Chelsea
Copyright© 2020 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 2: The Anticipation Builds
True Sex Story: Chapter 2: The Anticipation Builds - The Year is 2001. This was a one-night stand. Bob was sowing his wild oats, and she was just one of the many to receive them.
Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual True Story Anal Sex Cream Pie Oral Sex BBW
Bob stood under the shower longer than he needed to, eyes closed, water as hot as he could stand it. Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of everything. He braced one hand against the tile wall and let the heat sink into his shoulders, trying to slow the sudden rush in his veins.
He hadn’t expected this. Not the way her voice had slipped under his skin, not the way her quiet confessions had pulled matching ones out of him. He had spent years perfecting distance—polite, careful, always in control. And in one phone call she had reached straight through it.
He turned the water colder at the end, shocking his system back to calm. When he stepped out, droplets ran down his chest and back, tracing paths over muscle built from routine rather than joy. He dried off slowly, watching himself in the clearing mirror. Hazel eyes looked back—tired, guarded, but tonight lit with something he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Hope. Dangerous, fragile hope.
He dressed with deliberate care. Black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled once to show forearms corded from lifting. Dark jeans that fit well enough to remind him he still had a body worth offering. Boots polished out of habit. He caught his reflection again and paused—tall, broad, composed. The picture of control. But inside he felt like a man standing at the edge of something vast, afraid to look down.
Before leaving, he stood at the window and watched the city move below. Somewhere out there she was finishing her shift, maybe feeling the same unsteady ground beneath her feet. He wondered what she looked like when she was nervous. He wondered if she was as scared as he was that this might actually matter.
Across town, Chelsea moved through the last tasks of her day in a haze. She cleaned exam rooms, restocked supplies, soothed a frightened cat with gentle hands and softer words. But every motion felt distant, like she was watching herself from above.
She had not slept well after their call. She had lain awake replaying his voice—low, steady, but threaded with something raw underneath. When he’d said, “I know that tiredness,” it had felt like someone had reached into her chest and cradled the ache she’d carried alone for years.
She had always hidden this part of herself carefully. Friends saw the cheerful veterinary assistant who loved animals more than people. Dates saw a warm, curvy woman who laughed easily and gave generously in bed. No one saw the woman who knelt in the dark of her bedroom and touched herself while imagining strong hands holding her down, a calm voice telling her exactly what to do, exactly who she belonged to.
Saying it aloud to Bob had felt like cutting herself open. And instead of recoiling, he had answered with his own wound. She still couldn’t quite believe it.
At 5:45 she slipped into the staff bathroom and locked the door. Her scrubs came off in a heap. She had brought the black dress folded carefully in her bag—simple, soft fabric, nothing flashy. But when she pulled it over her head and smoothed it down over full breasts and wide hips, it felt like armor made of air. Nothing underneath, because he had said “something easy to remove” and the implication had stolen her breath.
She stared at her reflection longer than usual. Cheeks flushed even without makeup. Brown eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. Hair loose and wavy over her shoulders. She looked vulnerable. She felt it down to her bones.
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