Never Mind The Face Pt. 03

Part 3 Single Person Ecstasy

Chapter 5. Unrequited Passion

I've never knowingly simply fucked a woman. I want to make love to her, to share mutual pleasures, and have a relationship that has the potential to grow.

It wasn't like that with Sylvia in the early days. I always felt that she was holding back. Her apparent inability to have orgasms coupled with her desire to give pleasure, left me feeling guilty of taking without giving in return. The fact that she would not explain why she could not be fulfilled compounded my difficulties. It was clear that she wanted a relationship of sorts with me even though it wasn't transparent between us.

It would have been simpler to refuse all further sexual contact, and find another woman with whom I could immerse myself in a meaningful relationship. The reason that I didn't was because Sylvia's body excited me, and she clearly wanted me. I no longer cared about her face. I even found it attractive at times, when she was relaxed away from the office, or aroused.

~*~*~

Sylvia didn't mention that encounter in the darkened office the following day or after. Nor did I. I was conscious of the risk of her raising a grievance against me and accusing me of improper conduct or worse. Such cases were rife in the 1980s.

My ex-wife had twisted facts to gain an advantage in our divorce, which had left me suspicious of women. I had not forgotten Sylvia's early animosity towards me when I first took up the post of Team Leader. I feared that her currently compliant attitude might change on a whim.

I had many sleepless nights, fantasising about sexual encounters with her in a variety of settings, each more improbable than the last. Sometimes, they would result in a happy conclusion, readily accomplished now that I lived as a single parent and slept alone. Other times, my mind would work overtime analysing Sylvia's apparently conflicting motives. She had an axe to grind about my 'undeserved' team, leadership, and about male chauvinists in general; yet she flirted with me at inopportune moments. She wasn't a typical feminist of the times.

Making another pass at her could spell professional suicide, or worse, a criminal record. Yet once we had made that initial breakthrough, she frequently teased me at work. It might be implied in a few chosen words, or a look, or a shift of her shoulders, but always it was a reminder of the potential power she could hold over me.

If I let her.

I encouraged her to use John more so that there was less scope for an escalation of the teasing. But I was becoming more susceptible, with Ellie's departure, my prolonged celibacy, and other short-lasting relationships outside the office.

Then one day, I received information of an investigation into a recent construction project. Sylvia was allocated the audit. She announced that she needed to consult some papers in the organisation's archive store. It was located in a former mower garage and workshop in a park on the edge of town. She asked me if I would go with her. John gave her a sharp glance, presuming that it should be his role, not mine.

She explained, "Simon will need to sign off on our investigation, so it would be simpler and time-saving if we examined the documents together."

I saw the logic in that, but my mind immediately leapt to potential pitfalls of erotic possibilities along the way. Sylvia's body language was alluring and I hadn't seen any sexual action in some time.

We had discussed meeting up at her flat, or my place. But she had an elderly neighbour who spied on all comings and goings. She suspected that Alfie had courted the woman as a spy. I lived at that time next door to a farm smallholder in an isolated location in the countryside. He was our self-elected neighbourhood watch scheme; and frankly, an utter busy-body.

I also had the care of William to consider. That ruled out evenings and half the weekends. So extra-curricular activities during the working day provided the most feasible scope for play. I had resisted them, up to this point.

~*~*~

The refurbished former motor mower garage was large, and spotless inside. It had two, large green wooden garage doors. It was neatly laid out inside with several rows of high racking stacked with boxes of files.

"Where exactly is the box?" I enquired.

Sylvia pointed to some wall shelves fixed above a long worktop.

"Don't worry, I'll get it down," she insisted.

That offer took me by surprise, even though she often sought to demonstrate her ability to cope without male assistance.

She was wearing her customary tight, below the knee skirt and striped blouse. I could not envisage her managing to raise a leg sufficiently to step onto a chair, yet alone clamber up onto that worktop.

I decided to stand my ground chivalrously. "That's not a job for a woman when there's a man around to do it."

That was the wrong approach to seek agreement.

