It was her legs that I saw first. Pressed together, clad in blue denim, they had been placed strategically in front of me. There was something about the curve of those legs that instantly caught my attention. Then my eyes moved from her feet, up the expanse of leg and feasted on her waist. I could see the gleaming silver button of her jeans moving in and out… in and out… as she breathed. The silver zipper poked mischievously out of its pouch, almost daring me to take hold.

I started as my brain struggled to absorb what the eyes had seen. Did I gasp out loud? Could I have immediately given away my thoughts? Or did it all happen in the twinkling of an eye, the look, the scan, the breath, the thought, all so quick as to be invisible to the observer?

What I do know is that it started at that moment. I was captivated by this body that had so obviously been arranged to present itself to me. It was inviting me, of that I had no doubt.

I don’t remember the conversation now. Her friend was there, but memory excludes the words. What is indelible, though, is the memory of her sitting, stretching in that chair. Do women instinctively know how to do that? Do they know the effect they have when they arrange – and stretch – and arch – their bodies? Do they have any conception of the sensations they arouse as we drink in the splendour of their bodies?

My eyes moved from the waist, moved Ataşehir Escort from a fleeting thought of the delights within, to roam northwards along her torso. She was wearing a shirt, buttoned and clinging ever so perfectly to her taut form. Coloured light blue, it disappeared into the denim around that waist, stretched tight, but punctuated by tiny corrugations of cotton, without disguising the flatness of her stomach.

The shirt rose around her breasts, creating another point of tautness. They seemed so instantly perfect, not large, but so female, so softly firm. There was the faintest hint of undergarment, a slight ridge of material holding the breasts and pressing against the shirt. It only took a split second, but I saw the tiny point of a nipple, straining against the fabric, winking at me.

At that younger age, reactions are faster, less controlled. I remember the buzz of electricity that accelerated down into my groin, ahead of the rush of blood that began to harden my penis. At almost exactly the same moment, rationality asserted itself, the brain demanded control and awareness of the office and other people compelled obedience from my body. Composure remained.

My eyes moved sharply north again and there was her neck. Oh, that neck! It beckoned my lips, it summoned my fingers, it cried out for the light and teasing caress of the back of my hands. It begged Ataşehir Escort Bayan for the breath of my mouth and teased and dared my teeth to nip and gently bite. I saw the tan of her skin as I drank in that neck and shifted my gaze to her face.

I saw her hair, brunette, cascading towards that neck, soft, inviting. Then I saw myself stroking her hair, running along her scalp as my hand pulled her face to mine. At that same moment I noticed the distinctive little upturn of the end of her nose. I saw the eyebrows, black, thin and elegant. At that very moment I wanted to kiss those eyebrows and marvel at their beauty. But now my senses were drunk, unable to focus properly in the face of a magnificent assault. As my eyes settled on her mouth, I knew I was hooked.

Her mouth was ever so slightly open, her lips glistening slightly in the sunlight from the window. They looked so soft, so amazingly sensual, so much in need of company. And she was smiling at me, gently, somewhat tentatively, but also with a boldness that bespoke a sense of purpose I rarely displayed myself.

All this happened in a matter of seconds. But that was all it took for me to be captured by her. We were briefly introduced. Her name was Rachel. She told me she had seen me “around”. I wondered where in the building she worked, but did not ask.

And then she was gone.

In time, Escort Ataşehir my lips would meet with hers, my tongue would explore her mouth, delighting in her taste and smell. I would caress that neck, firmly, but gently, pulling and biting at her skin, hearing her soft moan of approval as my hands roamed over her back, grasping at that perfect bottom, pulling her close to me. I would hold those glorious breasts and my tongue would dance across those nipples.

In time, her mouth would descend on my hardened cock, her hands squeezing and pulling on my balls, her tongue teasing the engorged head. I would watch her beneath me, her head back as I thrust into her pussy, her breasts heaving against my chest.

In time, we would experiment, we would live out our fantasies with each other, we would journey into a sexual world together, determined to live it to the full.

But, for now, that was all in the future.

Now, she was gone, and all I knew was her name. Rachel. I wanted one day to moan and gasp her name as we clung to each other, but at this moment it was impossible to see how this could ever be.

That night, I was lost in memories of that brief encounter, gripped with fear that I would not see her again, exhilarated by the fantasies racing through my mind. I replayed over and over again in my mind that look, that smile, trying desperately to interpret its meaning.

Memory gave way to masturbation. As my hand gripped and stroked, her stretching, arching body could almost have been there, urging me on. As my cock exploded into my hand and onto my body, I called her name. Rachel. That powerful, wrenching orgasm led to sleep. And dreams. Of her.