"If you think I'm sexy and you want my body," I sing to the staccato of the water pulsating from the shower nozzle. I soap up my armpits then finish the line to my favorite Rod Steward Song as I scrape the stubble of hair with a pink razor, "Baby let me know."
I continue to hum the tune as I rinse the remnants of suds from my pits and lather up my 38 DD breasts. I enjoy the tingling sensation of the water spraying against my breasts. I imagine the feeling is being created by the hands of my lover. I shake my head side-to-side and say to myself, "Knock it off, Ellen, you have to get ready for work."
My fingers trail down my torso sending a warm thrill through my tummy. I lather up my pussy. With delicate moves I use the razor to fashion my bush into a desirable landing strip. Not that I have anyone to desire me at the moment. My lovers have all been imaginary since my husband left me eighteen months ago right after our son graduated from high school.
Lifting the shower nozzle from its cradle on the shower wall I spread my legs and let the water reach up to the insides of my thighs. The warm water causes me to sigh as I swish the nozzle back and forth rinsing the soap and cut hair from my pussy. I gasp as the pulsating jets of water make subtle contact with my clitoris.
With a slight shudder I gush, "That feels so-o-o good." I scold myself knowing I'm too far gone to stop now. "My gosh, Ellen, you're a 42-year old woman. You shouldn't masturbate so much."
I slow the water flow with a push of a button on the hand-held nozzle then drop to a squat in the shower. I've found that when I'm nearing climax my legs tend to weaken, and I don't want an unnecessary trip to the emergency room because I accidentally fell while playing with myself in the shower. I hold the nozzle head in such a way as to send a steady stream of water upward against my eager slit.
My nipples stand at rigid attention in the center on my pink half-dollar size areolas. I hiss with delight as I tug on them. I hold out as long as I can but sooner than I want, I have to increase the water flow to the pulsating jets. The surging water buffets my clit and my orgasm builds. I feel my face flush crimson as a current of pleasure rushes from my cunt to my core. Soon, I'm writhing all over the shower in ecstasy. It's like sitting on the face of a man with a vibrating tongue.
With at tight clench of my buttocks I explode with orgasmic delight. My climax has reached its crescendo, blood pounds in my ears and white light races across my closed eyes. I plunge into the abyss of pleasure and howl my release, "Oh, ooh, oooh."
As my climax subsides I slide down on my knees like I'm praying. I take a couple of deep breathes to clear my head then rise on unsteady legs. My fingers tremble as I turn the water off and grab a towel. I step out of the shower and quickly pat myself dry. My body is satiated and calm so I say out loud, "That was wonderful."
Yet, I know it's a lie. It's not so wonderful. In fact, it's downright terrible to have no one to share the pleasures of sex. I continue to dry myself off and fight back the wave of loneliness that always washes over me post-masturbation. I never think of or dream of anyone in particular when I masturbate. I don't need to, my toys or in this case the shower nozzle, are the tools I use to get the job done. I focus so hard on the process, the sped and position of the vibrator, that putting a face to the act would be too distracting. I accept it for what it is...self-pleasure.
I snap myself from my reverie by telling my reflection in the bathroom mirror, "Better get a move on girlfriend, you're going to be late."
Wiggling my plump rump into a red pair of satin panties I snap the waistband around my 34-inch waist with loud pop. Smiling I shyly slide my forefinger my and down my satin covered slit. My pussy gushes with anticipation. I mutter a forlorn whisper, "I need a hard cock and man attached to it."
Sighing I slip the matching red bra up my arms and work my Double-D's into the reinforced cups before snapping the clasp between my breasts. I hastily pull my shoulder length hair into a business-like bun. I grin at my reflection happy that the natural blonde color hides the gray so well.
I apply my make-up. First, I take concealer one tone lighter than my skin tone and dab into my crow's feet. I let it set for minute before I put on foundation. Then I opt for a thick winged eyeliner that goes gradually from thin to thick starting from the inner corner towards the outer corner of my eyes staying as close to the eyelashes as I can.
Once I'm done with my eyes I start on my lips. I want vampy red lips so I layer different hues. I blot to blend in the colors from the deep rich red-plum hues of the edge of my lips to the red-pink pigments of the center of my lips. Achieving the vampy red result I cry out, "Voila."
