Author: bashful71

My first time [feet]

The year I turned 19, I spent the summer living in my parents’ spare room. Our neighbour across the street was Kay, a woman in her mid 30’s with a petite, athletic body and long, brown hair. Obviously, as a 19-year-old sex god, I was too cool to notice how attractive she was – I hardly ever got up early to watch her go for her morning run, gawking at the swell of her taut breasts and mouthwatering sway of her firm butt in their tight lycra. I certainly wouldn’t wait for forty-five minutes for her to come home again, skin glistening, ponytail swishing, discreet triangles of sweat gathering at her cleavage and buttocks…

I was alone in the house one warm day when, unexpectedly, she came and knocked on the door. Answering, I found her in cutoff shorts and a faded red bikini top, showing a lot more skin that I’m used to seeing that early in the morning. She asked me if I could come and help her move a couch, which, as a good neighbour, I immediately agreed to do, in a smooth and urbane way – I barely drooled at all. I have to admit that I was oogling a little as I followed her across the road. Read more »

Stuck in the office [feet]

So, I’m going around the office, mid-afternoon, trying to chase down a bad network cable. I notice that Karina’s office is empty, so I duck in there to see if she’s kicked a cable out of its socket again. I’m slightly relieved that she’s elsewhere – I find her *very* attractive, way out of my league, and I’m always rather tongue-tied around her. A good shorthand comparison would be Annie Clarke – athletic, leggy, blonde and fiercely intelligent. She politely ignores my existence, like most people do with IT geeks.

Her office only has room for two desks, hers and Marissa’s, placed back to back. I clamber underneath to look for the cables, which are naturally tangled up all to hell. Just as I find a candidate plug and start to wonder which socket it came from, I hear her walk into the office, chatting on her cellphone. I almost bang my head on the underside of the desk, and start to blush deeply as I realise what a position I’m in – she clearly hasn’t seen me. I want to speak up – what would I say? – but it’s too late, she’s sat in her chair and swivelled her legs under the desk, still talking. Something stops me from interrupting her, as the conversation is sounding a little bit intimate; I don’t doubt her boyfriend is some ultra-stud who doesn’t lurk under womens’ desks. Read more »