Roger the BankerbyBuckyDuckman©
Author's Note: Here's a short little vignette about a woman trying to relax after a stressful day. It's barely 1500+ words. I hope you approve.
Ivy pulled back the fluffy comforter from her bed before sprawling out on her freshly washed sheets. She propped up her pile of pillows. The pillowcases still carried the flowery scent of fabric softener. She inhaled deeply before picking up her e-reader and beginning the first trashy story. No one would mistake stories like these as high art, literature or even romance. This particular e-book was filled with short erotic stories designed for one thing: arousal. Always a fast reader, she was deep into the third story about impossibly hung men fucking tight, tawdry pussies before she felt the first stirrings of passion. She took a deep breath, filled her lungs with the artificial scent of lavender and relaxed into moment.
Chasing away her day was the most difficult part. Pieces of stress from work menaced her from the edges of her consciousness. She ignored her bastard boss lingering just out of sight and waiting to spoil her mood as she teased her breasts. In the story before her the heroine was enjoying the biting pinch of her lover pulling and twisting on extended nipples. That wasn't how Ivy enjoyed it. She preferred gentle caresses. It felt best when the man would rake his open palm over and around the very tips of her nipples as lightly as he could. She liked it best when his caress was softer than a whisper, barely there, more like silk being pulled across the sensitive flesh of her nipple tips. In a way, the story's description was distracting as its author went on and on about the man tugging, pulling and twisting those sensitive points of early arousal.
What the fuck? You know? Ivy angrily thought. It can't possibly feel that good. On a whim, she tried it. She gripped her left nipple while pulling and twisting at the same time. As she expected, she felt the sharp pain the author described. What she didn't expect was the sudden ache between her legs. In a shocked, hushed whisper she expressed her surprise to her e-reader, "Oh my God!" That wasn't supposed to feel good, not to her soft and sensitive body. Ivy liked her sex soft and gentle with a man and when she was doing it herself. "Well fuck," she giggled and gave her opposite nipple the same painful combination of pulling, twisting and pinching. Once more, she winced before feeling that crazy ache between her legs. Did that mean she liked it? No way! She rubbed away the sting and that felt good, too.
Ivy sighed as she felt the memory of her shitty boss and equally shitty day slipping farther away. The void was filled with the more pleasant thoughts that she might one day find a man as well-toned and eager as the men in these stories. She kept her eyes on the digital page as she sensed Roger stepping forward and standing just out of sight. Roger-the-Banker, who sat behind his customer service desk, sometimes on the phone and sometimes not, who always seemed to catch her eye as she pushed through the double-hung glass doors. Roger-the-Banker always offered her a warm smile as she walked a deposit up to the stand of tellers. They had never spoken. They existed for each other as pleasant smiles. But he always had a smile for her on her way to the tellers and back from it. As if he was looking at her from the moment she walked into the bank and until the moment she left. Did his eyes track her entire route? Did he sit behind his desk and stare at her backside? Ivy often thought about turning around quickly enough to catch him. She didn't. She didn't dare. What if he was looking? What if he was staring? What if Roger took advantage of his desk's placement to ogle her?
Ivy swiped to the next story, barely remembering how the couple in the last story had made love. She remembered it was hard, intense and reported as mind-blowingly perfect for both people. It was everything a fantasy should be. She started the new story and was glad the author didn't linger over extended descriptions of person or place. She was ready for more, for the hot stuff, for the hardcore fucking and not the silly dialog or tension building of who was whom and why they were doing it in the first place. Men had movies and pictures. Women had hot descriptions that didn't need a set-up after a certain point.
Roger was going down her. No, that's not right. The guy in the story was named Greg or Jeff or something, wasn't he? Ivy scrolled back and found the name the author wanted to use: Geoffrey. Yes, that's better. Geoffrey was going down on . . . She scrolled back again: Madison. Okay, good. And Geoffrey had a big, hard cock. Geoffrey's cock was as big and hard and needful as the hard cock Roger kept hidden beneath his desk as Ivy sashayed past him every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Ivy ran the tip of her finger across her panties. Why was it possible for a person to masturbate and not possible for a person to tickle themselves? If she did it with a light enough touch it almost tickled. It almost felt as if someone else was lightly raking their fingertips over her panties and asking for more. That sensation alone was reason enough for keeping her pubic hair shaved. It was a sensation that wouldn't last long before her body caught up the lie but it helped. She felt her clit aching and knew she was in the safe zone. She slipped her finger inside her panties, touched between her lips and felt her warmth and wetness. Yes, she was safe. The fun had begun. She shimmied out of her panties.
Last night she had had the dream again. She was walking into the bank, carrying the blue zipper bag that held a weekend's worth of checks and a deposit slip. She first felt the blast of the bank's air conditioning before she realized she was naked. Roger looked up from his desk and gave her that same, warm and welcoming smile he always gave her. If he noticed her nudeness, it didn't show. As if on a convey belt or one of those moving sidewalks at the airport, Ivy felt herself slipping past Roger and towards the row of tellers as she blushed deeply because of her nakedness. She felt Roger's eyes like lasers on her bare ass. In her mind's eye -- wait, it was a dream, wasn't everything in her mind's eye? -- she imagined Roger sitting behind his desk without pants. He was staring at her naked ass and jerking off. He was caressing a prick as big as any erotic story's description. He was stroking his cock, milking it because of her and she could see it happening even as she faced the faceless teller.
. . .Geoffrey replaced his tongue with his ramrod hard nine inches of steel. . . God how Ivy hated slopping writing like that. She understood what the author meant. Geoffrey's tongue and cock hadn't traded places. He wasn't now holding his cock in his mouth as he fucked her pussy. No, Geoffrey had moved, though the author hadn't thought it was important to mention it. He had repositioned his body until he was on top of her and then he had mounted her. Ivy slipped a finger inside her pussy. The penetration of a single digit couldn't fill her in the ways described in the story. Ivy did not feel ". . .split a sundered." She didn't feel cleaved or divided to her very depths. She did, however, feel wet, hot and slippery. That was good, too. She wiggled her finger inside her pussy before moving back to her clitoris for the more important attention.
She read and felt cheated by the author's description of the woman's orgasm. While the man came in seemingly gallons, the woman merely arched her back and came, too. Where was the description about how the woman's nipples ached? Or how her body contracted and how her pussy clenched down and around Roger's firm, hard cock, gripping and grabbing at the hot intrusion as waves of pleasure surged through her?
She caught the exchange her mind had made as she set aside her e-reader. Ivy wanted both hands as she offered her body the bliss waiting for it. She used two fingers inside her pussy and distantly acknowledged the wet, smacking sound those two fingers made as her fingers worked like pistons in and out of her pussy. That was a sex sound and when she inhaled deeply her lungs filled with aroma of her passion. Her sheets no longer felt cool against her hot and fevered flesh. Her nipples ached and she ignored them because she needed both hands between her legs. Beneath the palm of her left hand fit the middle finger of her right hand. That was the finger dancing around her clitoris as she fingered her pussy. She thought of Roger. She thought about him stroking his hard cock as she walked past. She thought of him longing as much for her as she did for him. She imagined feeling filled, sated and complete as she wrapped her legs around his back and welcomed his orgasm. And she came as she imagined him filling her with his gallons of erupting cum.