She squared up to me, pushing out her compelling bust in its off-putting blouse. "I'm the equal of any man for such things. Why am I always battling against male prejudice?" That last comment was of course, rhetorical, and debatable, but the last thing I wanted was an accusation of male chauvinism. We both knew anyway that I was right. I swallowed any further objections. On her hips be it.

It was her choice to do it, despite the obvious, unavoidable compromise to the integrity of her clothing.

She positioned a chair in line with the box location and attempted to step up onto it. As expected, she couldn't raise a leg high enough, because of the constriction of her tight skirt.

"Here, let me..." I volunteered again.

She gave me a threatening look. The concept of female empowerment hadn't yet gained much traction in employment practices, but male chauvinism was frequently levelled at men seeking to act like gentlemen. Equally, though, women who flirted sometimes later accused male colleagues of sexual harassment for overstepping the mark in response. I was about to understand how a female who tested the boundaries could place a man in a no-win situation, even when her motive was far from equality.

She hitched up her skirt, which took some ungainly hip-twisting and limb manoeuvring, then clambered up onto the chair and from there onto the worktop. The bending of her hips had forced the hem of her skirt almost up to her waist. But upon reaching there she made no attempt to pull down her skirt again. And I was getting my first glimpse of a real-life thong on a lady's bottom.

You might think it absurd that I had allowed this. The truth was that I was keen to see more of her body and was content to play her game; but one in which I would never initiate the teasing. Thongs had only recently been made fashionable by singers such as Cher and Madonna, but were generally regarded by British fashion journalists as scandalous garments. The only place likely to sell them would be an erotic clothing retailer like Anne Summers, which had a store on London's Oxford Street. I learnt about that from the tabloid Press.

Several thoughts instantly sprang to mind. Sylvia had evidently planned this encounter, deliberately bought the sexy lingerie, and had intended to shock with her naughty exposure. Well, she was certainly achieving that.

The unexpected sight of her virtually bare bottom in that prosaic environment gave me an instant arousal. I was prepared then to throw caution to the wind if she offered opportunities for play.

"Whoah!" I exclaimed, voicing my pretend reaction to her exposure.

"It's OK," she said disingenuously, "'I'm quite safe up here."

If this scenario had been a drama, it would have been a perfect example of dramatic conceit: willing the audience into accepting that something improbable was in fact plausible. Sylvia was playing me like a stooge, who would buy into whatever trick she was playing. She knew my proclivities towards voyeurism. I had told her how infrequently my ex-wife had displayed her body to me, and how it had sometimes inhibited my libido. Subsequent girlfriends had been just as disappointing. Yet here, exhibitionism was apparently being handed to me on a plate. Sylvia, it seemed, was a woman in a million.

She was now playing on my weakness to stem any move on my part to discourage her. It was working.

I feasted my eyes on her shapely butt which was giving the impression of being nude, the rear strap having slipped between her compelling cheeks. Even when she bent forwards from the waist, and I could see her barely covered crotch, the scrap of fabric was so dampened by her moisture that it left little to the imagination in its transparency.

"Simon, are you listening?" My mind had floated off into the realms of fantasy, about ways that I could take full advantage of what was apparently being offered to me on a plate.

"I said I can't quite reach. Can you help me?"

Something in her tone forced me drag my eyes away from her bottom. She was looking down at me with a triumphal expression on her face.

Her next words sent a shudder coursing through my middle. They were explicit and delivered with a purr.

"What's the matter, haven't you seen a drenched pussy before?"

That was a very knowing comment.

"Er, how can I help?"

Forcing myself to maintain the conceit was proving to be a mental struggle.

"I need a boost up."

She was standing on tip toes in low-heeled court shoes. She was now apparently giving me carte blanche to 'assist' her however I chose. I cupped the undersides of her bottom cheeks and lifted them, to 'help' her stretch the final few inches, whilst keeping her balance. It wasn't really any help; just an excuse within our conceit to grope her bottom.

Her butt felt wonderfully taut and muscular. Its flesh bore no imperfections, and its shape was simply perfect. My sap was rising as our game progressed. My logical mind tried to focus on the absurdity of the situation, but my libido urged me to pull that thong strap out from between her cheeks, to release her bottom from its minimal constraint, and show me what her pussy looked like.