I smile at my reflection once the tasks are complete. I rest my hand on my large 46-inch hip and pop it up and down seductively, pleased with my appearance and my curves. I'm a big, beautiful woman that measures 38DD-34-46. My red bra and panties match my lipstick perfectly. The mischievous twinkle in my blue eyes dulls with sadness as I recall there is no one to ogle my lingerie or my curves.
I go into my bedroom and wrestle a pair of black tights up legs. Then I wrap a red, long sleeve, size 16 sweater-dress onto my five foot eight inch frame. Quickly I clasp the big black buttons down its front and smooth out an errant wrinkle. On the way out the door I hurriedly zip --up black knee-high boots with four inch heels.
Unsurprising the lobby of the 31-story Boatman's Bank Building where I work in downtown St. Louis is still decorated with Christmas trees even though the holiday has past. I'm glad it's just a few days until the New Year. Then the decorations, a cheerful reminder that I spent Christmas alone, will come down. I meld into the crowd in the lobby as employees hurry on their way to various jobs within the bank chain headquarters.
I put a little more sway into my hip as I sashay into the elevator hoping to catch the eye of any available male in the crowded conveyance. I feel someone lean into my backside and sense the unmistakable feeling of a cock pressing against my bounteous bottom. I catch a whiff of cheap cologne and frown with disappointment. Turning my head slightly I catch a glimpse of a pronounced widow's peak. My suspicion is confirmed it's Walter Talley, an account manager who works on my floor.
He's subtly hit on me several times since I've been working for Boatman's Bank. He has a skill for pushing against the boundaries of sexual harassment without crossing them. Just like now the crowded elevator gives his tawdry thrill snatching plausible deniability. He smiles at me like a kid with his hand caught in a cookie jar, "Good morning Ellen. Did you have a nice Christmas?"
"Not really, Mr. Talley, I spent it alone." I sigh, feeling like I need another shower but decorum demands that I be pleasant, "My daughter went to her father's and my son is deployed at sea with the Navy."
The elevator pauses and deposits riders on the next floor. I shuffle swiftly into the void. Thankful to put space between my derrière and Mr. Talley's stiffening prick.
He frowns as he slides his briefcase in front of his crotch to hide his hard-on. He shifts his gaze to my breasts and says congenially, "Too bad, I'm sorry to hear that, do you have big plans for New Year's Eve?"
"No sir, Mr. Talley..."
He interrupts, "Please call me Walter, there's no need to be so formal. I want to be friends."
I flash him a sweet smile and continue, "No plans, Mr. Talley. What about you do you and your wife have big plans?"
His frown deepens and I'm not sure if it's because he's caught my slight or because of the mention of his wife. The corners of his mouth turn upward into a sudden smile as he reminds me that he has a social life and I don't, "Why yes we do. We're going to the big New Year's Party at the Staler Hotel. Perhaps you can find a date and we'll see you there."
Before I could respond the elevator door opens and Mr. Talley leaves. I stamp my foot in frustration and silently vow I will not spend New Year's Eve alone. I step out of the elevator before the door closes.
I go behind a raised counter right across from the elevator. I'm the receptionist for the upper management types that populate the executive floor. I don't have the computer skills to be a secretary but my mature outgoing personality makes it possible for me to be a receptionist. So I spend most of my time and very little of my IQ answering the phone and directing calls to the various executives on the floor.
Between calls I read the newspaper, today an article in the lifestyle section catches my eye. It's entitled "Today's Dating Do's and Don'ts." I chuckle at the advice and add my own commentary to it; "DON'T look for perfection" (you'll be sorely disappointed). And, "DO expect to meet men in unexpected places" (like when they accidently walk into the ladies room). Followed by, "DON'T assume that somebody's not interested in you" (Even if you have a shelf-butt, some guys dig big booties). "DO be confident and make the first move." (it is the 21st century after all). "DON'T worry about his age—or yours." I have no witty response to that little snippet. I have never considered dating a younger man before and suddenly I wonder if I can.
At mid-morning the ding of the elevator makes me look up. A cute young man in his late twenties, wearing a blue pullover sweater and brown corduroy slacks exits the elevator. I smile at him as he approaches my station. I notice he's carrying a canvas bag shaped more like a tool box than a briefcase. I've seen him around the building several times since starting at Boatman's. I recall he's a troubleshooter from IT.
