Cerulean Numbers

There was just no sense in this crap.

Here I was, sitting in the office for yet another late Friday night, and wondering how the hell I got shafted into finishing all of her freaking assignments. My boss was a royal jerk. She never did any of her filing, just passed it off on anyone she hated. Unfortunately, her current hate was directed at me.

It's not my fault that her hair dresser made her head look like a cheetah pelt, only my fault that she overheard me making the comparison in the cafeteria.

I was a just a junior typist, one of the legion to work in the boring brick government building, but that didn't mean I wasn't a person! And people had feelings, thoughts, made plans to go out on their Friday nights. Sitting on my ass staring at the two foot high stacks of filing slouching their way across my desk was not something I had included in my Friday night plan.

No, I thought sourly as I picked up the top green folder, the Friday night plan looked less like 'get stuck at work' and more like 'get you picked up and screwed.'

It was true. I'd had less than noble intentions for my weekend. I was boyfriend-less at the moment, (more like for the last six months) and as a healthy young woman, I needed to get laid before I finally went crazy. I had planned on hitting the shopping strip with a few girlfriends, having dinner, maybe passing the evening with a movie, then snagging a cab and riding uptown to slide into some ill-lit joint with throbbing bass and more than enough swinging dick to chose from.

But now, working my way steadily through the stacks faster than my incompetent boss suspected I could move - I was going to have to cut straight to trying to pick up some pocket pool stick and go home. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't normally the type to do a one-night stand, but it had been so very long since someone other than me took my needs in hand that I was getting more than a little desperate.

The depressing thought urged me to haste, and if I misfiled a few things, who cared? No one ever came down and looked through the files anyway. They always asked a junior typist like me to do it. I wouldn't forget where I put the files, so I would be able to find them later. Or, I could always fix it Monday. Yeah, fixing it all Monday sounded capital.

I pushed out of my chair, grabbing my purse from a drawer and my tote bag from the foot well of the desk, and I headed briskly from the office. It was only a few minutes walk to get to the women's locker room, and only a few minutes more for me to change into the outfit I had packed into the tote. I dropped my hair from its simple swirling knot on my crown and fluffed the rippling burgundy mass with my fingers. My sensible pumps were tossed in the bag, along with the demure khakis and button down blouse. I peeled off my panties and the 18-hour support bra that my chest demanded and grabbed my man-fishing implements.

First I took a small bottle of scented oils and spread them on my legs and arms, down my breasts and belly, to smooth over my very well trimmed and partially waxed mound. I liked to keep the hair to a decent minimum so that a bush didn't ruin my bikini lines. So, I kept a neat little area of pubic hair above my slit, but the rest was kept perfectly bare. As the saying goes, 'no grass grows on the playground,' right?

Next I reapplied deodorant, in case my morning application was faltering, and checked my nails to make sure they were all clean and filed and the polish was decent. Then I sprinkled on some micro glitter and eyeliner, with just one swipe of mascara. I was blessed with a clear complexion so I never bothered with base, and my natural coloration kept me from using blush or anything.

It was sadly true, I was a natural redhead, but the red of my hair was so wine dark that it was more like gleaming – near dead embers or a really rich red wine than it resembled the more common ginger or carrot colored locks of other redheads. I think the darkness of my hair allowed me to have the golden-bronze skin tone that looked so good without make up.

I looked into the floor to ceiling mirror in the locker room and inspected by body quickly. Three days a week at the gym kept me fit enough, and three more days a week at an aggressively taught dojo did the rest. I was built for curves, so no amount of exercising or dieting was going to change the flare of my hips or the size of my bust. I glared at the bust in the mirror. I had big boobs. Big. And I resented them. They were always in the way, and I always seemed to spill things on them, leading to embarrassing, eye catching stains. F was just an ungodly cup size for a mere mortal to carry.

Turning away from the huge-knockered reflection of my naked self, I slipped into a garter belt, sliding up the lacy-topped thigh highs and clasping them into place. Over that went a black mini skirt with slits up the side, embroidered with peacock blue feathers and flowers, trailing baroquely along the splits. Hidden sequins flashed among the pattern. And yes, I disdained panties. If I didn't have to wear them, I didn't. I liked the fresh little breeze you got when you wore a skirt without panties.

I pulled the halter-top on next, tying the knot to the bodice tight behind my neck. The crisscrossing swatches of fabric that comprised the front of the top held my breasts up through sheer determination, I think. And sheer was nearly the word. I could clearly make out my perky nipples through the paper-thin folds of dark blue silk.

Finally, I slipped my feet into a pair of gently heeled peep-toes with long straps that laced up over my calves to tie into trailing beribboned knots just below my knees. I checked my reflection once more in the mirror, smiling with a wry twist of my lips. I looked nice, better than nice. I looked dead sexy.

Okay then, I steeled myself, time to go man hunting. I stuffed the bag in my locker, clipped the little ring of keys and the flat clasped case that held some cab fare and my ID to the little belt loop on my skirt and jetted it out of there.

