One sunny Saturday morning, my late-twenties, tall, pale, new-age but increasingly affluent girlfriend had invited her group of her female friends to brunch on my deck. I didn't plan on sticking around, so I got everything ready outside and helped my girlfriend in the kitchen before I said my goodbyes to the five women. I knew a few of them quite well. Something felt queer, however, just a little bit so, nothing too out of the ordinary, but I couldn't help but feel that the women were in on joke at my expense, as their faces betrayed smirking smiles. As soon as I drove out of my driveway, I forgot about the women and their brunch.
Half a decade later, years after we had broken up and I had gone through a dozen of her replacements, I got a call from an old female friend, begging for my help with her computer. I showed up at lunch time and she greeted me at her door, wearing an attractive, sexy dress and heels, which wasn't unexpected, as she was short, at least a foot shorter than me, and she always wore high heels and dressed nicely. I had worked with her a decade earlier and I remember the commotion she induced when she was hired. We had a large staff, over 100, but only two fairly attractive women. When she came aboard, she set a new high standard. She was then in her late twenties then and just recently divorced. Her luscious, long, flowing dark chestnut-colored hair was the first thing to strike you, reminding you of all the shampoo commercials you had seen. Then, your eyes were pulled down by her exotic and lovely face. She was half German, half Armenian, making her look like she was Cher's younger, cuter sister (or cousin). She walked with a regal bearing, as if she were at least rich if not famous. And when she spoke, she would pause before speaking and slowly raise her large green eyes to meet yours in an intense exchange before speaking in a near whisper. Her voice was seductive in its gentleness and frailty.
I was shown the ill computer and I went to work. She chatted away, but I barely listened, as I wrestled with the dangle of cables. I had found the problem. I felt like a doctor who had to deliver bad news to his patient. I stood next to her and she leaned in closer to me, so I put an arm around her waist and drew her closer to my side, as I pointed to the computer and told her hard drive was dying and the only thing to do was turn off the computer and take the hard-drive to data extraction firm and pay big bucks, about $600. Oddly enough, she didn't seem all that troubled; instead, she just looked up into my face, with a sly smile forming on her lips. I was completely in geek mode and kept explaining that she had a big problem. She told me, "If you are going to take a peek, you might as well get a good one."
I had no idea what she was talking about. She pulled her collar away from her chest, so I could get a good view of her black-lace, mostly-transparent bra and her two mounds of smooth, white skin. Through the transparent material, I could see her lovely pinkish nipples. We had often flirted, and I had stolen glimpses of her fine little body many times before, but on that day her body wasn't on my mind. Still, she did have nice looking breasts. She was now in her late thirties and she had gained at least ten pounds, but it appeared that they had collected in her breasts and ass cheeks, giving her a nicer hourglass figure.
I must have looked stunned and stupid, as she let her collar fall back against her chest and said, "If you don't want to take a bigger peek, you don't have to."
My answer was, "Who says I don't want to?" And pulled the top of her dress open again and took a good long look inside. I told her that she looked lovely and that I had always found her breasts unbearably sexy. I explained how I had first noticed them a decade ago at our company picnic, where she had arrived wearing no bra, which drove the all men crazy and pissed off most of the women, as her pointy nipples were clearly visible through her thin cotton top.
Here is odd part of the story: I had zero interest in fucking her. Why not?
First of all, I liked and needed her husband, Martin, a super nice guy who could repair any car problem; and because of my friendship with his wife, at a huge discount. Second, I had a firecracker of a girlfriend at the time, who was only 26 and sex obsessed. Last, I liked her as a friend, which she would probably end up not being after a few months of scandalous sex. Still, I was in no hurry to stop hugging her or stop looking at her proffered breasts. In fact, I was getting high from the perfumed smell of her hair and warm smell of her skin so close to me, besides her large almond eyes had a hypnotic quality. As I told her more about how that day at the picnic had never vanished from my mind, I placed my finger underneath her bra and slowly ran it over her round breast, just gently skimming over her nipple.
Fortunately, she broke the spell by laughing and telling me that she had worn a bra that afternoon at the picnic, just not a cloth bra. She explained that she had used flesh-colored medical tape to tape her breasts from the just above the nipple to over her shoulder, and then applied a strip from under one breast to the other, creating limit to how much her breasts could sag, bounce, or sway, yet still appear completely braless.
The technological wonder of what she had said filled me with joy. It was so ingenious and effective. I released her dress and my grip on her side, as I congratulated her cleverness. Apparently she wanted to go back to our tight embrace, as she leaned in on me and placed her hand on my shirt over my heart. Then, she performed one of her signature pauses and seductive smiles and dramatic eye raising, ending in a near whisper that she had a secret to tell me about my cock.
I listened in stunned silence as she told me about how she had seen a Polaroid photo of my cock and how the remembrance of it had helped push her over the edge into orgasm many times while she lay under her husband. She had seen the photo that afternoon on my deck five years ago. It turned out that in previous get-togethers, the women had talked about their boyfriend's and husband's packages. One of the women had photo of her husband's cock hidden in a folding key fob, which she had opened and showed to the other women. In subsequent get-togethers, other women had displayed pics of their man's equipment. Soon enough, my girlfriend was the only one who had not produced any evidence of her boasts about my dick.
Although she had a degree from a prestigious university, she had worked in a coffee shop and a candle store, before she abandoning her hippie ways and joined the cooperate world, where her high intelligence and many skills were soon rewarded with big paychecks. All her friends that afternoon belonged to this world and she wanted to belong as well. So, she had promised to take a photo of me to show the girls. On the day of their brunch at our place, she showed them the photo—while I was in the kitchen.
As she described that photo of my cock, I remembered it vividly, as I always hated the picture. The night that it was taken, I was exhausted and I had just gotten home from work and my 5'10", wan, half-hippy chick, half-business women, girlfriend greeted me in sexy lingerie and offered to blow me, while I sat in my favorite chair, my cock pulled up through my pants zipper. It was a good blowjob, one of her best, and I was nearing a happy ending, when she stopped to take Polaroid photo of me, which explained why I looked so mean and scowling in the photo. In addition, from the position and angle she shot the pic, my cock took on photoshop qualities, much as a woman's foot can look unnaturally large in a badly taken photo, my cock looked more like a small baseball bat, an emphatic exclamation point sticking out of my pants. If I were placing an ad in Craigslist, I would never use that photo, as it would only lead to disappointment when reality failed to conform to the picture.
Still stunned by what I was hearing, I tried a half-hearted attempt to explain to my sexually-aggressive friend how the photo that she had been shown wasn't very good, as it was fundamentally distorted, but she didn't understand me and she had other things on her mind. She had moved her hand down to my pants, where her fingers traced the outline of my semi-erect cock pressing against cloth of my pants. I was wearing thick wool slacks and thick flannel boxer shorts, as it was bitterly cold outside; my loose clothing allowed my cock to unfold and enlarge freely and added some artificial extra girth for her to grip, as my cock stiffened into a proper tentpole. She actually moaned, as she gripped my stiffing cock through my pants. I was sure that I didn't have an option now: she and I would soon be naked and fucking on the floor...
Somehow, I got out of her house, without having to fuck her first. (I did give her a good, long, wet kiss.) As I drove home, I was pleased that my car mechanic would still be my car mechanic and that I had displayed such will power. I was also pleased to understand—finally—why that group of women had acted in such an odd fashion around me after that sunny day on my deck. It also explained why, whenever I encountered one of them, the woman always seemed extra happy to see me.
