Who's to say when interest turns into attraction, infatuation, and finally, obsession? The lines between them can get fuzzy awfully quick. It all just depends on your point of view.
Max knew the second he laid his eyes on her. All it took was a brief flash of her stocking-covered thigh, a business suit skirt riding a little higher than it should have as she exited the taxi cab, and he knew he'd found the woman of his dreams.
He stood frozen in the lobby of that office building, a motionless mop handle grasped in his hand while his heart pounded madly in his chest. He gawked at her in silence as she strode by him towards the elevators.
Her beauty stopped him in his tracks, like something out of a movie. She was young, with the soft, smooth skin of a woman in her early twenties. Her green eyes and long, wavy, dark red hair took his breath away. Her soft, moist lips curled into the most incredible smile he'd ever seen.
Max stared as she passed him, his eyes moving slowly over her body hidden beneath that smart, crisp business attire. Her beige jacket and white silk blouse clung ever so subtly to the curves of her breasts, hinting at their fullness in spite of her small frame.
Her skirt, which only seconds ago flashed a silky thigh, loosely hugged her curved hips, swaying to the rhythm of her backside as she walked away. Max could only stare breathlessly as she slipped into the elevator with the doors sliding shut behind her.
Instantly, a thousand questions flooded his over-taxed brain. Who was that woman? Does she work in the building? Which office? Will I ever see her again? Just like that, he was in love.
The security guard at the reception desk caught the entire exchange and chuckled. "You like that, huh?" the old black man asked.
Max suddenly snapped out of his dream state and could only muster a nod. The guard chuckled again. "Oh, man, you best give dat up. A fine thing like dat want nothin' ta do with yo raggedy ass."
Max said nothing and immediately began mopping the floor again, letting the guard's commentary go without a response. "She don't want no janitor, dat's fo' sho'."
"Do you know her?" he grunted.
"Forget it, man. She way outta yo' league." He stopped mopping and glared at the old man.
The guard's smile suddenly faded as a chill passed through him. "Dat's Miss Sara, Sara Sweet," he replied. "You new here. She up on twenty seven, P & G Co."
Max continued staring until he was sure nothing else would be forthcoming from the old man, and then slowly continued with his mopping. Sara Sweet, he thought as he worked, sounds like an flavor of ice cream.
All day, Max thought of Sara and in that time his mind let him convince himself that he had a shot. OK, he thought, maybe he was never very good with women, but this time was different.
"Socially awkward" is how the high school counselors finally described him. Max didn't care what their reports said. What did they know anyway? All he needed to do was meet the right woman. A woman, he told himself, not those silly little girls in high school.
At seventeen he had his first sexual experience. He'd saved enough money, fifty dollars to be exact, and went to see Ebony, a black dancer/stripper/prostitute in a seedy bar downtown. There, in a room behind the stage of that rundown strip club, he got his first blow job.
It lasted all of forty seconds but that's all Max needed. At seventeen, he could pass for a man twice his age, with his large, muscular physique, jet black hair and perpetual five o'clock shadow. No one ever questioned him so getting into clubs was no big deal.
Every week, Max returned to see Ebony dance and take him in the back, and every week he received another lesson in his sexual education. Some of those lessons took a turn towards the exotic, as Ebony liked to get a little freaky now and then.
Over time, however, Max grew to want something more, something real, something he didn't have to pay for. But finding the right woman was a lot harder than he ever reasoned. His few relationships lasted, at most, a month or two.
And now, years removed from those high school days, he finally met the woman of his dreams. Yes, he thought, the wait was worth it. This was true love.
But what did Max know about love? Nothing except that he wanted it. He wanted her and he knew nothing about her either, so Max decided he'd fix that. He'd learn everything he could about Sara Sweet.
Reconnaissance, the gathering of information to be used advantageously, that's how Max saw it. If he could find things out about her, where she lived, where she went to school, who her friends were, what kind of flowers she liked, he could use that information to win her heart.
Information was knowledge, and knowledge was power. Power would put him at ease and make him more confident. He'd be able to muster up the necessary courage to talk to her and ask her for a date. Since he knew so much about her, she'd get to know him too and fall in love with him.
He waited outside of the building across the street, hoping to see her as she left for the day. 4:30, 5:30, 6:30, 7:30, they all came and went and yet Max never saw her leave. She must have left the office already. How was he going to find out where she lived if he couldn't follow her home?
