The Bridge

When one of my co-workers sent me an email asking if I wanted to get together at lunchtime to discuss a recent presentation I had given, I wondered. I hardly knew him. But I had noticed him sitting up front during my presentation, never taking his eyes off me. He worked in the sales and marketing department. He had that distinguished look some men get when they are aging well. He wore a wedding ring.

We had only exchanged friendly smiles in the hallway– smiles that sometimes lingered a few seconds too long. Curious, I agreed to meet. We met several times for lunch, our conversations getting deeper as they went from discussing work to talking about our lives, our relationships, our desires.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said on our third lunch date, “when an attractive woman is wearing a low cut dress, like you are. Should I look? Should I not look?” I start to answer the question, explaining that it depends on the woman, on the situation, on her mood… she may want attention or she may not… but as I’m speaking I’m struck by how clever, or sneaky rather, he’s been. He knows damn well what to do when an attractive woman is wearing a low cut dress. He is not someone who does not pick up on nuance, subtleties of mood, personality types, etc. As a marketing executive, that’s his job, understanding people’s inner desires, what motivates them, even when they don’t know it themselves. He knows which women might want him to look and which don’t. Yet he has managed to tell me he finds me attractive and he has noticed my cleavage without saying either directly to me. He has remained somewhat professional merely asking for my expertise as a woman on this allegedly perplexing problem, when in reality he has just said in so many words, “I think your tits are hot.”

I smile and look directly into his light blue eyes as my words trail off. We are sitting on a bench outside facing each other. A small bench but not so small that our knees need to touch. There is space between them. Anyone looking would see that space, but we are no longer feeling it as space. We are feeling it as a bridge— an invisible bridge of electricity. There is a current running between us and we are both aware of it. I keep smiling and slowly lower my eyes. At this point anything said, any glance, any gesture, any move—will bring with it a charge. Something has shifted.

When I arrive at work the next day, there’s an email waiting for me from him. The subject line reads “lunch.” The message reads “in your office?”

Yes, I think. Yes, yes, yes.

Yet, I write back simply “good idea. see you at 1pm”

I can hardly focus on my work all morning. My body feels so alive, my mind focused on one thing.
He knows my office is more private than his. No one will knock, no one will know.

He is right on time. He closes the door behind him as I sit down in my chair.

“I think you know how I feel about you,” he says. “How much I want you, I need you. My wife, she can’t even handle it when I stare into her eyes. It’s too much for her, but you can…”

He’s right. I can feel the intensity of his blue-eyed gaze and move into it. I can ride it, I can dance with it, I can swivel in my chair ever so slowly keeping a steady gaze on his. I plant my black high heels on the floor and roll my chair back, and as I move further away from him I am moving into him.

My eyelids lower and then lift as my lips part. My eyes widen as I pout and smile with them. I breathe deeply feeling my breasts rise and fall. He is staring at me in silence, his body still, hardly able to breathe. I feel my pussy wanting to move, to grind, to grip something. I start to move my pelvis back and forth… slowly. I have started something that will take over. I have activated the energy field. My pussy is wet now. I spread my legs and I have to touch myself. First over my tight black slacks, my fingers rub back and forth. I am breathing deeply, never taking my dark eyes off his. Meet me, come with me, they say. We are crossing the invisible bridge into each other’s bodies.
My hand is moving slowly. I increase the pressure but it is not enough.

I moan as I undo my pants and slip my hand inside, reaching into my pink cotton panties, my fingers sliding into my warm wetness. I spread my legs as wide as they will go, still in my swivel chair, still staring at this man in front of me. This man with a wife at home who can’t go here with him, to the place I am leading him.

My other hand reaches to the top of my breast. I undo the top button on my silky raspberry colored shirt and tease the lace on my bra. Inside he is boiling. He can’t believe it’s real. This is what he has yearned for. This is what has been missing for him for years. He feels like yelling. He feels like crying. He feels like fucking. He wants everything in this moment. To be desired. To be seen. To be felt. He knows I can give him this, not forever, but for now.

I want him to know what I’m feeling. I see his erection pushing up through his pants. He rubs it slowly at first. As the electric current is moving faster, connecting us. “I am so wet for you,” my words come out in one deep breath. I am open and I can imagine him moving inside of me. I can feel us fucking, although we have never physically touched. Not even the brush of an arm or the bump of a knee. But we are fucking each other as we sit five feet apart. He takes his thick hard cock out of his pants and strokes it furiously, his body arching forward, but never taking his gaze off of mine. I am moaning and undulating to our rhythm. “Fuck me, fuck me, please fuck me… fuck me with your eyes,” I beg him. And he does.

Pink Lady

Pink Lady is a sex-positive radical feminist who is interested in expressing the sensuality behind seduction, the teasing of titillation, and the good clean fun of fucking.

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1 Response

  1. jim brody says:

    your story is delicious, I too love the complex interplay between the mind and the body. The magic and scent of foreplay. The rest is fait accompli

    I loved your story of seduction and sensuality. A liberated woman , a love artist.
    How I would love to write you a story. Perhaps we could compare notes? would you be willing?

    The careful elegance in your story is much appreciated