My Obsession with Jennifer

I first saw her in the Uptown section of Minneapolis. Her looks got to me, what more can I say? She had strawberry blonde hair, cut short, but with what seemed the potential to be wavy if she'd let it grow. Her nose was slightly too big for her face. Her skin was pale. And she had the body of a runner or dancer. Lithe and graceful. Minneapolis is full of attractive blondes, a happy consequence of its Nordic heritage. A lot of these goddesses were just that, however. Goddesses, unattainable symbols of cool Scandinavian perfection. She was different. From the first time I saw her, I sensed an approachability about her. Good thing, because I would never had the courage to talk to her otherwise.

Not that I did approach her right off. No, instead, I kept her image in my head, and thought of her a lot during my working days. She, and her pretty face and sleek body, were the best part of a world I imagined for myself. A world where she and I would travel, and drink wine, and have all-consuming sex every night. Yet also a world where the next morning she'd rest her head on my chest before we rose for work and tell me her hopes and plans for the day, for herself and for us. Is that love? Probably not. I didn't even know her.

A month or two passed, and with it the last dregs of another Minneapolis winter. If you've not lived in the north, you cannot understand the excitement that comes with those first days of spring. The warmth you'd craved, the birds you'd forgotten, the grass you'd missed. These things and more, a hedonistic embrace of life's pleasures. And with it came her again. It's always startling when reality and fantasy collide, and by this time, she had grown to full fantasy proportions in my mind. At night I dreamed of her tight, naked body next to mine. I visualized her small breasts, how they would taste and feel. I pictured her pretty face as she rode on top of me into the night, my hands on her ass, my cock reaching deep inside her. These thoughts were nightly, often daily, companions.

So when I saw her walking out of a yoga studio one Saturday morning, I gasped. There she was, a little disheveled with strands of wispy blonde hair in her eyes. She was walking towards me on the sidewalk, oblivious to the role she played in my secret life. I watched her walk by. And then I followed her. I needed to know more about her. After ten or twelve blocks, she came to a nice old brick apartment building near the lakes. I watched as she said hello to her neighbors, a father and two little girls who greeted her with laughs and smiles. I pictured her coming home to our house, with me and our daughters greeting her as she came. I loved her at that moment with the purity one loves an ideal. She walked through the front door of her building, and disappeared.

What is it about another person that makes them our obsession? I don't know.

After that, my unrequited lust for this pale little vision continued, and grew. But life went on. I am a medical researcher, and my days at the lab passed as they always had. As for a social life, I had friends, and the occasional date. But I'd never really made a connection with anybody since moving to Minneapolis from Philadelphia four years earlier. Month followed month, and as I sat at my favorite coffee shop another lonely Sunday morning, I regretted my decision to come to this cold city. Life seemed to be passing me by.

It was about two weeks after this departure into self-pity that I saw her again. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a busy Monday morning, and I was in line at the coffee shop, trying to grab a fix before running into work. And she walked in, adorable and perfect, dressed in a tight gray skirt and black sweater. With her blonde hair, she was elegant. I smiled at her as she got in line behind me, and she smiled back. After I got my coffee, I dawdled a while, pretending to be consumed in finding the perfect ratio of cream to coffee. She came over. Normally, I could not have approached such a beautiful girl, but today, I decided, was different. As she stood next to me, I introduced myself. She said her name was Jennifer and that she worked for a financial services company downtown. I asked her if she'd have dinner with me some night. She said yes and gave me her business card.

It didn't take long for me to call her, and as I walked up to her apartment that night, my heart was in my throat. Never had I had such anticipation for a first date. In my mind, of course, it wasn't a first date. In my mind, we'd laughed and kissed a thousand times. Seconds after I rang her doorbell, there she was. Her blonde hair was a bit longer than when I'd first seen her, and it hung to the side of her face. She wore a black skirt and a funky little pullover that clung to her body. She looked like a beautiful athlete. And her face was darling. I could hardly speak, but mumbled something about the restaurant. Off we went.

Dinner was fun, but tense. I've never been good at chit-chat. But I could tell she was willing to overlook that, and by the time we arrived at the play I'd suggested, we were like old friends.

The play was a comedy set in an old theater, and the seats were close together. We had a drink as we waited for the lights to go down, and as we sat and talked, I felt her leg rest against mine. Part of me wanted to ravish her right there. But there was such a sweet innocence about her that I also wanted to take her home and protect her from the world.

After the play, I drove her home. She invited me in, and as I climbed the stairs, her perfect little ass was right in front of me. The house was dark, and she kept it that way, turning on only a small light in the kitchen as she made us some tea. As the water heated, we grew closer. She sat up on the counter and I drew up to her. She spread her legs and I came between them. I kissed her. She kissed me back. We kissed softly to start, but when she put her tongue deep into my mouth and rubbed her body against the bulge in my pants, I knew Jennifer was ready for more. As she led me to the couch, my head was dizzy.

I don't know if I'm weird for a guy, but I love foreplay. Kissing a woman's neck, gradually becoming bolder with my tongue and hands. To feel the mounting tension and excitement. To feel those things is to feel alive.

After an hour of this joy, I felt Jennifer grinding her pussy against my cock. When I realized my sweet little waif was humping my cock, a surge of lust took over. I started grinding my cock into her pretty little pussy. I lifted up her sweater to reveal a lacy black bra. It was so sexy against her pale skin. I almost didn't want to take it off. But I did, and when I put her nipple in my mouth, she told me I could do that all night.

It was exciting to learn just how badly my little angel wanted to be fucked. After her bra came her panties (what a perfect little pussy, pink with the softest blonde hair in God's creation.) Then my boxers. Is anything more exciting than those moments right before you fuck a new pussy? When you can feel her heat and wetness sliding against your cock?

I fucked Jennifer for hours. First on the couch, then in her bed, under her warm down comforter. To kiss that pale skin and to fuck her little dancer's body was heaven on earth. I'd never felt so live as I did with my cock inside her tight pussy. I never have again. After three fucks, we fell asleep, exhausted. Is there more to life than fucking Jennifer? At that moment, my answer would have been no. The whole universe was in between her legs, and my only purpose was to cum inside her. Sex clarifies and simplifies. No war. No politics. No responsibilities. No ambitions beyond cumming in her cunt.

The next morning I woke up to find her sweet little face between my legs, licking my cock. She licked and sucked, and as she did, I pumped my cock in and out of her little mouth. The contrast between my thick cock and her pretty face made the sex hotter. I pumped hard, but she liked it, and as soon as I came, she crawled up my body and kissed me hard and deep, returning to me my own cum with her tongue.

Over the next several months, Jennifer and I repeated our pleasure, but it was never the same. Eventually she starting dating other men. A guy from France. Another from India. Today I think she lives in Paris. I think about her a lot. And I miss her.