Pooner Diaries: Not Yet

[Birdboy 10482]

I was excited. Today is the day I was finally seeing her. This is an Occasion, with a capital O. One that called for just a little more trouble than usual. For you see, she's a classy lady. An educated and cultured woman. I know she enjoys the finer things. I know she would notice.

 

I slipped on a crisp white shirt, teased cufflinks into the cuffs. I reached into my closet and pulled out my fine soft-shouldered suit, the pride of my favorite Napoli tailor. It was a soft charcoal grey. I had joked that it was woven from the inner thigh fuzz of Italian virgins, it was so soft to the touch, the weave so fine. I pulled on my pants, wove a cordovan leather belt into the loops. I reached again into the back of my closet and pulled out a box with my oxblood monk strap shoes, burnished to a dull gleam. I shoehorned them on and buckled them closed. I carefully slipped the suit jacket off of its hanger and gingerly put it on. I looked at my selection of ties. Which one? I thought for a moment, then reached into a small drawer. A pocket square it is. I fussed over cramming it in my breast pocket. I smiled. It's funny how so much effort there is in looking casually careless.

 

I looked in the mirror. I'm looking good. I was dressed to kill. And I was going to knock her dead today.

 

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''-||''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''-

 

I fidgeted nervously with my cufflinks. It's almost time. Finally, there was a soft knock at the door. I opened it and she swept into the room. I bid her a polite greeting and took her coat.

 

I was finally face to face with her, under the hallway light. She stood before me at last. Or rather, towered over me, tall in her heels. She wore a gauzy white blouse, perfectly fitted. It was unbuttoned, just the top couple of buttons. The blouse would still be demure, except for the edges of a lacy bra just visible inside. A string of pearls trailed down and between her breasts. I knew her tight, just-above-knee length skirt would be concealing a lacy garter holding her dark stockings and black heels. Her long wavy brown hair was pinned up in a bun, and she peered coolly down at me through thick black plastic framed glasses. She opened an expensive looking purse, and took out a pen and a pad of paper.

 

She interrupted my silent grinning appreciation. "The agency sent me." She peered over her glasses at me, a half-smile at the corners of her mouth.

 

I was momentarily confused. I thought she was an independent? But before I could say anything, she stepped forward and put her hand on the front of my pants. She said breathily, "I'm ready to take dictation." And with that, her half smile became a smirk, and she opened my fly. She reached in, her smirk becoming a leer, and she knelt before me.

 

She looked up at me over her glasses and I felt the wet warmness as she took me in her mouth. I closed my eyes and took a long deep breath. She took me in, slow and deep. I could feel her hot breath on me. Time stood still at that moment, my world shrunk to her mouth on me. She was slow, she was sensual. But she soon picked up the pace, those slow wet, warm, deep thrusts becoming quicker and harder.

 

I was losing my composure. I had been planning to show her my gentlemanly side. But I could sense the hungry red-eyed monster in me starting to stir. I had only let a few ladies ever see that side of me. The red-eyed monster would want me to take her. And take her *now*.

 

I wasn't going to last long between those skilled lips. But the red-eyed monster had other plans for us. I opened my eyes and with a growl, I reached down and pulled her up. I pushed her back and lifted her onto the hallway table, where she landed with a thump. I hiked up her skirt and pushed her lacy black thong to one side and entered her with one deep thrust, pushing her back against the wall. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes as I began to thrust hard, thumping the table and her back against the wall, the sound echoing in that narrow hallway. One of her hair pins fell out, and her hair slowly uncoiled, one bounce at a time. Her glorious long chestnut hair fell in a cascade across her shoulders and fell over her breasts with a puff of clean fragrance.

 

Her purse fell off the table and feel to the floor with a thump, a lipstick rolling away. Her pad and paper were forgotten on the floor. But we barely noticed. Her hands gripped my shoulders and her legs wrapped around my waist, her heels linking together and drawing me in tighter. My thrusts sped up, her hips matching me stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust. Her glasses came astrew, and she clawed at them and brushed them off her face and onto the floor. She came hard, her body freezing, her chest thrust forward, her face twisted in an agonized grimace.

 

It was too much. I joined her leap off of the precipice and into the fiery abyss, my tiny spurts a feeble attempt to extinguish the flames of our passion.

 

I opened my eyes and caught my breath. Wow. This was not what quite I had expected, not that I was complaining. I thought she would be sweet, gentle, a master of the elegant art of seduction. With a start, I realized that she had probably thought the same about me.

 

Still breathing heavily, I reached down to pick her glasses off the floor. I held them to her with a smile. "I'm Birdboy. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

 

We both laughed at my formality. I gave her a warm hug, and kissed her dewy forehead. I reached down, and kissed her on the lips.

 

And there was my second revelation of the evening. We were both sweaty and her hair was still tousled, but time stood still when we kissed. Our tongues caressed and probed, tender slick embraces betraying our gentle natures. I broke the kiss, put my arm around her waist and led her to my bedroom without another word.

 

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''-||''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''-

 

We lay coiled together on the bed, a tangle of bare limbs and satiated flesh. We small talked, I about her visit to her city and she about her drive into town. We talked about our love for clothes, the weather, the boards.

 

She suddenly fell quiet. "Is something wrong?"

 

She hesitated. It was none of my business. I was about to change the subject when she said quietly, "It's my son."

 

Her son wasn't well. He was sick again, and this time it was bad. I could see the worry on her face, sense the tears about to start. I reached for a tissue and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes and apologized for her unprofessionalism. I smiled a crinkled Charlie Brown smile and kissed her again. "It's all right."

 

Our clothes lay scattered beside the bed. Those clothes were part of the persona we showed to the world, armor for the modern age, what we wanted the other to think we were. But we were naked now, skin to skin. The personas were gone. We were naked to each other in more than one sense now. I held her close, and listened on as she talked.

 

Her fancy, expensive looking handbag was in the hallway just outside the bedroom. But sometimes baggage can't be just be left behind. And sometimes the best soft shoulder is not on any handmade Italian suit, but is offered by a friend to cry on.

 

There is a line to be respected, in this business of ours. We're not supposed to care. She's not a friend, this intimate stranger, but I lent her my shoulder anyway.

 

I should say she's not a friend. Yet.