Who The Fuck Are You, Anyway? Ch. 3byNoJo©
Tim sprinted to the bus stop just as the driver shut the doors. He tapped and looked pleadingly through the glass doors at the driver, who ignored him. The bus roared off.
Tim sighed and returned to the curb. He looked up at the sky. It had begun to rain. His brand-new Kenzo suede jacket was going to get rain spots. He felt a fleeting pang of irritation at Tanya Beam, who’d insisted that the jacket had been “absolutely you” when she bought it for him. She’d also outfitted him in Diesel Jeans, Ralph Lauren Polo jumper, and clunking Timberland boots. The jacket alone had cost more than he’d spent on clothes in the last five years. In addition his hair had been styled and waved, his nails done, and his cheap and reliable digital watch replaced with a stylish Swiss Army chronometer. Instead of his old National Health frames he sported a pair of thin Armani glasses, which still preserved his slightly little-boy intellectual look, but added a hint of Piazza Navona.
He received a sympathetic smile from a woman waiting at the bus stop. The pang quickly passed; there was no doubt about it, he admitted to himself, he’d certainly got more attention from women with his new image. He turned to face her and smiled back, shrugging. She was an attractive dark-haired forty-year old, with wrinkles round her eyes. She wore a wedding ring. She probably had teenage kids, he thought.
“Don’t worry, they come every five minutes,” she said.
“Just enough time for me to get my jacket ruined.”
“You shouldn’t have worn it today, silly. Don’t you check the weather forecast before you go out?”
“Well, to be honest, I’m not used to wearing this. It’s new. It was – bought for me”. The woman raised her eyebrows.
“Somebody likes you -- Somebody with money to spend!”
“I – It’s not really my kind of… I mean I don’t feel very comfortable in this jacket…”
“I think it suits you. Here…” She held his shoulders, turned him gently around and pulled his jacket off. While he stood in complete confusion at this, she turned it inside out and handed it back to him.
“Keep it like that till you get out of the rain. That silk lining is easier to dry clean than the suede.”
Tim, relieved, laughed. “Thanks.”
“Here’s your bus. Bye now…” With a thrill, Tim noticed a tinge of regret in her voice.
He sat on the upper deck, smiling to himself. He looked idly down at the hurrying pedestrians and suddenly noticed the unmistakeable figure of Sarah Maxwell. She was running; she was trying to reach the next bus stop to catch this bus! She would never make it, he thought. But suddenly the bus screeched to a halt, causing a lot of tutting from the passengers. He heard the doors downstairs opening to let her in. The bus was still over a hundred yards from the bus stop. Sarah bloody Maxwell: A figure that could stop a speeding bus. And she’d asked the WT-Fay team to be his practice date for tomorrow night. He listened, and heard Sarah and the driver laughing. Bloody flirt. She appeared on the top deck. Her incredible lips parted in a smile as she saw him. He knew that every man on the deck was staring, envying him.
She sat down next to him. “Hello!”
“Hello, Sarah! We mustn’t keep meeting like this, people will talk!” That perfume! He felt his cock uncoiling in his pants. He hoped it was not noticeable.
“Tim, it was really nice of you to pick me for the date tomorrow. I really didn’t think you thought of me that way – as a friend.”
Tim managed to hold his tongue, instantly figuring out that the Richard Smart must have set this up, telling each of them it was the other’s idea, when all along…
“Well, I do, Sarah. A friend, a colleague, someone I can have a nice evening with in a restaurant.” And hopefully losing my virginity with.
“You see, I normally – I mean I usually – oh, never mind. It’s just that I don’t often meet nice blokes, who take me out to restaurants. And if they do, they’re usually calculating the cost of the evening the whole time. They lose their façade of politeness at around the fifty quid mark.”
Tim laughed, surprised. She had a sense of humour! And she used words like ‘façade’! Not bad… he decided to play the humour card too. Feigning a surly frown he said, “Well, no need to worry about that with me. We’re going halves tomorrow evening. Got it?”
