Pardon My Frottage
by Meghan Boehners
Pardon My Frottage
© 2011 Meghan Boehners
Smashwords Edition
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Pat wiped his wet palm on his tan pants and finally opened the bathroom door. Safe behind the door's bolt, he rolled the condom over his erect penis, taking care not to snare a stray hair. He centered his erection against his body, using his jockeys to maintain the midpoint. A tuck and a zip and he felt ready. If only he could stop sweating.
While he washed his hands he examined his drenched collar and feared pit stains. A quick check reassured him, and two sniffs confirmed that his antiperspirant doubled as a deodorant. In the mirror, Pat saw a twenty-three year old accounting associate who should make partner in six years. He kept his brown hair short and to the point, and the sports jacket lent just enough formality for casual Friday. With a compact, muscular frame made for wrestling, Pat looked like a young Harvey Keitel—cool and unpredictable. Looking in the mirror, he practiced the glossy stare he'd soon assume, then cringed. No, no doubts. He steeled his eyes and the blue went cold.
Sweaty determination drove him forward. As he waited on the T platform at Kendall Square he scoped her out. One girl looked promising, wearing a tight soccer shirt and oversized jeans with frayed cuffs. The pants were too baggy, insufficient for his needs. Her blonde hair was pulled back like a gang bitch, with two thin, curled strands framing her face. Too much red lipstick and a fuck you smile finished the look. Fourteen trying to be twenty. She caught his eye, glanced at his basket, and snorted.
The hot erection throbbed, skin expanding and filling his pants, straining against the zipper. The condom felt slick, too smooth, and as Pat walked he felt the rhythm catch him, groove into the flow, his hips switching as his body tried to give what Pat wanted to take.
He stopped walking and pinched his neck between earlobe and jawline. The pain made his eyes blur and he smelled copper. A mother pushing a stroller glared at him and a dirty hand escaped from the carriage, grabbing Pat's pants, leaving a stain of unknown organic origin. Looking at the smear, Pat's heart sank.
He could stop right now. When he touched Claire at home, slid his dry palms over her fleshy breasts, tweaked his tongue over her thighs, teased her body into tremors and breathy words, he felt grounded. She told him, after, that his method was incredible; no one ever put a finger there during oral sex. He smiled at the memory, proud of his creativity, satisfied by her release. She was inventive and attentive in bed, shedding her outer conservatism at will, in control of her own orgasm and often controlling his. With academic precision she could dissect his body, deconstruct his hormones, chemically alter his lust, and finesse his ejaculation until the moment felt like isolated notes in the air converged in symphony, the music ringing in his ears for days beyond.
Tonight he'd see her and they would make love. The subway had nothing to do with Claire. Pat tried to convince himself that this was true, but he worked harder each day to find the discord. He stuffed one hand in his pocket and felt the latex covering the tight skin. Where was she?
He found her. Five or six inches above his five foot five frame, she had a long torso and a rib cage that grew from a thin waist like a cactus leaf. Her ass was divine, round and jutting from the small of her back. She wore men's jeans and the low waist pushed her flesh down, lowering her cheeks to complement Pat's erection.
The train arrived as Pat moved within a few feet of his intended.
The crush of bodies through the open doors repulsed him: sweat, perfume, cigarette breath and the smell of old coffee on a man dressed in a donut shop uniform. As she boarded he pinned himself against her. She turned around and glared. Pat just shrugged. Wasn't his fault, lady. It's just the crowd.
The subway was packed on this summer Friday. He felt his penis nestle in her ass cleft, the soft spot sliding in the groove like a coupling, two synchronized gears. She shifted, aware of the pressure and annoyed. A lock of black hair flew in Pat's face, the curly ends split, and he slowly slid his tongue to the corner of his mouth to taste her. The slick tendril swung back onto her bare skin. The woman lifted the shoulder and looked. Pat saw her profile and named her Julia.
Julia grabbed the overhead bar as the subway lurched. Pat nearly cried out from pleasure as she stretched. His crotch and her ass connected in fourteen different spots, each convincing Pat that this was right after all. Slowly he moved up, flexing his toes to elevate his body an inch, rubbing against her perfect fit. He imagined Julia lived in Acton, and that they owned a restored colonial with a center chimney, and while their kids slept she lay on her belly on the sheepskin rug before the fireplace, Pat riding bareback. So beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful.… He lost the momentum when the car stopped at Davis Square, but more people climbed on and Julia couldn't move.
Slowly he arched his feet again. If he finished before Alewife Station, she might catch on, but if he ejaculated just as the train pulled in, he could see her face and stare back with an implacable look. She would think she imagined the depravity, the titillation. Pat wanted to give her that little piece of arousal only he could bring.