She interrupted my thoughts, pulling the box off the shelf,

"Ready? Hold my body steady."

Holding the box in her hands, she sank down onto her haunches. My upraised hands were stationary, sliding up her sides. Her ruched-up skirt pressed them tightly against her bare hips. Her skin felt warm and silky smooth.

She swivelled round to face me. I didn't want to remove my hands from her skin, but she had a practical demand to make.

"Take it! It's heavy!"

I extricated my hands sheepishly from under her skirt and took the box from her. I put it down further along the worktop, out of the way of any possibilities for follow up naughtiness.

When I straightened up she was squatting, facing me with her knees wide apart. The front of her thong consisted of a small white triangle attached to two hip straps. It was sodden with her lubrication and almost completely transparent. A triangular tip of dark pubic hair pointed vertically down towards two dark brown pussy wings splayed sideways by the material with a narrow vertical hint of a chasm atop her vaginal mouth.

We both waited for a first move from the other. I was content for the moment just to admire that pussy. She gave up waiting and straightened up. She stood with feet slightly apart, with her hands loosely at her sides, tempting me again.

Swallowing to lubricate my voice, I croaked, "Do you want to pull your clothes down now?"

It was a ridiculously redundant question. If she had wanted to, she would have done.

"I can pull it down if you insist."

I saw the ambiguity in her answer.

Her hands went to her waist. She gripped the hem of the skirt, then changed her mind. Her fingers went instead to the side straps of the thong. She tugged it down her hips to her knees. My eyes followed its descent, and stopped where it rested on her calves, held there under tension by her parted legs.

The sodden material and its inferences thrilled me. My eyes rose to look at the area now revealed by its removal. Her knees came together. The thong lost its traction and fell to her feet. My eyes followed its fall to the worktop. She raised one foot and tipped it forwards. Her shoe fell off, to be followed by that side of the thong. She repeated the move at the other shoe. I stare, stupefied, at her bare feet. My eyes rose up her bare legs, reached her bare thighs. I prayed that this was not a dream. They continued to rise to her crotch.

It was a beautiful, shaven pussy. Her neatly trimmed pubic hair stopped just above her vulva. Two brown labial flaps quivered, a sign of her trembling body and its arousal. Where the labia met at their apex, the small stump of her engorged clitoris peeked out from under its hood.

"I'm very wet," she said, in a low voice. Then, "Are you going to help me down?"

"Of course," I mumbled, confused at where she intended this game to end. I wasn't prepared to take the initiative and risk her later claiming rape.

"But it will get my pussy juice on your tie. You should take it off." There was that conceit technique again, begging me to tag along.

I obliged. She smiled, then nodded at my chest. I didn't need it spelling out. I unbuttoned my shirt and removed it. The air in the workshop was surprisingly warm on my bare chest and belly.

"That dark blue suit trouser material will show a trail like a slug's excrescence. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

I sighed as if unwilling, but divested myself of the rest of my clothes.

"Help me down, now."

She bent her knees, squatting with them spread obscenely. She placed her palms on my shoulders. Her wide-open crotch was at my chest height. I had visions of her sliding down my chest and belly, leaving an iridescent trail on my flesh, like a gastropod. Instinctively, I bent my head and licked her vulva, as if on a mission to clean her. She gasped with surprise and her upper body overbalanced backwards onto her palms. That opened up her pussy wider. A heady scent of woman, with hints of lavender soap, assailed my nostrils. I heard a gasp at the periphery of my tiny thigh-enwrapped world. I lapped on essence of Sylvia, and grasped my cock tightly to arrest its rampant throbbing.

After a couple of minutes she urged, breathily, "Stop, I want to come down."

I raised my head and stared at the inequality of her ruched skirt. She got the message. She stood up and turned away. She moved her fingers with deliberate slowness towards the rear of her skirt waist band. She undid the sole button, then tugged the hem of the skirt back down over her hips, shimmying them to encourage it to drop to its full extent. Her fingers found her zip pull tab and tugged it down gently. Underneath was the creased hem of her blouse. She retrieved her hands and raised her elbows sideways. She turned to face me. She unbuttoned her blouse with deliberate slowness.

