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My office is on the fifth floor of one of those pale impersonal behemoths that now dominate the London skyline. It’s a comfortable, functional room that has about as much soul as a three-day old corpse. So I arrive late, leave early and enjoy a long lunch.
So there I was on a nondescript, overcast, Wednesday morning. Stood watching the clock and waiting for the lift. It’s 9.45am and I’m already looking forward to lunch. The lift and a woman arrive simultaneously. I glance at her face and stand aside for her to get in first. She’s not pretty. She’s not even plain. She’s ugly.
I press five and move into the corner. I don’t ask her what floor. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. I know it’s chauvinistic, horrible and unfair, but I can’t stand ugly women. If you hate me for it, at least give me marks for honesty and read on.
Somewhere between three and four, the lift stops with an unpleasant grinding judder. She lets out a scream and I say “Bloody Hell!” We look at each other in sympathetic panic.
“That didn’t sound very healthy,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“My God. I hope it doesn’t just plummet to the bottom,” she says in genuine terror, clutching a large manila envelope.
If her face were any less repulsive, I would rush across and take her in my arms. Just to comfort her, you understand. Instead, I reach across and press the red button. It makes a terrible racket, but I keep my finger on it until I’m satisfied that the whole building has heard it. Five minutes of distant noisy confusion follows during which we exchange horror stories of friends of friends who were stuck in lifts for hours, days, weeks.
At last a voice shouts up from somewhere below. It has the ring of authority about it. “Hey, you up there. We’ve found the problem. It needs an engineer. I’m afraid you’re going to be up there for some time. But there’s no danger. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Are you alright?”
Nothing to worry about? He hasn’t seen my companion. She will probably put a curse on me and turn me into a frog.
“We’re all right,” I reassure him.
“Do you want anyone contacting?”
I’ve always been lucky. If I missed a plane, it would probably crash. As I survey the thick glasses, the hawkish nose, the receding chin, I can’t believe this twist of fortune. I bet there’s been a slip-up at the top. I should have Cinderella and I’ve ended up with one of the sisters.
“Room 507,” I shout. “Just tell Miss Peters that Mr Coombes will be in as soon as we’re rescued.”
Miss Peters. Ah, just the thought of her set me cursing my luck. Why couldn’t I have been stuck in the lift with her? I’d been unsuccessfully trying to get into her knickers for months. This situation would have been perfect. As I dwelt on the thought, my expression must have been interpreted as friendly.
“Can you ask him to tell Mr Smith on floor seven that Miss Lyon is in here as well?”
I notice for the first time that the voice is pure velvet. It doesn’t belong to the face at all.
“And tell Mr Smith on floor seven that Miss Lyon is stuck here as well.”
“Wilco. And don’t worry. There’s no danger. Just behave yourselves.”
No danger of me not behaving myself. Poor Mr Smith. Fancy having to look at that face all day. Still, at least he’ll be concentrating on his client’s problems. I’ll remember to go to him if I ever have a run-in with the law.
She güvenilir bahis drops the envelope she’s been clutching and slides her back down the corner of the lift until she’s sat on it.
“Might as well get comfy,” she says with a smile. “We might be here for some time.”
I’m speechless. Speechless and mesmerised. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. To take the strain of the spectacular descent, she places her feet about eighteen inches apart and leans back into the corner. She keeps her knees firmly together, but once she is beyond half way down, the effect is breathtaking.
Gradually the cheeks of her bottom come into view. Prettily edged in white lace and then, framed by her diverging calves, her thighs and the bulging strip of nylon which separates the two loops of lace edging. By the time the rounded cheeks flatten against the manila envelope I’m dry in the throat and wobbly in the knees.
“I should get comfy yourself,” she says.
I can’t take my eyes of that exquisite sight, but I manage a “Yes, you’re right”, as I struggle to sit on my briefcase in the opposite corner. The lower position slightly improves my view and I begin to register just how good those legs are. And she’s wearing stockings too.
I’ve always been a leg man. But like most blokes who profess a preference for some part of the female body, I look at the face first. If I can’t respond to that, I don’t go any further. The funny thing is that because she is ugly, I don’t feel embarrassed about blatantly ogling her exposed charms. I don’t even wonder why, in view of my obvious fascination, she isn’t attempting to make her position less revealing.
“You still don’t look very comfy,” she says. And when at last I look up, I realise that she is referring to an obvious and agonising bulge in my trousers.
She giggles as I try to ease my discomfort. “It seems a pity to waste an erection like that, don’t you think? And putting it out of its misery would help us pass the time, wouldn’t it?”
I manage a disbelieving nod, my eyes still fixed on the aphrodisian feast. She picks herself up as gracefully as her position will allow, deliberately exciting me beyond endurance in the process. Standing boldly before me she slowly raises her skirt, drawing me eyes up her slender legs, over the dark tops of her tan stockings to follow the taught suspenders until they vanish beneath the white lace and frivolous nylon of her pants.
I’m still crouched on the floor in compressed genital agony but unable to stir myself because of the entrancing effect of the display. As I stick the vision into my mind for future reference, she slips her thumbs into the top of her knickers and pushes them down her legs until gravity takes over the job. They float on and delicately settle around her ankles.
She bends neatly at the knees and picks them up, struggling for a moment to release a leg from the end of a high heel. When it is free, she stands again, turns coolly away from me and bends from the waist with her head resting on her arms along the handrail. As if to provoke me into action, she wriggles her neat white arse like a bitch on heat.
The position is shockingly magnificent. Those long lithe legs are invitingly spread with a springy bend at each knee and those two delicious cheeks, framing a shaded promise of delight, are quivering in anticipation. Her face is buried in the crook of her elbow türkçe bahis as though she is eager not to offend at her lack of beauty.