It worked. She looked shocked for a second, then laughed deliciously as she remembered that, of course, it was WT-FAY that would be footing the entire bill.
“Okay, Tim, Dutch treat tomorrow. Of course you know that means no sex afterwards.” Now it was his turn to be shocked. She proffered a hand to shake. Recovering, he shook her hand, resisting the sudden urge to push those cool fingers onto his hard-on.
A few minutes later she said, “I bet all the passengers are annoyed at me because the driver stopped suddenly for me. They don’t know that the driver’s my Dad’s mate. My Dad used to drive the buses too, till he failed the eye test. Did you know I wanted to become a bus driver, but my Mum and Dad thought it was a waste of my “talent” – meaning my looks, I suppose? As though answering the phones at EBM is less of a waste.”
Tim tried not to laugh at the image of her as a bus driver. Instead he asked, “how come you wanted to drive buses?”
“I’ve always loved them. With some people it’s, I don’t know, collecting stamps, or old books. With me it’s buses. I take after my Dad. I’m a bit of an ‘Anorak’. I don’t normally tell people about it because they’ll laugh.”
“Well I won’t laugh -- I’m an ‘Anorak’ too. With music.”
“Really, what sort, I love music!”
“I - Oh, sorry, this is my stop. See you tomorrow.”
That night, Tim let himself drown in the image of himself sitting in the driver’s compartment of an empty Number 26 bus in the deserted depot, with his spurting cock thrust deep into Sarah Maxwell’s perfect ass, as he inhaled her perfume. As they climaxed, her London Transport driver’s cap fell to the floor and her rich golden hair fluttered over his face tickling it like angel kisses.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The team bustled round Tim like three boxing trainers before a big fight, giving him advice from every direction. They were in the quiet Italian restaurant where his practice date with Sarah Maxwell was to take place. The “evening meal” was actually going to take place at four in the afternoon. Sarah, like a bride before a wedding, was not allowed to meet Tim until the cameras were rolling.
The restaurant was deserted except for the staff, the ubiquitous camera crew and the production team. An outside broadcast van had been set up, and the WT-Fay team were sitting huddled in it. At the time of the shoot they would provide a running commentary on the date.
Tim just wanted them all to go away. He was ready. He felt completely confident. He had listened, studied, followed their advice, and had been transformed beyond recognition – outwardly at least. He was now a cold-blooded and calculating expert in the art of flirting. He had the sang froid of a matador. When he wanted, he could appear deeply interested in his victim, no matter how much he railed internally at her dull personality. And Sarah Maxwell would be a simple kill, he was sure, with her big trusting eyes and lack of self-confidence.
Finally everything was ready; the red ‘recording’ lights glowed on the cameras. He sat down at the table. Sarah entered. She was wearing a plain black low-cut dress with a string of pearls. She looked like Marilyn Monroe. He stood up and helped her into her seat. She smiled shyly.
Start with a complement: “Hi, Sarah. What a lovely dress! Really elegant!”
“Thanks. It’s quite old. I got it for my Dad’s funeral. Did I tell you my Mum remarried after my Dad died five years ago?”
Tim was taken aback by this sudden and inappropriately intimate remark. He’d been so concerned about playing his own part perfectly that he hadn’t considered that she might commit a few faux pas herself. He decided to continue the flattery, while acknowledging her feelings.
“Really? You think about him a lot, don’t you -- you mentioned him a few times on the bus yesterday. Five years? I don’t think I’d fit into my clothes from five years ago. You keep yourself in good shape.”
They ordered wine. Sarah was vegetarian. Tim agreed to try a vegetarian dish. Listening inside the O.B. van the team applauded at this. Always show that you respect the other person’s taste.
Throughout the meal Tim, with body language and nods and smiles, subtly and smoothly increased the intimacy level; he seized an opportunity when they were talking about fingernails to make the first physical contact since they shook hands yesterday:
“Yes, they’re fake. I got fed up with them always getting chipped”, Sarah said, spreading her blood-red fingernails for him.
