioned at least once in the infinite archives of the universe that Anne possesses 10/10 cuddle qualities.) So Claire of course completely missed her patting her head and lovingly whispering: "Don't worry, he gave me his number as I talked about you."
So here Claire was, light summer clothes which were both elegant and enticing, adorned with just the right amount of some loose jewelry. Finally confident and dressing like it.
Only to have all of that crushed by the man grinning at her.
How in all heavens and hells could a man give off such vibes? He was literally drinking her in.
"Hey, the name is Claire!" At least she managed a cocky smile. "And you are?"
"Waiting for some months now." He sounds strict and demanding. But mostly...
That voice. Fuck.
He's tilting his head. FUCK.
A demonic wink. "Just kidding," he laughs, "name is John. Nice to finally take you out." All that wickedness seems instantly gone. Did she just imagine that?
But he wasn't wrong. It was really nice to go out on a date with him. Finally after some time, someone who listened to her and not made all of this about himself. Slowly but surely Claire could feel herself getting comfortable around this man.
And of course she found opportunities between some great ice cream and maybe a tad too strong cocktails to check himself out. As hidden as an increasingly hungry girl could manage.
Well, John, 35 and holder of several academic titles too, was not the sort of man she would have immediately gone for. Neither bulky nor that dreamy type of man that she quite often awkwardly encountered in the hallway leaving Anne's room.
But there was a certain tone of... certainty in his voice when they weren't joking around. Simply the way he so casually wore a buttoned shirt distinguished him from your typical easy going dude.
And every move he made, she couldn't help it, but made her think about Rilke's poem about the caged panther. There was a restrained power, a danger hidden in those movements, just like a predator carefully hiding his claws but ready to pounce.
She was so gonna unravel this man.
"So, that's the tone you're gonna pick with me when greeting me?"
She shook her head, realizing she had completely drifted off. "What?"