The face. I’d forgotten about the face. Since all else has been revealed, its effect has vanished. I almost feel ashamed of my earlier thoughts. I stand slowly, never taking my eyes from the offering before me. With one hand I caress the white globes of her cheeks; with the other I release my genital agony.
When I slip my hand between her thighs I find a dripping welcome. It takes but a dip of the knees to place my weapon in the right spot and press forward and slide in right to the hilt. It’s as beautiful an entry as I’ve ever experienced and her moan of appreciation is music to my ears. I rest there for a moment, contemplating the scene both visually and intellectually. As I study my black pubic hair pressed against the contrasted creamy cheeks I muse on the fact that I have never fucked in this position before. I marvel at its versatility, its unexpected potential.
As I slowly withdraw I marvel at the freedom of vision. I can watch the lengthening penis and delight in the movement of her moist labia as they tremble, seemingly loath to part with their visitor. The satisfied sigh from her real mouth seems to be speaking for the busy mouth I am studying.
But the freedom of this position is not only visual. Here I stand with both hands free to explore and enjoy this beautiful and sexy body which has been offered to me so unexpectedly.
Arranging the skirt neatly around her waist, I knead the soft cheeks as I withdraw a second time. I lean back a little and guide my tool in a delicate exploration of the complex folds of her sex. Her whimpers are erotic encouragement. The third entry is clearly a relief to us both as our sighing breaths tangle in the now balmy air of our temporary prison.
Pressing forward against that fleshy cushion, I exercise this unexpected freedom further, reaching out to take a swinging breast in each hand. There is no bra beneath the nylon blouse and the nipples harden in my palms as they slide over the material. The weight and texture evoke a delicious sensation that reaches my very root. I feel her vagina squeezing me in a rhythm that matches the movement of my hands. This woman really is a witch and I am under her spell.
I slip my hands beneath the blouse and saviour the flesh of those relaxed breasts. She squeaks and squirms as I gently tweak the rough nipples. At the same time I begin a soft rocking against her buttocks. But her internal milking joins the rhythm and the whole sensation is too much. I can feel myself on the verge of coming and want the intensity of the pleasure to last for much longer.
An extended backwards rock allows a third escape, movingly accompanied by touching moans of complaint until I guide myself to furrow the length of her vulva. This seems to satisfy both our needs. Pleasurable though it is for me, it keeps things just below the boil. And for her, the irregular surface of a penis shuttling her sensitive cleft, by the evidence of her groaning and wriggling, is a satisfying substitute for insertion.
As my own passion subsides a little, away from the teasing of her skilful passage, I am able to concentrate on her flowing pleasure. With the left hand continuing to knead her breasts, I press my prick deep into her furrow with my right so that the rim of my knob catches her clitoris güvenilir bahis siteleri at every stroke. I hardly feel the contact myself, but it clearly does something special for her. The squirming becomes more and more frantic and she makes increasingly exciting animal noises…deep grunts and moans.
One violent wiggle and cry sees my tool out in the open and, recognising the urgency at hand, I plunge eagerly into the flowing chasm of her cunt.
There are two heady gasps of relief and immediate union of movement, my hands holding firm her thighs to control the pace. I hardly have time to register the thrill of nylon-clad legs before I feel myself coming. It begins low down in a place that does not exist, but rising rapidly to a spot just about a yard from the end of my penis.
Strokes are inevitably quickened. Her cries begin and she comes just before me in a noisy eruption that does nothing to lessen the intensity of my own shattering explosion. I leave my final thrust buried deep and as the lift stops spinning I realise that our upright posture is a denial of mechanical principles. Her legs are limp. She is suspended on my ever-limpening tool, breathing heavily.
I relax but remain in her, spreading my legs a little to ease the strain and then, massaging her trembling limbs, I watch my withdrawal with erotic fascination.
I help her upright, take her in my arms and, as gravity assists her skirt to assume its proper role, I kiss her for the first time. It is a brief kiss after which I look deeply into her face. Beneath those spectacles are two dark sensitive eyes. The nose I judged hawkish is full of character and strength. Her lack of jaw serves only to accentuate a very sensuous mouth which I kiss again with very real relish.
As our tongues entwine, I feel a quite unique response within me. This woman really is something special. And but for a freak circumstance I would never have given her a second glance. And what’s more, my good luck has held firm. I did have Cinderella after all. How could have I mistaken her for one of the sisters?
She pushes me away. Not unkindly, but with gentle firmness. “The lift,” she says. “The lift is coming.”
She steps awkwardly into her pants which she still has in her hand. Once more there is that glorious leg display produced without a trace of self-consciousness. I indulge myself in mental anticipation of the display she’ll give me in my flat. I could watch those limbs being disported for hours. She quickly adjusts her skirt and blouse, shakes her hair which obediently jumps into place and then, with loving concern, straightens my tie and jacket. Finally she bends down and picks up her manila envelope, reminding me to reach for my own briefcase which lay forgotten in the corner.
“I shall see you for lunch, Miss Lyon.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr Coombes.”
She smiles, but shakes her head.
“That was a very memorable half hour and I shall treasure it. But one swallow does not make a summer. One day you would look at me again like you did when I first arrived at the lift. I couldn’t bear that. I enjoyed showing you that women with unattractive faces could be attractive in other ways. I wouldn’t enjoy you showing me that handsome men as well as being very skilful lovers can also be very fickle. It is better to leave it like this.”
My reply is cut short by the lift doors opening. “Are you two alright?”
“Fine,” she says, as she ushers me out. “Bye, Mr Coombes. Very nice getting to know you.” She presses the button and the doors close. She is gone.
I don’t think I shall ever be the same man again…
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