“Really?” He said, picking them up and examining them, stroking her fingers with the tiniest movement.
“Yes.” He looked her in the eyes. She smiled and her eyes widened as she added an unambiguous come-on: “That’s the only part of me that’s fake, in case you were wondering.” In the van the team burst out laughing.
Tim decided to move in closer, and play his trump cards. “You know, when we met on the Leyland M851 bus yesterday, I smelt your perfume, and I knew it was you before you came upstairs. It’s Bill Blass ‘Nude’, isn’t it? I really like it. It’s hard to find, isn’t it?”
Tim’s face fell for an instant as he thought this was a mistake; he suddenly realized it was obvious that he must have asked someone from the office the name of her perfume (it was Alice who’d provided this info) and researched London bus serial numbers somewhere (on the Internet). This was too much like spying – or stalking. But in the event it worked, though not quite in the way he had intended.
“You’ve been researching buses, to impress me! That’s so sweet, Tim!” And she leaned over and kissed him, on the lips. He knocked over his wine. Two waiters quickly cleared up the mess. The O.B. van was rocking as the WT-Team collapsed in hysterics.
The meal continued past the dessert (one dessert, two spoons), and the coffees. Both of them were enjoying themselves, chatting, smiling, touching, and looking into each others eyes.
So the practice date was a resounding success. The team were unanimous. Afterwards Sarah said to the team (and the future TV audience) that she hadn’t been on such a nice date “since ever”.
Tim finally arrived home late that night. He slammed the front door and leaned against it. He caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror. He turned to his reflection and said; “Tim, you fucking lying hypocritical two-faced bastard, you’re good.”
He took off his clothes and put his comfortable tracksuit on. He started to lay out his work clothes for tomorrow.
The phone rang. It was Sarah. He felt caught off-guard.
“Hi, Sarah … how are you? Tired?”
“Not really, no. I – feel a bit funny about this evening. Do you mind talking, Tim, or are you too tired?”
“No, I’m not tired,” Tim lied.
“Can I come round? I’d rather not talk on the phone.”
“What now? Can’t it wait, Sarah?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, otherwise.”
Tim, dimly beginning to realize that success with women had its complications, reluctantly accepted. One second later the doorbell rang. It was Sarah – she’d been calling from her mobile from his doorstep. He let her in. She was wearing a grey raincoat over her dress, done up with a belt. Her figure was still visible.
“Well, Sarah, what’s the problem? Did I say something to upset you?”
“No, I mean yes. No. Tim, I want to know: Was this whole evening a fake? Were you, you know, bullshitting me?”
Tim felt the blood drain from his face. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Tim, you see I know. Everyone at work knows. About you being gay. I didn’t understand why you never – why we never – you know, at the Christmas Party, until they told me. But the way you were talking, flirting, this evening, I got confused. You were so, well, you really seemed like you wanted me.”
Tim laughed. “I’m not gay, Sarah. Technically I’m not anything. I’m a virgin. But I don’t fancy men. And I think you’re lovely.” He put his arms around her comfortingly. And with a happy feeling, he knew that for the first time since the first “training session” with the WT-FAY team, he was being himself again. It felt good. His cock agreed.
She pulled away and examined his face to check he was being truthful. She decided he was.
“Well, well! A virgin!” She looked at him impishly. “Not for long! Come on!” and she kissed him passionately. This was a full-on stuff. Even better than the first kiss, the one with Susanne Simpson. Her tongue pushed and sucked at his. Golly, it was so dirty.
Still in the hallway, she stripped naked. He felt dizzy at the sight of her. He reached out a hand to the umbrella stand to steady himself, but missed, and he fell, his arm inside it. His face was directly in front of her pussy. She grabbed his head and pushed his face into it. She crooned, “That’s a good boy. Isn’t that nice and comfy. Isn’t that all nice.” He grabbed her ass and felt the perfectly smooth skin. She pulled him up.
“Take of your pants off, Timmy.”