His brown hair is approximately shoulder length. It appears that he does not part it at all, choosing instead to simply comb it back and to the right. However, even this is not a truly accurate description because I'm not sure he does that much to his hair. It is a natural messy curly hairstyle.
In addition, the facial hair he sports is scraggy. He has a thin mustache coupled with a beard that starts out as sideburns and remains thin until it reaches his jaw line then gets thicker just below his chin. There is very little connection between the mustache and beard as the mustache tapers down to nothing as it goes toward the beard. Considering his age, his facial hair appears to be the result of not having had shaved for about a week.
He stops in front of my counter and looks into my eyes before he greets me with a shy smile, "Ump...Hello...I'm here...to fix Mr. Talley's..."
"I know his computer keeps locking up. He's called me twice asking if the guy from IT has arrived yet," I say with a smile, noticing that the young man doesn't shift his gaze to my large breasts like most men do when they talk to me. Picking up the phone receiver I ask, "Who shall I say is here to fix it?"
"Uhh...I'm...uhh...Martin...Marty Ritter from IT."
I hold my forefinger and speak into the phone, "Yes, Laqueta there's a Mr. Ritter from IT to see Mr. Talley."
Hanging up the phone I point down the hall, "Office 2215, just around the corner."
"Thanks," he mumbles and turns to go.
"Marty, it was nice to meet you. I'm Ellen, Ellen Harlow by the way."
He turns back around with a timid smile and mutters, "Thanks, Ellen."
The ringing telephone on my desk terminates further conversation. When I answer the phone my voice lifts an octave betraying my elation. Looking down the hall I feel surprise at my disappointment, Marty's already out of sight. A warm sensation I haven't felt in a while begins deep in my tummy and radiates towards my cunt. I quickly cross my legs as my pussy dampens.
A chaotic battle of wits erupts in my mind. He's so cute and has the most luscious brown eyes. Why a woman could get lost in those eyes, you should get to know him, my romantic side gushes. Yes, he's cute but he looks so scruffy with that facial hair and that messy hairstyle. Besides I bet he's half your age, not much older than your son, you should leave him alone my more realistic side scolds.
At lunch time one of the executive secretaries spells me at my station so I can go to lunch. They rotate the duty and none of them seem to mind since they only have to do it about twice a month. Today it just happens to be Mr. Talley's secretary, Laqueta Jones.
I greet the eye catching bubble-butted black woman wearing a lavender dress as she approaches, "How's it going Laqueta? Nice dress."
I wonder if Mr. Talley has ever hit on her. I doubt it, he's too smart to crap where he eats. I smile and ask, "Did Mr. Talley get his computer fixed?"
Laqueta shakes her head and says, "Come on girl, you know Marty, the IT guy, is still in there. It seems Mr. Talley's computer is infected with some malware. Marty is trying to isolate it before it infects the entire bank's computer system. Mr. Talley is so pissed, he keeps yelling at Marty like it's his fault. I almost feel sorry for the little pervert."
"Pervert? What do you mean Laqueta?"
Mr. Talley stomps by the counter on the way to the elevator just as Laqueta sits down in my chair and before she can answer my question. He mumbles under his breath as he stabs the elevator button then louder he seethes, "I'm taking the rest of the day off. When Ellen returns from lunch take the rest of the day off too, Laqueta. It seems that idiot from IT won't have the problem fixed until later today. We'll have to work late tomorrow to make up for lost time."
The elevator door opens with a ding and the angry Mr. Talley departs the floor. I look across the counter to Laqueta and grin, "Well, aren't you special?"
"Yeah, lucky me," Laqueta smirks back at me then picks our conversation back up, "Honey, I think you ought to avoid Mr. Martin Ritter..."
I interrupt, "How come? Is he married? Is he gay?"
Shaking her head Laqueta laughs, "I know he's not married and he's definitely not gay. You saw the way that boy dresses and his hair. You know gay guys have a lot more fashion sense."
"Thank goodness," I sigh.
Laqueta hears the relief in my voice and adds, "Are you actually attracted to him? He's kind of young for you."
Chasten, I cast my eyes down at the countertop and confess, "He's so cute and I'm so lonely."
Laqueta grimaces, "Sorry, it's none of my business. But you ought to know I have some history with Marty Ritter. Not long after he started working here I caught him staring at me in the cafeteria..."
"What do you mean, staring?" I interrupt.
