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Sex Story

When I walk into a room men stop what they're doing and look at me. But not in the way you might think. If they're swearing, telling dirty jokes or talking about women they'll stop and look uncomfortable. If there happens to be a stray swear that reaches my ear I will always, and I do not exaggerate always, get an apology. It's my super power, and like my hero brethren with secret identities, men have no idea how much I want to hear their stories and hear them use 'fuck' over and over again like a cock pounding into me. There is nothing about me that stands out. I wear Victoria's Secret size XS. It's not the size the models wear in the catalog. I'm 5'2", 105 lbs with shoulder length wavy blonde hair. I don't know the color of my eyes. They're like a mood ring – some days blue, green, hazel or brown. I usually say they're gray. And as Emily Webb's mother said to her in "Our Town" I'm "pretty enough for all normal purposes."

I'm 24 but people think I'm younger, under drinking age young, even when I tell the bouncer at the door of the club that it's a federal offense to counterfeit a passport. And I sound young. Not in a Minnie Mouse kind of way, but young enough to have the guy at the other end of the line say, "how old are you, babe?" in a voice tinged with fear. He said it in a way that made me wet. It was the "babe" that got me – protective and liquid and sweet. He didn't believe I was 24 and hung up.

I work as a paralegal at a criminal defense firm, so I couldn't blame him. You can't be too careful. We've defended some dumb fucks. Strangest thing I ever read was an IM transcript of a male police sergeant pretending to be a 15 year old girl and a 40 year old client pretending to be a 17 year old girl trying to convince the 15 year old to have sex with her friend that was, in fact, him. Those cops are good; so was the client. They could have written a movie script together.

I do research and writing for the firm. The boss introduces me to clients as "the brains of the operation" which they think is a joke, but it's not. Smart enough to get the boss's kid into Harvard and smart enough to get some of our clients off, although not in the way they originally intended.

I take the commuter rail to work each day. The conductor on my train who collects tickets has the most beautiful hands I have ever seen; long, elegant fingers. I always buy my ticket on the train so I can watch his hands while he punches the ticket, takes my money and gives me change. I imagine his fingers in my cunt and fantasize about his cock, and smile as he hands me the receipt. Outside work I smile a lot. I smile at people on the train. I say 'hi' to anyone who sits next to me. I don't hog the train seat to myself and avoid eye contact like people do to me on the train home. I don't sit and flap my newspaper or magazine in front of the person's face. People respond to courtesy. I smile at my fellow customers in Dunkin Donuts and at the counter people and I don't complain when they get my order wrong unless it's giving me regular coffee instead of decaf. Why? Because their job sucks and unless my health is on the line I'm not going to make it suck more. I smile and say 'thank you.'

In the end I'm invisible. At the office, I put my hair up and cover my lingerie with efficiency. On the train, no one knows I exist and most of the time on the ride home, the conductor will not even ask for a ticket and walk by me as if I wasn't there. And courtesy and a smile at strangers are momentary. By the time they fall asleep at night they don't remember me.

It had been three months since my boyfriend left me for a job across country. In these times a girl can't compete with gainful employment. He said he didn't expect me to wait meaning there were girls in California and he had heard they were plenty cute. Fine, but there is only so much a girl can do on her own. It started with masturbation, then cyber sex and then phone sex. All great, gosh sometimes downright awesome, but I needed something more than just release. The online sex had some awfully sweet guys typing awfully sweet things, getting dirty and giving me head like I'd never had in real life, and the phone sex did have the voice, god, I love a man's voice, but in the end technology and imagination cannot compare with the weight of a sweaty guy on me with his cock in my cunt. Vibrators don't have arms and I can't run my fingers through their hair, and they don't appreciate blowjobs. I needed a man.

It got to the point where I was sizing up prospects at the train station and staring noticeably, so that the guys would get suspicious and think I was a stalker even when I smiled. Wound tight did not begin to describe my condition. I was peevish and distracted. You know the expression, "she needs to get laid," yeah, there's a reason it's an expression, but no one was coming up to the plate.

So it happened that in the state I was in I missed a service deadline on a Motion to Suppress. I told the boss I'd bring it over to the DA's office and it shouldn't be a problem. At the end of the day I walked the short distance over to the court house with a copy of the Motion and Memorandum that had been filed. I asked the secretary for the DA assigned to the case.

"Oh, that case has been reassigned," she said. "John Hawkins is now handling that. He's in, if you'd like to see him."

I hadn't heard the name before. "I don't need to see him. Can you just make sure he gets this? It was due yesterday."