And then he remembered. The twenty seventh floor. There were name plates for all of the offices and cubicles. He looked up at the building. The cleaning crew wouldn't arrive until 9:00 PM and they wouldn't get to her floor for at least three hours.
He entered around the service door and took the freight elevator up to twenty seven. The offices were deserted. He walked between the rows of gray cubes and then, along the far wall, he found it. "Ms. Sara Sweet."
Ms, he thought. She's not married. He looked at her desk. The typical clutter of files and papers. No pictures or personal items. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Mmmm, clean and fresh, with just a hint of her perfume.
Max turned to his left. Hanging on a hook from the top of the cubicle was a coat hanger and a sweater. Dark burgundy, to help keep her warm when the air conditioning was too cold. He slipped it off the hanger. Mmmm, so soft. He lifted it and covered his face, inhaling deeply again.
The sweet fragrance of her perfume flooded his senses and Max suddenly became aware of his arousal, his cock stirring uncomfortably in his tightening pants. With one hand he adjusted his crotch while holding the soft garment against his face with the other.
His hand felt good and Max began to rub himself as he buried his face in her sweater and inhaled again. The soft, sensual feel of the cashmere on his skin coupled with a hint of her aroma made his cock stiffen. God, she was sexy!
Slowly, he lifted his head from the sweater. He felt something on his cheek. Max dropped the sweater on her desk and reached for his face, pulling off one long, wavy, deep red hair. Her hair. He kept rubbing his cock as he held up that lone strand of hair.
Lovingly, Max studied that hair. He was certain it was natural, not out of the bottle like all of those other blondes and brunettes he saw every day. No, she was an original, the love of his life. He let it dangle in front of his nose and inhaled again.
Standing in her cubicle like this, next to her chair, rubbing his aching cock, holding her hair, Max closed his eyes and let his mind wander. He imagined her sitting in that chair, right here in front of him, his cock aching to be free while he held her hair in his hand. If only she'd release him and take him.
His hand continued massaging his cock through those uncomfortable clothes. That chair, he thought. He opened his eyes and looked down. She sits in that chair. Today she sat right here, in that skirt, those thighs. Those silky thighs. And her magnificent ass.
Max swiveled the chair out and knelt down in front of it. He imagined her sitting there, her skirt riding up again, this time only higher, up around her waist, and those stocking covered legs slightly parted. Slowly, he bent forward.
Max's face rested against the cloth seat. He inhaled deeply again while his hand stroked along the length of his now throbbing cock. That smell, that's her scent. Her sweet pussy. Her magnificent ass. They were right here, only moments before. So close.
His balls began to ache as his cock begged for release. He took another deep breath. Her smell was intoxicating. A wave of lust rushed over him. Max stood up and unbuckled his pants, dropping them and his boxers down to his thighs.
His large cock sprung forward and he immediately began stroking himself. He closed his eyes again, imagining her sitting in that chair, her face level with his aching erection. This was her delicate hand stroking him, jacking him off.
That long, wavy, deep red hair would feel good in his hand as she stared at him with those wide, green eyes, jerking him off. He could feel his orgasm mounting. His balls swelling, tightening.
And then he exploded. Grunting, Max imagined shooting his warm, sticky cum all over her sweet angel face, a stream landing across her soft, moist lips while she pumped him with her hand, another on her long, wavy red hair. His balls pulsed while his hand worked furiously along the length and head of his throbbing cock.
Slowly, Max's orgasm subsided and he opened his eyes. His cum had shot everywhere, on her chair, on her computer monitor, on her desk, on the files and on her sweater. Quickly, he reached for a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped his hand clean.
He pulled his pants up and tucked his weakening cock back inside. Tissue after tissue, as best as he could, he wiped up the mess he created. The flimsy material left a slight steak on the monitor and files, but they'd dry before anyone could notice he reasoned.
Her chair was another story. Max quickly made his way to the Janitor's closet in the hall and brought back some paper towels. He carefully and painstakingly dabbed at the cooling sperm until he was satisfied no more could be removed.
Lastly, he took more tissue and did his best to clean her sweater. Once he was sure he could do no better, he carefully hung the sweater on the back of her chair. There, he thought, just like I was never here.