Was she imagining it? Kate wondered if this guy behind her was rubbing up against her. The crowded commuter train made it hard to determine. She looked in the window and studied his reflection. Close cropped hair. Dockers and a business shirt and coat. He looked like any other State Street banker type headed home to his perfect wife and perfect kids in the suburbs. Her nipples tightened and she nearly gasped aloud from arousal as his bulging cock rubbed against the cleft of her ass.
No. She wasn't imagining it. And now wetness pooled between her legs, the moisture welcoming and frustrating all at once. His reflection showed an impassive face, and she noticed her own frenzy in the image, cheeks flushed as a light sweat making her curls flatten against the edges of her face, her forehead beading with moisture that mirrored her throbbing womanhood, clitoris on fire against her men's Levi's, the relaxed fit no match for her engorging vulva and red nub. Craving more, she shifted her angle and felt him stand taller, the two movements perfecting a balance of desire and want.
Two or three more bumpy spots and she would climax right there, this man pressed against her, his fullness stroking a need she didn't want to acknowledge. What was wrong with her? He was just some stranger on a train. Of course none of this was real. Clearly, he wasn't some pervert rubbing against her to get off. And yet even if he were, she was turned on, all senses fired up, ready to take his hand and fuck him in a bathroom or under a tree outside the next station, so lustful and eager that she –
A shudder took her over the edge, breath hitching as she suppressed the orgasm. She moved away from him, her hands touching her face in an effort to bring herself back down from the teeming unreality, panic filling her. How close her climax rested inside her, needing to be unleashed, tapped into by this man behind her. Orgasming in public was the last thing she wanted – ever – in her life.
And yet here she was.
Pat picked up the rhythm and Julia shifted, disturbing his concentration. The car curved into darkness and Pat moved faster, his mind focused on the bearskin rug and Julia's pleasure. He felt the friction working, a pump inside digging deep, bringing oil through the shaft, erupting with sweet gold, and as his body stiffened a fleeting image of Claire's face, her smile drowsy and vulnerable, captured him. In the next second he turned toward the window and saw the reflection of Julia's full face, bewilderment consuming her features as she stared at their conjoined bodies.
Pat's practiced stare worked for a while; Julia looked in the window repeatedly as the car drew to a stop. Sweat dripped over his bushy eyebrows, sliding over his eyelids and down the large pores of his flushed face. The condom was a cold, wet sock. The tip of his penis felt like his tongue after a cough drop, rough and sweet and raw. He saw Julia's shaking hand touch her lips, her nose, her hair, craving tangibility. Pat couldn't divine the reason for reassurance, for now Julia was simply another woman with smelly armpits on the train.
Pat stepped past her to run up the escalator to find Claire's gray Volvo. He sprinted, feeling the condom sliding off his flaccid penis. He reached the bathroom and off came the pants. Pat flushed the condom and exited the stall to wash his hands. As he turned on the water he noticed the small, dark stain on his sleeve, his only reminder of the bearskin rug and a woman named Julia.
That woman would go home, like all the others, and think about those five minutes, wondering whether she imagined it. Did it matter to know the truth?
He thought about Claire. He would go home, make love to her, enjoy every motion and rage against nothing. Tomorrow he would go to work, reconcile the numbers, put the formulas in the right box, and provide a level of detail and organization for clients that wasn't quite natural, but certainly appreciated.
He had been neat. Respectful. Covert. Untouchable. When that woman thought about her experience, Pat would be the unnamed partner, one who fulfilled a need – to see the world as a dangerous place, to be the object of serendipitous lust, to be left with a question she could never answer.
Pat washed his hands and dried them on his pants, spotting the mark of tiny fingers. An image of Julia and their children resurfaced, the gap-toothed grin of a five year old, a soft baby crawling on Pat's head as the sun woke up. Pat imagined opening his eyes, the baby chortling as he mistook Pat's nose for a nipple, and the resulting giggles from Julia's side of the bed. The older child would join the trio and the four merged into Claire's face as Pat stared at dark pattern on his sleeve, stains merging into a lone spot that was so deep and pure he forgot to breathe just long enough for his lungs to hitch.
The jerk of his chest as automatic pilot kicked in felt like a sob out of place. He smiled at his reflection as his breathing evened out. Inhale through the nostrils, exhale through pursed lips. Pat repeated the exchange twice, a willful exorcism of self-doubt. He stared at his irises until the blue filled the mirror, blotting out everything but one single, simple color that meant something. It meant something but Pat didn't have time to think about it.
Claire was waiting.