"You know staring, gawking at you like you don't have any clothes on. I turned the little pervert in to HR but nothing came of it. The investigation claimed it was perfectly innocent on account he has some kind of phobia. But he still freaks me out, I won't be alone with him."
We hear foot falls in the hall and Marty appears before the counter. We watch him as he puts his bag down and places a piece of computer hardware on the counter and explains, "Ump, will you tell Mr. Talley, ump, his hard-drive is totally corrupted. I couldn't...."
"Slow down," barks Laqueta as she struggles to write down the message.
Marty jumps startled by the interruption. He mumbles, "Sorry."
I pat his arm to ease his discomfort and feel it tremble beneath my touch. I say to him, "She didn't mean to sound so harsh, finish what you were saying."
Marty nods at me with a shy smile. He loses his stutter as he confidently explains, "I'll have to replace the hard-drive and reconfigure his computer. I was able to save the majority of his data but not all of it. Most of his emails will be saved on the network server, so when he logs back into the system they will be there."
"Do you have any idea how Mr. Talley got this virus on his computer?" asked Laqueta, knowing that her boss would want that information.
"It's a Trojan horse virus that did a drive-by down load. It was probably picked up from a porn sight."
"What's a Trojan Horse?" I ask.
Marty's smile is infectious and I can't help but smile back at him. He explains, "A Trojan is a malicious application that masquerades as a legitimate file."
With a sneer Laqueta voices her irritation, "Are you saying that Mr. Talley was surfing pornographic web sites?"
"Probably," replied Marty with self-assurance "It's the only way to get this particular Trojan. Mr. Talley had to open a pop-up window with some sort of innocuous advertisement attached to it. He clicked on the window in the mistaken belief that he was dismissing the advertisement and what he actually did was start the malicious software download."
"That's what you mean by drive-by download," I interject with giddy excitement.
"Exactly," smiles Marty.
Contemplating the implications I ask, "And, you know for sure this Trojan came from a porn site?"
"Sure do," Marty turned to me. "It's a real nasty one too, from Lithuanian."
"And how do you know this malware came from that porn site?" asked Laqueta with raised eyebrows.
Marty doesn't catch the accusation dripping in Laqueta's voice and simply answers, "It was all over the tech blogs last week. I read about it."
"I just bet you did," Laqueta smirks.
After answering our questions, Marty looks at me then at Laqueta unsure of how to disengage the conversion, "Ump, I got to go now, okay?"
Laqueta shrugs, "Sure, Marty."
I quickly follow Marty into the elevator and step into it with him. I say to him, "Second floor please, I'm going to the cafeteria. Are you eating lunch?"
His mop of messy hair flies with the negative shake of his head. He pushes the button and adds, "No, I need to locate a replacement hard-drive for Mr. Talley then get it installed."
Awkward silence fills the elevator. I catch Marty glancing at me and smile. I stifle a giggle as he turns red and quickly drops his gaze to the floor. There is an air of attraction between us despite our age difference. My nipples harden with sexual inspiration and my pussy dampens with anticipation. With a sudden surge of audacity I ask with a slight quiver in my voice, "Maybe, you'd like to get a drink with me after work?"
The unexpected chatter makes Marty jump but he continues to study a spot on the floor as he stutters his reply, "Uh, I'm not much of a, ump, drinker. I usually, ump, swim at the YMCA, ump, after work. But, uh thanks anyway."
The elevator door opens and I step out with disappoint . I still manage to say, "It was nice meeting you Marty. I hope to see you again real soon."
After lunch I take the opportunity to talk to an acquaintance in Human Resources. She confirms only what she legally can about Marty, like he's twenty-seven years old and has worked for Boatman's since he graduated from Illinois Technical College, and he is unmarried.
"Why the sudden interest in Martin Ritter?" she asks.
"He was on my floor this morning and Laqueta Jones told me about..."
"That explains it, Ellen, if Marty made you uncomfortable, I can assure you it was perfectly innocent. He doesn't mean to leer. As I explained to Laqueta following my investigation of her complaint, Marty suffers from chronic shyness with a possible phobia called love-shyness. His staring can't be considered sexual harassment. He's just trying to work up his courage to speak to the opposite sex."
"Love-shyness I've never heard of such a thing."
My friend explains, "According to psychologists, love-shy people find it difficult to be assertive in situations involving potential romantic partners. For example, a love-shy man will have trouble initiating a conversation with a woman because of strong feelings of anxiety."