My heart pumped so furiously that my vision blurred. I had never witnessed a private one-to-one striptease before. Another of my fantasy list items was underway.

She was staring down at me voraciously, her eyes sparkling with aroused intent. She showed a hint of cleavage then turned her back before she lifted her blouse out from the loosened skirt waist. She pointed her arms dramatically backwards. The blouse slid down her arms and fell to the edge of the worktop. She watched it lie there, undecided, before it slipped off the edge and down onto the tiled floor.

That revealed a shapely, finely furrowed back, framed by broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and flared hips. She paused, giving me time to admire each newly revealed part of her body. Our eyes connected, her signal to unclasp her bra backstrap. The tensioned side straps came apart with a snap. Looking back at me over her shoulder, she slipped each shoulder strap in turn down her arms to her elbows.

Then she turned to face me, with another triumphal smile on her face. Her palms held the loosened garment against her breasts. She swung her shoulders gently and rotated her hips sensuously. She pushed back her shoulders and thrust out her chest, letting the bra fall away to reveal those sumptuous breasts. They bounced just enough to hint at the strength of the muscles that held them to their relatively firm, slightly pear drop shape.

They were magnificent. I had seen many different busts in glamour magazines admittedly all concealed behind bras, but few were as captivatingly shaped as Sylvia's. They stood out from her chest as two heavy globes with sufficient width to meet in a natural cleavage and overhang her armpits at the sides. Their sheer presence had been underplayed by her awful candy-striped blouses. They were now revealed as true masterpieces of feminine natural design.

She turned her back again and wiggled her still-clad hips knowingly at me. She shook her shoulders to tease me with hints of her side boobs. Her performance was confident and obviously rehearsed. I knew instinctively at that moment that she must habitually stand in front of a mirror at home, studying herself doing things like that; perhaps a rehearsal for a display in front of a man worth his salt? It certainly wouldn't have been for Alfie's benefit.

She turned sideways and pushed out her chest, clasping her hands behind her back at her bottom. She wanted me to admire her breasts in profile, the brown areolae and her prominent nipples. It was as if she knew her best angles and was intent on showing them to me.

She faced the front and knelt down, pulling her skirt free from her under knees. I knew instinctively that she wanted me to play with those nipples. Sylvia was offering her body to me, and positively revelling in my delighted reaction.

I sucked on those nipples with relish, cupping her breasts in my upturned palms, then caressing their sides. Their heaviness sent thrills chasing around my chest and belly. She tossed back her head and groaned with pleasure. I thought at that moment that she must be my perfect woman. Never mind the face...

My head was swimming with arousal, in a kind of erotic delirium. I was getting light-headed, but I was in no haste to progress to the final stage - of penetration.

She stood up at last and pushed her skirt down her legs. She was naked. I straightened up and stepped backwards to admire the whole of her body.

"Sylvia, are absolutely stunning. You conceal it well despite your tight office outfits."

She giggled. "It's so utterly arousing to have such an appreciative audience. Help me down and ravish me." How often had she rehearsed that line in her fantasies?

I moved to the edge of the worktop. She leant forwards and placed her hands on my shoulders. I reached up under her arms and took the weight of her body. She slid down my front with parted legs, her sodden crotch scraping against my chest. It reached the horizontal obstruction of my stiffened cock as her tiptoes made contact with the floor. Our game had reached its final stage.

She clamped my cock between her upper thighs, giving it a tight squeeze and exhaling with a prolonged "Aaaaaaghhh." Then she relaxed, hugged me and pressed her groin hard against mine. I felt the pulse on the upper side of my shaft, throbbing with passion. Our bodies were on fire. I grasped my cock and placed it at the opening to her vagina.

"No, not like that."

She turned her body away and leant over the worktop, offering me her rear. I had done it once, doggystyle, to my wife, but she hadn't like it. She had said that she preferred it missionary style.

"Can you come like that?" I asked.

"No," she mumbled thickly, "bring yourself. I can't come."

My fantasy fell apart. I could not imagine taking my pleasure without reciprocating.