He pushed his track-suit pants down and his cock flew back upright with a slap against his skin. She looked at it, and ran her fingers over it. She smiled and said “Only one careful owner. No accidents. Never used in the rain.” She knelt and bit gently all along the shaft like it was a corn on the cob. Then she opened that great mouth of hers and closed her lips over his helmet. She sucked powerfully, stroking the backs of his thighs. He came. She gulped it down, her lips tight.
She stood, wiped her mouth, and moved close to him. She was almost as tall as him. He felt her tits pushing against his chest. She stood on tiptoes and manoeuvred his cock inside her. She squirmed and wriggled and sucked at his neck. He felt a wonderful warm rippling feeling in his cock as she slid her pussy up and down over him. So this was fucking! It was easy. He came again. She laughed, sending aftershocks through him.
She said, “my turn now. You’re two nil up.” And she turned and faced the hallway mirror. Tim had a front and rear view. He grew hard again. She rested her arms against the mirror and leaned her forehead on them. She thrust out her ass. She turned her head and looked at him, almost defiantly. “Get some cooking oil from the kitchen and rub my ass with it. Then fuck me up the ass, Tim. Go on. Fuck my ass. Fuck it. Go on.” She turned her head back away from him and waited.
Tim rushed into the kitchen, his erection bobbing wildly, and found he had a choice of two bottles of oil; one was premium cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil, the other was chilli oil. He considered which was best. Virgin olive oil, definitely more appropriate.
He ran back and poured it into the crack at the top of her ass and watched it trickle down the inside of her thighs in a greenish stream. He smeared it with his fingers and thrust his middle finger up her now slippery asshole. She made a noise. “Fuck my ass. Fuck it. I want your fat cock sliding up my ass.” He began to push his cock inside her. There was more resistance than before, when he’d been in her pussy. This felt a little bit violent. Would it hurt her?
“Go on. Fuck me. FUCK ME. That’s it. OHH, FUCK ME TIM…FUCK ME…” She was almost scary, with her voice deep, like that possessed girl in the Exorcist. He pushed right inside. Involuntarily he started pumping her. He grabbed her hipbones and thrust hard and quickly. He’d been wrong a few minutes ago: That hadn’t been fucking, that was being fucked. This was fucking! As she came she screamed and catapulted back from the mirror so they were flung against the opposite wall, still locked together. She reached behind him and grabbed his ass and gripped, digging deep into his flesh with her fake fingernails. She pulled him even deeper inside her. He imagined his cock emerging from her mouth. He smelt her perfume and felt her blond hair whipping his face. Finally. Finally. Finally, his fantasy had met reality…
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Susanne, Richard and Tanya and Tim sat in Ernie’s office. The cameras were not yet rolling. The WT-FAY team looked at him. They were all smiling, proud of their achievement. Susanne spoke.
“Tim. You were great last night. Really, really, great. How do you feel about it!”
“Well,” said Tim truthfully, “I think it was great too. It got better and better, in fact. Thank you. Thank you, all of you. You’re amazing.” He leaned over and they all hugged him warmly, in turn. As Richard released him, he said, “you’ve lost your cherry, haven’t you?”
“H-How do you…”
“Well, for a start, you smell of Sarah Maxwell. Her perfume, I mean.”
Susanne looked at Richard. “Well, you would know, Rick.” The comment was not lost on Tim. Of course. It stood to reason, Richard and Sarah. It was so obvious now… he’d been ‘had’ again.
But, now he came to think of it, so what if he’d been ‘had’? Last night he’d ‘done it’ with the sexiest women he’d ever known. So what if Richard had ‘persuaded’ her to do it. He should still thank him for it. Or was he just being paranoid? He suddenly asked Richard straight out: “Richard, did you put her up to coming over to my place last night?”
“No, mate. Honest. It was you. You really scored. In fact you did a better job than I could have done. And between you and me I tried.”
Tim apologized to Richard for suspecting him. For some reason he suddenly felt slightly disgusted with himself. “Oh well”, he thought. Just his singing night at the club to do, and then the “real” date in five weeks. Then it would all be over.