I strutted my way to through the parking garage, flashing a wide smile to the kid in the booth. He watched me with wide, greedy eyes, taking every detail. I twitched my hips a little extra, taking longer strides to show off the tops of my lacy thigh highs. Pretending I dropped something, I stopped and bent for it, from the waist. The skirt rode up, and up and up, exposing the bare curves of my wriggling ass and the barest hint of my naked slit. I straightened, smoothing the skirt, and tossed a glance over my shoulder. The boy was transfixed. I nearly skipped the rest of the way to my car, convinced that I would be the star of his sexual fantasies for many nights to come. Little exhibitionist stunts like that just made me feel so alive!

My car thrummed to life and I zipped on out of the parking structure, ending up at a local nightspot renowned for its dimly lit interior and plethora of alcoves where amorous young people could get sweaty in a fast little grope-fest.

The bouncer let me in the door, no cover charge, and when one of the girls waiting in line protested, he calmly informed her that when she grew up and had tits the size of Godzilla then she could skip line too. I glanced down at my too-ample cleavage in wonder. What do you know, I mused, the gi-normous funbags have some use after all.

I hit the bar and finagled a few free shots. Tequila, vodka, rum - men were lining up to get me tipsy, and the liquor would hopefully give me the courage to make good on the one-night stand I was hoping for. The dance floor was satisfyingly dim and crowded, the number of men actually topping that of the women. This was good, I decided. Less competition and more chances for me to nab a tasty treat to take home and enjoy.

One of the guys that had immediately homed in on me, a svelte thirty-something with moss green eyes and a smile that Crest would be jealous of danced with me exclusively. He was well built, broad in the shoulders and slender at the hips. It made me think he was a swimmer or a runner. He ignored a few other women that floated through, letting them dance on him, but not with him. His eyes remained on me, his lips quirked in a cocky, confident smirk that made me want to kiss him. He tugged me by the hand after only forty minutes or so of gyrating and ass shaking, pulling me away from the grooving throng.

We threaded our way to one of the aforementioned crannies, immediately locking onto each other in a frenzied need to know. The first kiss was not hesitant or soft; he crushed his lips to mine and gripped my upper arms to hold me there. I responded in kind, darting my tongue out to taste him, almost moaning with the wave of pure need this kiss was drawing from me. We continued to kiss; he was very good at it, as we started our blind exploration of one another. His hands rushed over my tits, choking on the fact that he could feel they were real. I ran my hands down his chest, lightly raking my nails over his nipples, and then slipped a hand down his front, investigating the rippled planes of his stomach and the sizable bulge in his pants. Hm, seven, maybe eight. Not bad. I could do this. I could definitely do this.

"My God," He broke the kiss and I looked up at him. He panted for air before continuing. "Don't you even want to know my name?" He had an accent, European of some flavor. I couldn't place it. I smiled up into those lovely moss green eyes.

"If I know your name, it kind of ruins the one-night stand, doesn't it?" I teased. My heart was tight, pulse racing and giving lie to my casual words. I hadn't ever done this, and making out with him was great. What if he wasn't that kind of guy? Would he turn me down now that I said something? Would he think I'm a slut?

"Ah," He smiled and just shook his head. "Wonderful American girls." He murmured, eyes' darkening with what I hoped was lust. "Fine, then. No names." He promised, smiling all while he was lowering his head. "Tonight will be enough, yes?" His silken hair slid across my cheek while I moaned my agreement. I closed my eyes and sighed, letting go of the fear and angst, and just tried to enjoy what this talented man was doing to me.

By then his hands had been caressing my thighs while he kissed at my neck. I arched back and threaded my fingers through his hair, it was so soft, almost feathery. I imagined how his hair would feel on the insides of my thighs as he went down on me and felt myself clench in sweet anticipation. His left hand slid further up my leg to curve over my naked ass. Making a pleased sound in the back of his throat, he sent his hand across my ass, kneading and exploring to be sure that I wasn't even wearing a thong. He slid his left hand back down and yanked my leg by the knee, hooking it up and over his hip, and then he slid his right hand between my thighs, making me gasp and grip his shoulders.

His fingers were deft, teasing me and spreading my lips before gently investigating my folds. I was wet, really wet. The dancing and kissing and the excitement, so yeah, I was already dripping. I felt him smile against my neck as he kissed his way behind my ear. He inhaled sharply, pulling in the smell of me, and I felt my abdomen tighten in sudden lust.

I pulled my top down enough to let my nipples free without really letting the boobs loose, a neat trick if you can manage it, and he immediately started licking and sucking on my nipple. I ran my fingers through his hair again and let my head fall back, moaning quietly.

It felt so fucking good. This was the kind of thing I had waited all week for. I had never made out in a public place before, never even with my last long-time boyfriend. I was a little bit of an exhibitionist, but often too shy to do any of the crazy things he had talked about.

Now look at me, six months after he left me and called me 'too boring to tolerate,' I was letting a stranger get to second base in an alcove at a club, about to get caught at any second, and slowly becoming aware that the danger was turning me on all the more.

