It was 1994, and the young man was “in a state,” as they say, with no girlfriend and no access to pornography. So he decided to write his own fantasy.
Herein illustrates the problem of writing erotica for yourself when you’re too young or too…impatient.
My cheeks are burning as she talks. We are alone at the office, and she is talking about some recent powerplay: one of our co-workers is grabbing for the recently-vacated manager’s position. I am barely listening, just enough to throw in an occasional comment. It is time for both of us to go home, but I just want her to continue talking, not for what she says, but because when she gestures with her hands her breasts jiggle a little. She is wearing a white cotton knit blouse and jeans. The blouse is loose, and I keep willing her to position herself in the chair in such a way that it tightens, so I can see the outline of her breasts when she moves. I can see through the blouse where her bra scoops down and supports her breasts. She has the nicest breasts I have ever hoped to see.
As I am sitting there, I notice her bra strap uncovered on one shoulder. A burning sensation fills my legs and move up my abdomen to my cheeks again. I cannot stand this.
I get up from my chair. She is a little upset about the recent turn of events, because she had wanted the manager’s job and feels she will not get it now. I commiserate in low, understanding tones, and walk behind her. I have never touched Kim before, at least not on purpose. There have been the little brushes against her hand while showing her something on the computer, and she has an excruciating habit of leaning against my chair while I am sitting there, her hip just touching my side, so that if I were to turn my head toward her I’d be facing those wondrous breasts. But now I want to touch her for real.
My heart is pounding as I reach for her shoulders and begin massaging.
“You really are taking this thing pretty seriously, huh?” I said, digging my thumbs in and kneading the tight spots. By asking her a question I hoped to draw attention away from the fact that I had just stepped over a boundary. I do not want to scare her off. She talks more about it, though, as if nothing has happened. Her voice dropps ever so slightly as I continue to massage. After a moment she pauses. There is a silence.
“Mmmm. You’ve got good thumbs. Where’d you learn to massage like that?” she asked. By the way she says it I know she has closed her eyes.
I make a non-commital reply and continue. As I massage, I occasionally squeeze her shoulders together from the sides. When I do this, the front of her blouse opens in an inverted “U” shape, and I look inside. I see the tops of her breasts descend into the thin material of her bra. I can see one of her nipples through her bra. I am looking at the lace top of her bra, where it touches her skin. I am imagining my fingers reaching under the fabric, ever so slowly, her breast filling my palm. I’m imagining how my fingers reach her nipple, then my hand cups her from underneath, just holding the gentle weight of her breast.
As my imagination runs wild, I notice how hard my cock has become. I press myself against the back of the chair, and continue to dig into her shoulders, now working directly on her skin, dipping my thumbs beneath the straps, sliding as far down her back as I can manage, working my fingers over the tops of her shoulders to the front. I can’t believe I am doing this. Kim is very quiet now.
I work my fingers down the front of her chest in the tiniest increments, waiting for some sign of protest or of assent. I am not far down when she emits a little moan and a sigh, ever so slight. I move my fingers further, still massaging. I just brush the top of her bra with my fingertip. My heart is going like mad.
I then do the unthinkable. I lean down and kiss the downy part of the back of her neck. She doesn’t move.
I kiss her left shoulder, where it dips away from her neck. She exhales audibly. I kiss the left side of her neck, and she tilts her head up to allow me in there.
I come in my pants. Then the cleaning people open the door. I move back to my desk.
“Well, see you tomorrow,” I say, picking up my briefcase and walking, unsteadily, out the door.
“Bye,” she says.