There was something about him. I knew it the moment I saw him, but I wasn't sure what it was. Some would have said it was his looks. His hair was short and black, his eyes were a dark, dark brown and his skin was just the healthy side of pale. He wore a tight black T-shirt and leather pants which stretched over his body and displayed what lay underneath. He was leaning forward, chin in hand, a serious expression on his face.

And maybe that was it. He could have been lost in concentration or just waiting for lunch, but he did it with a sense of purpose. I felt that he knew what he was doing, why he was doing it, and what he was trying to accomplish. And there was something attractive about that.

So, while I had come to the restaurant to get some lunch, I found myself walking over to him. I was going to say, "Hi," and introduce myself. Maybe get his name and give him my phone number. If I was lucky, maybe he would even call me back.

When I got to his table, he was still as a statue. I opened my mouth to introduce myself, but before I could speak, he said, "What?" Just that, nothing else. I paused at his apparent irritation, uncertain what to say. My words fled as I stood there, silent.

But there was still something about him. His voice was deep and resonant; his single-word question wasn't mockery or sarcastic. Yet it demanded an answer. "Wh-what do you mean?" I stammered, confused, trying to regain my mental faculties.

He turned and looked at me for the first time. His gaze met mine, then lowered as he examined my body, appraising me. His eyes met mine again, and he asked, "What do you want?" Again his gaze traveled over me. I could feel it as it caressed my breasts, slid over legs, and finally, pierced me between my thighs. What was it about this man?

"You don't know?" He asked almost mockingly. "You walked over here to speak to me and you don't know why? Is this a common problem? Do you know what you want about anything? How about your job? Your life? Do you want the nice little husband and the two-point-five kids, or do you want something else? Do you even know? Is that the real problem?" Again he wasn't mocking, it was almost as if he really wanted to know if it was true, did I know what I wanted. And, suddenly, I wasn't sure if I could tell him.

He asked me again, more forcefully this time, "What do you want?"

The question echoed inside of me. What did I want? Not what I had, certainly. A lousy job, a non-existent social life. I realized to my dismay that I had no idea what I wanted to fill my empty life with. "I don't know," I whispered, despairingly.

"Humph," he said, and turned back in his seat, resuming his previous posture. Ignoring me.

I returned to my seat, and collapsed in my chair. My salad arrived, and I ate it slowly, ponderously. I tried to think about what I wanted, but all I could focus on was what I didn't have -- like him, for instance.

Occasionally, I'd glance up at him, but he was always in the same position. When his food arrived, he at it quickly and deliberately, and left. I finished a few minutes later, and went back to my worthless job.

That night, I masturbated for over two hours. I wasn't horny, I was empty. I had to keep the loneliness away. It had been getting worse and worse lately, and today, with the man from the restaurant ... Well, he figured prominently in my fantasies. He took me, lifting my legs up and back, pressing my body beneath him. He plunged his huge cock deep into my cunt, over and over, all the while staring at me with his intense gaze, boring into my soul.

And in my fantasy, for just a moment, I knew that finally, I wasn't alone.

I came again and again, over and over, until I fell asleep, exhausted, my hand still pressed against my crotch.

That was the first day I saw him.

<hr />

I woke to the incessant buzzer of my alarm the next morning. After all the activity of the last night, I had a deep and dreamless sleep. My body and mind resisted the need to rise, to get ready to go to work. To get on with my lousy life.

I thought back to the night before, and felt the emptiness creep in again, and I brushed my hand over my bush, idly opening my pussy lips. It sent a small shock through my inner void, and I shook my head. I had to get up, I couldn't lay here all day and play with myself. But the image of him lingered in my mind, his gaze piercing me at lunch, his cock piercing me in my fantasies. My cunt clenched, and I forced myself out of bed.

Robotically, I prepared for my day, until I got to selecting my clothes. I pulled out a low-cut blouse, and wondered if he'd appreciate the view in that one. That was when I realized I was planning on eating at the same restaurant again today. That was when I realized how bound up in his web I'd become.

Did he do anything to deserve my confusion or my passion? Or did he just stumble over some trigger, some thing lying dormant in me that realized that something, anything had to change. Maybe he was just the most convenient target; maybe anything that set me off kilter would have caused this. But I couldn't shake it: there was something about him.

So I dressed in my most revealing business clothes, and went to work. I don't want to say much about it, it was Hell just like always. The only thing that got me through the stupid meetings and tasks of the morning was thinking about him, being at the restaurant today. I didn't allow myself to consider the most likely prospect: that he wouldn't be there at all.

