Heather Brown

Blow girl

CHAPTER ONE

The man sitting in the restaurant booth across the aisle was handsome. Too handsome. Handsome enough to get me into trouble.

My eyes met his, but before they did they took in his whole body, which was obviously rugged beneath the well-tailored clothes he was wearing. It was easy to see that he had broad shoulders and a sinewy torso tapering down into a slim waist under the paisley shirt and blue blazer he was wearing. What was even more interesting to me was the exciting bulge of his cock at the crotch of his form-fitting gray trousers. By the time he looked over my way, and our glances met, without even realizing it I had been licking my lips at the thought of a fresh cock. When he looked at me I suddenly became aware of what I was thinking, and how I was showing it, and I looked away in embarrassment, aware that my thoughts were written all over my face. Without being able to help jt I felt a sudden moistness ooze from my cunt. When I got home and changed I would discover that I had stained my third pair of panties in a week that way.

My God, what's the matter with me? I wondered as I tried to look very interested in the menu while a voice in the back of my mind, and an urging in my dripping cunt, told me that it was the suggestion of a stranger's cock that really held my interest. I didn't even know the man, yet I was thinking how wonderful it would be to have him on top of my naked body with his prick up to the hilt in my throbbing cunt while I writhed beneath him with sheer desire and lust blotting out everything else.

"Face the facts," Dolly, my co-worker, had said to me the day before, you're just plain sex hungry. You can't get enough." This was her response to the embarrassment I'd told her I'd felt a few minutes before when my body was pressed against a man's in an overcrowded elevator. I hadn't told her specifically that what had really stirred me up was that we had been pressed so close I could feel his warm, insistent cock pressing against my thigh between two layers of clothing, but it was obvious by what she'd said that she'd figured it out.

The obvious truth of her words shook me, but I cried, "That's absurd, Dolly! I'm no nymphomaniac! And I can live without sex!"

"Can you?" she asked jeeringly. As an answer I fled back to my desk and buried myself in the stack of work that had piled up over the last few days while I had been daydreaming up pulsating cocks ramming up my cunt, surging up my ass, spewing hot cum into my eager mouth-sometimes all at once.

As I was trying to type, Dolly's "Can you?" replaced the usual parade of sex that went on in my mind and cruelly taunted me. Could I? I was no longer certain that I could, but I felt I had to find out. At twenty-two, with three wrecked marriages behind me, and other tragic relationships, the rational side of my thinking told me I'd had enough of love and its pain. When my last marriage had fallen apart I'd told myself I would live the rest of my life without any more emotional entanglements. I'd find fulfillment in other ways. When I got hot, when the lure of sex became too much for me, I would take care of it myself massaging my hungry clit to orgasm with my trusty vibrator, kneading the folds of my cunt into an explosion of damp ecstasy. However, my plans had gone awry because when I gave it to myself it just turned out to be a warm-up for my limitless desire. I would become so stimulated after masturbating I would frequently go out in the middle of the night looking for a man, any man, to fuck me. I usually succeeded, but I knew I was taking a terrible chance of being beaten up by some psycho, or, even worse, being picked up by the cops and charged with prostitution.

Sitting in the restaurant and picking at my food which had just been served, I repeated my vow for probably the thousandth time and frantically wished I could control my hungry cunt.

My resolve was being seriously threatened, however, by the steady gaze of the man in the booth across from me with the inviting bulge in his pants. I had stopped looking at him, but he was still looking at me. Why couldn't he look somewhere else? I thought. I couldn't just stare down at my plate through my entire lunch hour. I started to get very irritated with the man in the booth as I defensively shifted my anger at myself to him. He shouldn't have the right to ruin my lunch hour, I thought.

I tried to concentrate on eating my lunch and managed to get it down without looking over his way once. But eventually I finished and he was still there, and as I started to get up from my table there was no choice but to face in his direction. I couldn't help but notice that he was smiling at me and had his right hand draped across his upper thigh, as though to emphasize the bulge of his cock beneath it. Calling on all of my self-control I tried to freeze him with a look of indifference, as though I didn't really notice him. It apparently worked because he lowered his eyes and a look of self-consciousness crossed his face.