It had been a long day of standing in three inch heels on a concrete floor behind the teller’s desk. Dealing with rude people with important problems. Moving money around like there was an infinite supply of it when her own rent was two months behind.
She fantasized about the rich men. Mama had always said to marry money. Love don’t last, she said, but money, honey, that’s happiness. She didn’t know if she agreed. Papa was piss poor and they seemed happy. But this one standing at her window now, he was six feet of perfect Armani and glittering Rolex. The smell of Italian leather rolled off him, and he stood austerely with bank book in hand. He was gray at the temples, his shirt was an imposing shade of salmon, and his tie shiny and one shade darker than the shirt. His eyes were hidden by $1000 sunglasses.
“Sir, I have to ask you to remove your glasses,” she said politely. Her tone wouldn’t give away her wet panties. They were just Fruit of the Loom. But they looked better than bargain bin on her ass. She motioned with her pen to the sign by the computer. “Security reasons. The cameras have to get a good look at you.” She smiled. But it was more to herself.
He complied and slid his book and a roll of hundreds through the slot.
She completed his request, and he left without ever uttering a word. But she committed every inch of him to memory for later… She chewed her lip. What Mama didn’t know was, if you had money you didn’t need a personality. She wondered how big his cock was and blushed.
She closed the apartment door behind her and flipped the lock, then remembered it was broken. She’d notified management about it three days ago. It was a good thing she didn’t have any valuables. She kicked off her red heels and shimmied out of her pencil skirt. She took the clip out of her hair and let it fall in fire around her face and shoulders. She undid the fake pearl buttons on her blouse on the way to the bedroom.
‘Charly!” she called. She made a kissing noise. “Charly baby, where are you?” That was odd. He was always weaving between her ankles and meowing for her attention when she came home. He only hid when she had guests. She called and cajoled a few more times, to no avail.
In the bathroom she washed the makeup off her face and peed. Then, wearing only a lace half cup bra and those serviceable panties, she went to the dresser and took out her vibrator. Mr. Pink Shirt was still on her mind, and she was inventing a whole story around their meeting love affair as she settled back against the pillows.
Her eyes darted to the partially open closet… “Charly?” she could have sworn she heard something from there. Silly cat.
Her fingers were already lazily scratching her coppery mound. Her other hand holding her pink panties aside; he’d always asked why she left them on, why she didn’t just strip when she masturbated. She couldn’t answer him. It just feels good for some reason, she’d said. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t. Her fingers dipped between her wet lips and she took them to her mouth and tasted.
Her eyes drifted back to the closet while her mind imagined Pink Shirt inside, watching her. His cock would be growing, straining against his trousers. He might even be touching while his gray eyes watched her with a wolfish aloofness.
Her breath grew ragged as soon as she placed the buzzing vibe against her sex. She rubbed it along her slit, like he would do the head of his cock. She bit her lip, like he would do as he kissed her. A hand went to a full breast, teasing the nipple from behind the lace and nipping and tugging on it, turning it from dusky pink to purple. She arched her back and moaned when the vibrator finally touched her clit-
She heard it for sure that time. “Who’s there?” she demanded, growing still. Her body was humming and she felt like she couldn’t hear over it. “Show yourself!”
Nothing for a moment. Then a deep masculine voice said softly, “Please don’t stop.”
Her heart did a somersault. But instead of jumping up and covering herself, she felt a full flush of heat, and a feeling that her flesh was rising to meet the intruder’s eyes.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said. He spoke barely above a whisper. “I won’t touch you. I just want to watch.”
The vibrations were insistent, and her hips were rising to meet them without her permission. Her heart thundered.
“Forget I’m here. I’m just a fantasy.”
Was she insane? There was a stranger in her closet, and she was lying spread open like a lunchtime buffet.
She slid the panties off, and shifted her body slightly. He now had an unobstructed view. She resumed rubbing, and now, now the man in the closet was Mr. Pink Shirt. Oh the ways in which the wealthy indulged their fetishes. She held the vibe against her clit, then slid it lower, let it slide into her cunt. She felt her juices running down over her anus as she slowly, deliberately fucked herself with it. She pressed it against her g-spot and her first orgasm caused her to arch and moan and cry out. Was it just her imagination, or did she hear Mr. Pink Shirt whisper “Again.”?
It didn’t matter. She wasn’t ready to stop. The need swept through her like a tide. The vibe back on her clit and she rubbed out three more climaxes before rolling onto her tummy and reaching down to slide it into her ass, pushing up on her knees and letting the duvet muffle her desperate moans.
She finally lay spent, her hair covering her sweaty face, her body throbbing and limp. She drifted off and was later awakened by Charly kneading his paws into the small of her back. She stood and pulled a robe tight around herself, and crept to the closet like a child expecting ghosts. Gathering her nerve she flung the door wide, prepared to scream, but it was empty.