So at lunch, I left my desk a few minutes early, primped a bit in the ladies' room, and walked to the restaurant. I sat at the same table I was at the day before, ordered the same thing, and waited.

And, of course, he didn't come. With each second that ticked, each minute that passed, the emptiness inside me grew and filled. When I had finished my salad, I stole back into a private stall in the ladies' room, lifted my skirt, and slid my hand inside the scoop-necked blouse. I cried, and masturbated, trying to remember my fantasies from the night before, unable to see his face above me, unable to feel his cock inside me.

I finally came, and with the infusion of endorphins, I collected myself. I washed my hands and fixed my makeup, paid, and left the restaurant, vowing never to return.

That night I flipped through my scrapbooks of a happier time. When I had thought I was in love, and he was in love with me. A time when I was excited about my new career, and we talked about settling down, buying a house and having children. The pictures ended far before the relationship did, before the reality hit home and my career turned out to be a dead-end road to nowhere, just like my barren womb.

What could I offer to a man, really? Alan obviously didn't think I could offer much, so he found his own way without me. And I was left here, at a dead end road, with no map to continue on. I wanted so desperately to be filled by something, a sense of purpose, a cock, even the impossible. I settled for cheap alternatives, and retired to my room with my largest dildo, to fuck myself into harsh oblivion for the second night in a row.

I masturbated for a long time, having small, yet ever-building orgasms. Eventually, my fantasies drifted again to the man from the restaurant. I imagined the dildo was his cock filling my cunt, moving slowly in and out, as he made love to me. My orgasm built, sending shudders throughout my body as I/he rammed the dildo/his cock into me. My cunt clenched, and I let out a piercing yell as I came.

Relaxed, I drifted off to heavy sleep.

<hr />

Once again I woke to the screeching of my buzzer. I was rubbed raw, and the dildo lay between my legs, sticky with my own juices. "I've got to stop doing this," I said to myself, as I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake up and clear my head. It had been a long time since my head was clear, and I was truly awake.

As I sat at my kitchen table, sipping coffee, and looking back through those horrible photographs, I felt calm for the first time in a long time. I recalled my fantasies of the night before. It had been a long time since I had been passionate about anything, and there was something about him, something that scared and attracted me at the same time.

So, I went back to the restaurant, despite my vow from the previous day. I had to go, if only because it made my day different than all the ones before. Once again, I repeated the first day's tasks and timing as if it were a ritual to summon the mysterious man. I had a mission or an obsession, but I had something, and it was mine.

The minute I saw him, my nipples hardened as I recalled my nightly fantasies. He had returned -- I was surprised and elated. Now, I had to decide what to do. I had hoped he would return, but never really believed that our chance meeting would happen again. I could stay here with my salad, or I could go back to him, and talk to him.

Finally I realized there was no point to all of this if I didn't talk to him. Resolved, I stood up, my knees a little shaky. I gathered myself together, and walked over to his table with a purpose. As I walked, he turned to face me. When I got close to him, he said, "So, did you ever decide?"

"Decide what?" I asked.

"What you wanted," he said.

I looked into his dark eyes. I'd had a couple of sleep-deprived days to ponder this question, and I'd run it over in my mind again and again. I didn't know the answer, but felt I had to be free of the question. "Does it matter?" I asked.

"That depends..." he said, drawing out his voice. I waited for the rest of his answer. As I waited, he appraised me again. I could feel his gaze pass over me, like a lover's finger sliding slowly over my body. Where it passed, my skin shivered. My nipples responded. My mouth grew moist. Hair stood up along my arms. My cunt began to get wet.

His gaze went back to my face. "Probably not," he said. It felt like a dismissal. He began to turn back in his chair, back to stare at his wall. I reached out and put my arm on his shoulder, pulling him back to face me. I couldn't allow this moment to pass, there had to be something more to it.

He turned back, raised an eyebrow, and stared at my hand until I removed it. "What exactly is your game, anyway?" I asked.

"There is no game," he said. "Two days ago, you walked over to me. I asked you what you wanted. Yet, you couldn't answer. I had to wonder -- what kind of person doesn't have an answer for that? You must have wanted something when you came over, but you couldn't say. Personally, I don't think you can answer. However, there must be some answer, you are here again today. There must be something you want. What do you want?"