By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2001 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

Joe glanced at his watch.  3:45 … almost time for the game.  How ironic, after planning his whole day around watching Pete Sampras hopefully slam his way to yet another title, all he could think about were tits, her tits.  All he could do was want her … want them.  And he didn’t even know her name.

On his way home from the Mall, he’d stopped at the supermarket to pick up a few things and there she was, loitering in the corner of his mind, her mountainous breasts straining against the fabric of her tight cream turtleneck, her seductive smile mocking his tingling cock.  Once home, he’d tidied his apartment, done his laundry while she, like a haunting melody, refused to leave his consciousness, even for a moment.  Her succulent chocolate brown breasts filled his mind’s eye, seducing him.  Filled his heart with longing and his cock with a desire so urgent that it wanted to explode.

Sighing, Joe cracked open a beer and was moving toward the television when the phone rang.

What now …

He let the service pick up.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Browning.  Libby Crawford here.  I was back at the store when your sneakers came in.  They’re here with me.  Down on the Waterfront.  If you want to pick them up, give me a call … 222-624-7792.  Bye for now.”

Joe listened to the message three times before jumping into the shower.  He needed to order his thoughts, quiet his nerves and a screaming hard-on that was growling, oozing its way toward a final hurrah.  He washed quickly, lingering only long enough over his soapy, semi-erect dick to marvel at the depth of the erotic pleasure each loving stroke discharged throughout the rest of his body.

Five minutes later, dressed in jeans and his favorite T-shirt, blue like the color of his eyes, Joe stood staring at the telephone.

That shower really did the trick …

His hands trembled, his mind was a circus and his cock was harder than it had been all day.

He dialed.

Hello, Ms. Crawford. it’s Joe Browning … Okay, Libby it is … Thanks, I got it.  25 The Pier, Penthouse Suite I can come right now …Okay, see you soon …

The drive over, the elevator up to the 54^th floor and now the walk down the hall were the shortest and longest rides he’d ever taken.  Real-time had deserted Joe Browning, contorting itself into a warp of confusion that was short in anticipation, but long in anxiety.  Short in the fact that he was simply picking up shoes and long in the possibilities that had swirled and over-grown in his mind since the moment he’d first seen her.

But now was here and so he knocked and she opened the door instantly.

“Welcome, Joe Browning.”

Libby was wearing a soft white caftan that draped the curves of her slim body and accented the warmth of her tan toned skin.  Its scooped neckline exposed a forever expanse of glowing flesh that pulsed with primitive promise.  Joe struggled valiantly to maintain contact with her laughing brown eyes that looked at…into…and through him.  Joe was defenseless and in one stunning moment of clarity, he knew the truth: That whatever was to go on here today was entirely up to her.

“Hi,” Joe said, his voice trembling.

“I think I make you nervous.”  She chuckled and just as she had done in the store, began caressing her chest.

Joe’s eyes followed the motion of her hands.  He could see the outline of a lacy bra, an endlessly flowing river of cleavage and nipples that were long and hard.  Joe’s mouth ran dry and then wet with longing.  His balls were on fire.  And between them, sparks flew.

“Please, come in.”

She stepped aside and Joe entered a room that was all space and light.  White carpeting rolled its way toward floor to ceiling windows that overlooked a boat dotted lake rippling lazily below.  The room’s furnishings were sleek, unadorned and functional.  A beautiful room, but it was lost on Joe because all he could see was Libby.

“Let’s sit,” she said, taking Joe’s hand and leading him to a couch.

Her hand was soft and he could feel it on his cock.  He sat and she crossed the room to an entertainment center.  Soon, Joshua Redman’s sax began to blow Sweet Sorrow across the room and Libby moved sensuously to its rhythms, back to the couch, to Joe and his bulging, seeping sex.

The shoebox sat on the floor.  Libby stepped deliberately over it to curl up on the couch, facing Joe.  She hugged herself, squeezing her breasts, enlarging them to monstrous proportions.  She looked at Joe, her eyes glistening with seductive intent.

“I know.”  She whispered.

“Know what?” Joe mumbled in pathetic self-defense.

Libby stretched out her bare foot and began rubbing it against Joe’s thigh.  She leaned forward, one finger circling one nipple then the other.

“Like what you see, don’t you baby,” she taunted, staring at the wet stain that was spreading across Joe’s jeans.

“Show me,” she said, lifting her tits, rotating them in circles  “Show me that beautiful hungry cock of yours.  Do what you wanna’ do, Joe Browning.”

Her voice was lilting, hypnotic and it pushed Joe over the edge of self-conscious embarrassment into a world of trance.

He did as he was told.  He unzipped his jeans and pulled out his throbbing cock.

“Give me your hand.”

She licked his palm.  Nibbled.  She sucked, fucked his finger.  She wet his hand, smeared it with her warm, thick saliva.

“Now,” she said.

Joe began stroking.  He watched her reach under her dress, legs spreading wide.  Joe groaned, using two hands, one holding, the other rubbing his foreskin against his special spot.

“Yes,” Libby moaned.  “Yes, Joe.”

The sight of Libby’s hips thrusting wildly, her breasts rolling and swaying … her face distorted with pure animal lust as she gave herself pleasure … pushed Joe over the edge.  His level of arousal reached breaking point and he groaned as hot, thick cum gushed over his hands and onto his pants.  Libby gasped.  Her body tensed, her fingers moved faster as Joe’s pleasure ignited hers, sending volts of erotic electricity up from her clit to every nerve in her body … and she came, and came and came.

She held Joe against her breasts, stroking his hair for a long, long time.

“You haven’t tried on your shoes,” she whispered.  “Why don’t we try again tomorrow.  Wanna’ come back tomorrow, Joe Browning?”

“Yes.  Yes, Libby.”