"Oh, if it's late, I think he'll want to see you."

"Fine," I said.

By rule a copy of the filing was due to the DA ten days before the hearing, some lawyers brought it in the day of the hearing, really not a big deal. She directed me to his office. I hadn't allowed myself enough time and was anxious that I was going to miss the train. I knocked on his open door and he looked up from behind his desk and said "come in."

At this point I just wanted to get rid of the damn thing and go. "Here," I said handing the copies to him, "it's a day late. The hearing's next week."

Instead of taking them from across the desk as any normal human would have done, he got up and walked from around the desk; young guy with dark hair and lovely eyes. He took the papers from me with his left hand and smiled and introduced himself holding out his right. I mumbled my name and shook his hand and he gave just enough pressure to make me blush. I cursed myself for having my guard down. This was the enemy camp. I had not even considered that there would be anyone worth consideration in the DA's office. I did not sleep with the enemy, and there were conflict of interest laws that prevented such couplings anyway.

"So why's it late?" he asked flipping through the papers.

"It was my fault. I was . . . distracted," I said. He looked at me for elaboration. "The motion has merit. It was a warrantless entry and sweep of the premises. Setting up a sting in the apartment was a bit beyond the scope of a search incident to arrest, don't you think? There's no question of consent . . . to the search."

Now, I know you're thinking "this is why she doesn't get any, she won't shut up," and you may have a point, but, for me that statement was just a notch down from foreplay. "I'll have to look at it then," he said and turned to put it on the desk, "as long as you'll have a drink with me."

"You're going to look at it only if I have a drink with you?" I asked with some of my uptightness coming through.

He smiled then, which did not help matters. "No, I just wondered if you'd like to have a drink."

I looked at the clock on the wall. I had missed the train and it was two hours until the next one. "Sure," I said.

We were standing in the corner at the bar and I was on my second drink when he looked at me as though he could see me and see through me. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I want to fuck you," with his hot breath against my neck. That's the kind of declaration that overwhelms a girl. I could have pretended I was insulted, I could have walked away, I could have said, "you read my mind," or "what the fuck." Instead I said, "I can't. I'll lose my job."

This was not an overstatement. The Montagues and Capulets had nothing on the doomed romance between a prosecutor and member of the defense team. Undisclosed romantic interludes have led to the reversal of convictions. The law demanded full disclosure of any such liaison to the client, and I don't think our clients or my boss would be sympathetic to my desire to fuck the prosecutor.

He reached up and removed the clip holding my bun so that my hair fell on my shoulders. He moved closer to me and put a hand to my neck under my hair and bent down to kiss me. If I had an operator's manual this would be under the section on how to turn me on. He put his tongue in my mouth and I tasted him and sighed.

"I can't," I whispered again, my eyes closed and my lips hovering over his. It was downright embarrassing how much I wanted him, but when I looked in his eyes I saw no judgment, only his understanding and need.

"Shit," he said. "Okay what if I can switch cases with another DA?" he asked.

"You're going to rearrange the DA's office so you can fuck me?"

"God, I love it when you say 'fuck,'" he said looking at me with his green eyes.

Any remnants of resistance melted. He had me at "I want to fuck you."

"I have to catch the train," I said and left the bar. I walked into the cool air of the early evening to the station. On the ride home, in the close compartment and with the gentle rocking of the train and the effects of the alcohol I drifted off to sleep thinking of him.

In my dream a woman, who looked like me, stood naked in front of a full length mirror brushing her hair. I could only see what was reflected in the mirror. The room was dark and warm; the windows open with the sound of night crickets and creatures filtering through. The moonlight shone against the mirror lighting the woman in an eerie glow. A man, who looked like John Hawkins, appeared behind her dressed in a shirt and pants. He looked at her in the mirror and stroked a hand down the length of her back. He leaned over to kiss her neck pushing her hair aside and put one hand on her breast. He brought the other hand down over her stomach through the hair on her mound and pushed his fingers into her slit. She moaned and moved back against him.

"You're so wet," he whispered.

She turned to face him so that they were reflected in profile in the mirror. "I want you," she said and brought her mouth to his. He licked the edge of her parted lips with the tip of his tongue and kissed her thrusting his tongue in her mouth. She put down the brush and unbuttoned his shirt and took it off him. She passed her hands over his chest and licked and sucked his nipple while he stroked her hair, back and buttocks. She unbuckled his pants, undid the button and zipper and brought his pants down to his feet kneeling in front of him. She pulled his underwear from his waist and brought them down also, releasing a long thick cock that jutted out from a ring of dark curls.