While my brain had been thinking silly things, the European man had not been idle. His talented mouth was moving back and forth between my mountainous breasts, fingers teasing the folds of my intimate areas. He nipped hard with his teeth the same moment he shoved two fingers into my pussy. The penetration was like a thunderbolt though my body. I came suddenly, gasping on my orgasmic cry. I jerked and clenched over his fingers, spilling wetness over his wrist. He laughed one of those low male chuckles that makes your nether parts twitch. Mine did and I moaned again.

Without a word the man pulled his fingers from me, drawing another cry from my lips, this of loss. I wanted him back in me. I wanted his dick in me, and I could not understand why he stopped. I pulled his hand up to my face, looking him in the eyes and sucking the digits that had so recently brought me into my mouth, swirling my tongue over them in an inspired moment. He moaned and shuddered, pressing so tight against me for a moment that I had this sudden mental image of him fucking me right there, pants still over his cock and everything.

He grabbed my hand and dragged me from the nook, glancing around before leading me a few steps to one of the private booths set above and behind the dance floor. I trotted along behind him, still in the post-cum phase, my tits jiggling free of my top for anyone to see. No one did. He was sneaky enough.

I barely got a chance to look at the room. A few cushy chairs, an L shaped booth, table, and a long leather couch. Then he pushed me facedown on the table and pushed my skirt over my hips. I heard his zipper, heard the distinctive crinkle of a foil condom wrapper, and felt his fingers at me again, searching, probing, spreading me wide. I shifted my feet obligingly, lifting my ass as much as I could, and then I felt the tip of him, there at the entrance.

I was wet and ready, but still tight from the finger-fuck. He must have been a grower, because when I glanced back he was a good nine inches long, not the seven I'd estimated. He smiled at my surprised eyes and started to push the fat mushroom head of his cock into my pussy. He went slow, so very slow at first, getting a feel for me. I could tell his head was thrown back, his eyes shut, savoring the sensations. I had my head down, squeezing my nipples and moaning.

It felt so good to have him moving in me. I could feel every millimeter of silken flesh as he pushed his way in me. I writhed at one point, the sensation becoming too much, and he put a hand on the back of my neck to hold me still.

Then, when he had reached as deep as he could go, he pulled back, and then thrust forward, hard and sudden. I cried out, writhing beneath him, raising my ass up and back, begging him without words to do it again. Luckily, he must have been a good listener because he did.

He started to pump in and out of me, long slow strokes alternating with bursts of quick pumping thrusts that had the tip of his cock pressing against the curved opening of my cervix. I could feel the pressure building, especially when he rolled his hips that once and his dick rolled in some crazy-good circular dance inside of me. The orgasm was coming, building in a wave of heat and pressure in my belly, behind my eyes, layered with every tightening of his thighs, with every iota of friction from his thick cock and the slippery walls of my pussy.

My breath was coming in little whimpering gasps, his thrusts pulling mews of pleasure and urgency from me. I came, in a rush that ran lightning through my entire body, pulling my spine into a bow, rolling my eyes up so far in my head that my lids fluttered. The man fucking me gave a hoarse shout and pulled out of my clenching twat. He remained bent over me, breathing hard, gripping his cock as he came into the condom.

I slumped forward, breathing a little fast, smiling. He leaned down against me for a moment, then took a handful of my ass and squeezed. I writhed a little for him, my pussy throbbing in remembered pleasure. He laughed again, that seductive chuckle that all men have, and pulled my skirt back down into a semblance of modesty. His pants were up before I managed to stand, but then again, I think my legs were a little wobblier than his.

He gave me a kiss, a light little thing just behind my ear and I shivered.

"Ever want to have some more fun, call this." He slipped a card into my top, deliberately stroking the hard corner over my sensitive nipple, and kissed my throat once more before turning the corner and vanishing.

I pulled out the card, staring at the simple number, printed in wide, cerulean script. No name, no description, just the archaic numbers on the off-white cardstock. I tapped the small thing against my closed lips meditatively for a moment, inhaling the scent of his cologne that lingered on the card.

I had just had the very first no-strings-attached-sex in my life – and it was mind-blowingly good. And now, the mysterious stranger who had just pulled that wild and erotic side of me from my dark inner recesses into the light had just offered me a way to do it again.

The idea certainly had possibilities.

I left the club. No one had caught us in our little tryst, and I was a little glad, and a little disappointed. I wasn't sure what I was let-down over, just that the feeling was there. I went home and showered, braiding my wet hair out of the way before I laid down for the night.

I fished in my little bag, pulling his card out and staring at it for a long while as my mind replayed little parts of the night in my head. I knew I was going to call the number. Maybe not tonight, or the next night, but soon, sometime soon I would be punching those digits into my cell and holding my breath to hear that sexy accent.

Finally I placed the card on the bedside stand, cerulean numbers gleaming in the light of the alarm clock, and let myself drift off.