As told to Just Plain Bob by Mrs. Hottbutt
Authors note: As a frequent poster to this site I am constantly receiving e-mails from readers asking me to "tell their story." Some I do (The Adventures of Kathleen M. and Becoming a Slut Wife: Christina the two most recent) but most of them I don't. But this one cried out to be done. It was sent to me and I was asked to turn it into a story that she could then send to her ex-husband in the hopes that it would piss him off. A quick read showed that this lady needed no help at all. I could not do it better than she did and to be honest, I doubt my meager talents could have done it near as well. I am posting it "as is", the only change being to add this note. Hopefully the comments will be such that they will inspire Mrs. Hottbutt to write more and become a regular contributor to the site.
I began noticing him weeks ago. He came into the sandwich shop every day at 1:25 after most of the lunch crowd had dispersed. I would watch from the window as he came from the high-rise across the street. He always had a copy of some financial newspaper tucked under his arm. He wore an expensive suit and I surmised that he must be a financial consultant of some kind. He was maybe early forties, casually handsome, with a hint of gray at the temples. He had the most beautiful, piercing light-green eyes I had ever seen. On two different occasions our eyes had met and locked together, but both times ended quickly with his eye averting and his face flushing crimson. So I figured out that he was very shy.
He always ordered the turkey club without cheese and a soda. He would sit near the window and read his paper while he ate his lunch. He was always alone. He wore no wedding ring. His cell phone never rang and he never called anyone. He seemed oblivious to everyone and everything else around him. He would spend exactly 55 minutes in the sandwich shop. Then he'd clean his table, fold his paper and head out the door and across the street to his building.
My fantasies of him began shortly after I learned his daily lunch routine. As I sat alone at my table across the room from him, I'd try to imagine how he kissed. I wondered what he looked like underneath all those expensive clothes, his cock hardened and ready. I wondered what those nicely manicured fingers would feel like stroking my nipples. I wondered how he would taste if I ever got his manhood inside my mouth. I wondered how he would sound moaning and groaning at the pleasure I could give him. I wondered how it would feel to have his throbbing dick deep inside my hungry pussy. I had mental pictures of him throwing me down onto the table, taking me fiercely, pushing my tight skirt to my waist, his expensive trousers undone just enough, his turkey club falling onto the floor.
I would watch him eat and read and I would imagine walking over to him, reaching down and taking hold of the bulge beneath his zipper. The more I fantasized about him, the more I wanted him and the more daring my fantasies became. I imagined him fucking me hard from behind, his tie brushing across my nude backside with each hard thrust. I imagined playing with my wet pussy, my fingers dipping in and out while he watched me. I imagined him spurting his hot cum all over my face and in my hair. I imagined his hot breath on my neck and my tits. I wanted this man. I needed this man. I had to have this man.
I began to look around for closets or private places to take him for a 55 minute lunch fucking session. I wanted him to forget that turkey clubs existed or that financial papers held any interest for him. I wanted his attention on my naked body. I wanted him fucking e anywhere and everywhere. I wanted his cock. In my hands. In my mouth. In my pussy.
And so every day my lunch ended the same; with soaked panties, a rapid heartbeat, and a new fantasy to add to my repertoire. The lust I felt for him grew and grew until I knew that I had to make some kind of move. But how did I do it? He was shy and I was shy. I couldn't just walk up to him and ask him to please take me right there on the table. And then one day I had a revelation. I suddenly knew that I had one way to get his attention.
I am an amateur photographer. I love taking nude photos of myself. I would take them often for my ex-husband and surprise him with them in emails. He had always told me that I had an ass to die for. And I had caught other men's eyes on my ass many times. So I knew that I would use my greatest ass-et to catch the attention of Mr. Turkey Club.
That day, I watched him cross the street as usual. He ordered his turkey club, sat down, unfolded his paper and began to read. I watched him take a couple of bites of his sandwich. He never even noticed me. I waited until he had 10 minutes left of his 55. Then I got up, cleaned my table, walked over to him and dropped a note onto his precious newspaper. It simply said, "E-mail me at the above address and I will send you a nude photo of myself." He looked up at me, shock apparent in his eyes, and I gave him my best sensual smile. He choked and began coughing, but quickly recovered. I made sure that he was all right and then I turned and exited the sandwich shop, swaying my hips as best I could.
He e-mailed me that night. I sent him several photos of my ass in the air. He must have liked them because the next day at lunch he asked if he could sit at my table.
.... There is more of this story ...