She held the base of his cock and looked up at him meeting his eyes while he put a hand to her head. With her other hand she caressed his balls, then licked them and drew her tongue up the shaft to the head. She took the tip of his cock into her mouth and swirled her tongue around the head and rim until he moaned. She went again to his balls and nibbled at them with her mouth. She continued again to the head and licked the small opening pushing in her tongue to reach the salty sweet precursor of his discharge. She took the head into her mouth drenching it with her saliva then moved her mouth down over the length of his cock as far as it would go. She sucked back along the length of it and he began to pump gently into her mouth. She continued to lick, nibble and suck until he groaned. Then she let her teeth graze against the shaft and head. She stopped and looked at him.

"Do you want to come in my mouth or in my cunt?" she asked.

"I want to fuck you," he said.

She got up, still caressing his cock and lay back on the edge of the bed, spreading her legs so that her moistened cunt reflected in the mirror. He moved between her legs taking his cock and rubbing it over her slit and the head against her clit until she gasped and clenched the bed coverings with her hands. He brought his cock to her swollen opening and eased gently into her like the tide pushing against the shore, penetrating through the folds of her cunt until he was buried deep within and their hairs met. She sighed and he brought her legs up with his hands and placed them over his elbows. He began to pump into her with slow deep strokes as she rose to meet him arching her back from the bed. He increased the pace, slamming into her, in and out, faster and faster. He reached down between her legs and rubbed her clit with his thumb. His pumping increased and he spent within her with sharp deep thrusts. As her orgasm overcame her she screamed and her scream combined with the screeching wheels of the train at the end of the line and I woke.

For the next week I was useless, worse than useless and destructive. Wanting a man in general was by far easier to deal with than wanting a man in particular. I was stuck in that torture of self-inflicted elation and despair, shifting from fantasy to reality and back again. I was giddy with incompetence. I tried to convince myself that I had not lost my mind and that it would take an apocalypse to drag me back to that den of demons and now temptation that was the DA's office.

Even in my useless state my boss wanted me to attend the hearing. We walked into the courtroom and over to the defense table on the left in front of the judge's bench. John Hawkins was still assigned to the case. He was standing behind the prosecutor's table across the aisle and turned when he heard us come in and smiled. My heart beat faster and I could hear it in my ears, my palms got sweaty, I blushed, my nipples hardened and I felt a pulling in my groin. My body deserted me utterly, running off in wild excitement while I tried to maintain composure. I had not seen him for a week and thought the separation would make seeing him again easier, but it only made it worse, much worse.

My boss looked through our file. "Could you get copies of the drug certificates from the DA?" he said. He may as well have asked me to get a handful of fire from hell. I walked over to the prosecutor's table and steeled myself for battle. The DA's were notorious at getting drug certificates in late. It wasn't their fault; the crime lab was always backed up and with recent budget cuts the delays were worse than they had ever been. But the DA's took the blame anyway. They were responsible for the Commonwealth's case.

"Do you have the copies of the drug certificates?" I asked stern and serious, all business.

"I think I saw them in here," he smiled and started leafing through his files. I watched him as he handle the papers, long slender fingers pinching the corners of the pages. I had to look away as I felt the lips of my cunt swell.

"How have you been?" he asked concentrating on his task.

"I've been better," I said.

He stopped and looked at me trying to understand my meaning and in that way he had that made me think he could read my mind. His eyes pierced through me and I smiled in self defense and in the next moment surrender.

"I haven't forgotten," he said; his smile lighting up his face.

"Drug certificates," I stammered pointing to the file.

"Right." He returned to his search, but could not find them. The result was a one month continuance of the case. The world was conspiring against me.

The next day he called me at the office. The secretary had identified the caller only as from the DA's office and I thought it was a routine scheduling issue. When I heard his voice I nearly dropped the phone.

"Don't mean to bother you at work," he said, "but I want to see you and this is the only way I can reach you." I gave him my phone number and told him to call me at home. That night I stared at the phone willing it to ring. I was alone so there was no one around to comment on or criticize my pathetic display of hope and desire. He called just after eight. "What are you doing?" he asked.

I should have been prepared for the question, but I wasn't. The only thing I had been doing was waiting for him to call, and I was not going to tell him that and sound needy and desperate. A girl has to keep some illusion of self-respect. I said, "I'm baking a pie." I don't know where this idea came from. I was not and never have baked a pie.

"What are you wearing?" he asked.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .