Page 29 of Ewan

Metaphorically speaking.

The armholes cut into my flesh, the sleeves felt like sand against my skin, and as Miss Scarlett here just noted, the buttons never truly worked.

I left parts open and tried not to break my dick when I walked out of my truck.

I had to get rid of my boxers so I could put the trousers on. The fabric scratched my balls, and not in a nice erotic way. Hence, the exaggerated swagger I displayed when I arrived and the idea that I could make it work if I reached the designated place and stayed until the event was over.

And then… When I finally got things under control, I thought, the woman standing by my side had shown up, throwing a wrench into my plans.

I watch her go to the table and fetch me a bottle of water, my eyes moving with great interest down her legs.

Nice shoes. And beautiful hair.

I know what got me hard. Aside from the obvious. Perky rear, and nice, round tits. She smells like sex. Sex that needs to be had. There is that touch of blush in her cheeks and shortness of breath. The warmth wafting off her body and a sweet perspiration––a mix of body wash and hormones. Pheromones. Experts still hardly agree on whether we, humans, produce them, and I might not be a specialist on this, but after getting a whiff of that woman, I can confidently say there’s something about them.

I had just started to think about having her legs wrapped around me when she gave me her name.

Man, I wish I had a teacher like that.

She leans over the table to reach the bottles, propped on her free hand, her back teasingly arched, her ass up in the air.

Like an X-ray machine, my mind instantly undresses her. I can see her pussy lips peeking at me from between her legs, her asshole tight and puckered, her boobs touching the table as I stand behind her, draw her hair into my fist, free my hard-on from my pants, let it dangle, heavy and engorged, before running my touch on it a couple of times and pushing it slowly inside her center.

Damn, I feel it in my crotch.

She’d probably need to put a blindfold on me so I don’t see and think about her.

My semi is now a full erection, and I spread my legs to let it rest between my thighs, ease some of the tension, and, basically, conceal it.

I still have the Santa sack on my lap, and I sweat like fuck under my too-long beard, but I’m now more determined than ever to go through with it and get lost.

The woman is not even my type.

I get the professorial type. Some women enjoy role-playing that. Not in a very successful way, I might add, but they do.

I don’t think I have a type, but she’s definitely not my type. The women at the bar were closer to my type. The kind of woman who wants to have some fun and leaves your place early in the morning, or even better, just before you return from the bathroom after the last round of sex.

I don’t touch real women.

Women who have their own little lives with problems specifically tailored for themselves. Money problems. Sex problems. Boyfriends problems.

Is she married?

I glance in her direction again. No, she’s not.

I give her a double take. She has some spunk to her. A lot of energy and interest in me.

Yeah, I’ve been around the block a few times. She almost bit her tongue when I tested her with that blowjob proposition.

A woman involved with another man would normally be numbed.

She wouldn’t see me if I walked naked in front of her. That’s how Miss Scarlett here would be if I were her man.

She returns with two bottles of water––great minds think alike––and despite her bra, her boobs jiggle every time she moves.

God help me.

I could run the tip of my tongue from her clit to the dip between her tits, up her neck, and right into her mouth.

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