THE END
A Sample from Double Entry at the Office:
His neck was like granite under silk, the skin so smooth I almost cried with the sheer luxury of being allowed to touch it. Tight cords of muscle slid under the tan skin, and as I kneaded and stroked, he relaxed visibly, then audibly as he exhaled. One [art of him tightened, though. His sweat pants were leaving nothing to the imagination, and as his cock rose I gasped involuntarily. It was that big.
Oh, God, my pussy ached for that in me. A small moan escaped through my parted lips, and then I noticed Jim's eyes were watching me as I stared at his crotch.
He flipped me, suddenly, into his lap, and the tip of his cock pushed against my ass. Hungry lips ate mine, possessing me like an animal claims another during mating season. I wanted him to mount me, to pound that huge cock in me, to slap his balls against my taint and slip a finger in my ass, finger my clit and make me howl at the moon, exploding. As his lips and tongue penetrated into me, nearly pinning me to his possessive hand that now slid through my hair like the folds of my vulva, teasing and owning, I realized one hand had already slipped under my skirt,
One swift move and those muscled hands, so skilled with a football, ripped my panties and flung them across his desk, landing, oddly enough, on a report about bull semen.
One finger plunged into my soaking pussy and I shifted in his lap, ready to straddle him. "Not yet," he hissed against my neck, a warm teasing voice a promise to draw this out. He turned and hooked his finger up to stroke my G spot and I cried out, ready to climax.
But he had other plans.
One arm stretched out and swept everything off his desk, the mess making a series of dull thuds on the carpeted floor. Then he hauled me up as if I were a feather pillow, spread my legs wide, and dove his face into me, tongue fucking me like he was a starving man and I was a smorgasboard.
My climax was so close, so close, and I dug my hips into his face, hands reaching behind his head to push his tongue into me. He sucked my clit and stuffed two, no three, fingers inside my aching hole, filling it just enough to bring me to the edge but not enough. I needed that big cock in me.
If I was a buffet, then his fingers were just an appetizer.
"Please, Mr. Michaels. Please fuck me," I whimpered. I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror behind his desk. My pink, red pussy was dripping with juices, smearing his desk and begging for him to plunge into me.
"Oh, Alicia, I'll get there," he said, pulling down his sweatpants. "But most women need a little preparation before they can get some of this....”
Read how it all ends (or, rather, how Alicia gets in it the end...) at Double Entry: The Collection, by Meghan Boehners. Three double entry stories starring Alicia, Little Jim and Big Jim.
Ready for More?
Just search for “15 Minute Fantasies” on any major e-publishing site to read more from our collection. We promise you'll be satisfied, no matter what your need. ;)
Pegging Santa – In Pegging Santa, Julia surprised firefighter boyfriend Mike, who had just come home from playing Santa at the fire station's annual holiday party, with a candy cane strap on and a pegging surprise as she turned the tables and hurried up *his* chimney.
Double Entry Santa – Now, in Double Entry Santa, Mike surprises Julia with her Christmas gift -- a double entry fantasy come to life, but with a twist: it's Mike, Julia, and their third partner is an unexpected, but deliciously and seductively innovative, treat.
Naughty Professors: The Collection – This collection takes all three MFF menage stories from the "Naughty Professors" series and brings them to you in one scorching bundle.
Spanking New Year – Mike has a special gift for Katie on New Year's Eve: a paddle for her first spanking. But Katie has her own gift for Mike: an anal surprise that has them both ringing in the New Year with one hell of a bang!
Double Entry at the Office – Alicia is looking for a new job and gets lucky -- very lucky -- when she's hired as an analyst with ex-college-football player Big Jim's trucking company. Her double entry skills come in handy in this office. This menage a trois makes accounting hot, and Alicia has a chance at being Head Analyst -- a promotion you won't soon forget!
Double Entry at the Office #2 -- Big Jim's day starts of with a bitchy call from his ex-wife, but ends with a rockin' threesome with his vice president and hot, gorgeous new analyst -- with a stress on the "anal." When a shipping error means Big Jim needs to come into work during midnight shift on Father's Day, he finds Alicia working hard -- and ready for a very hard man. Little Jim, Big Jim's vice president, races to work to help with the logistics problem, and finds them spread out on the desk, licking the problem -- literally. When Little Jim jumps in to help with some double entry, all three find that working late has its rewards.
About the Author
Meghan Boehners has been writing erotic fiction for nearly two decades. She started young ;). With stories published in Hustler, Penthouse Forum, and for private clients who was some more, ah...personalized erotica, Meghan's vast experience gives her plenty of material to draw from...with more coming.
To read more of her work, just search for “15 Minute Fantasies” on any major e-publisher's website.