“So…” I began; my usual awkward-silence conversation starter.
“So…what?” he replied, smirking, his striking blue eyes gleaming.
While we had been talking and texting quite a bit (over 1000 texts at the time) and had finally met the previous night for a wonderful dinner; sitting at Subway with him at lunch the next day was still a bit intimidating. As was he. At 6’3” to my above-average-yet-meager-when-compared-to-him 5’6”, and 245 pounds to my, uh, never mind but in fabulous shape, he was quite the male specimen. A body builder, he had the most incredible upper body I had ever seen in person. Even among the myriad professional football players whom I had stalked, er, acquired autographs from (and an occasional arm-squeezing) in my lifetime. Let’s face it…his arms were the size of fledgling sequoias and I was beyond titillated and suffering from biceps-induced euphoria.
What is it about arms and me? I wondered. I perused the seemingly endless cranium storage facility of my past looking for that one moment wherein I developed my arm fetish. I honestly cannot remember when the moment hit me. That moment when I shouted “Eureka!” much like Archimedes’ water displacement epiphany caused him to leap, naked, from the bathtub and run elatedly through the streets of Syracuse, New York. Nevertheless, being around his arms—and the rest of him—made me want to leap, naked, from my hard, wooden Subway bench and into his (hopefully) hard, wooden, testosterone-laden lap.
Needless to say, it was very difficult to concentrate on my turkey sub and to ensure that I didn’t get mayonnaise on my face that could be remotely reminiscent of some type of sexual activity about which I found myself frequently fantasizing with him. I wanted to see him naked. I wanted to trace every inch of that magnificent body and squeeze every muscle, but most particularly his arms—even more so than his corpus cavernosum, which I wondered whether was in as great of shape as the rest of him.
I watched his mouth as he spoke and devoured his sandwich, albeit not simultaneously. He was, after all, a gentleman who opened doors and said please and thank you. So, no, he did not talk with his mouth full. Of food, that is. Anyway, he had nice lips…full, like mine. I wondered what it would feel like to kiss them, to nibble on them, to taste him and feel his tongue intermingle with mine as we wrapped our arms around each other; all the while I hoped that he wouldn’t crush my ribcage like Popsicle sticks in a vise.
The mutual mind-in-the-gutter thing we had going compounded the sexual tension we shared from across the booth and added to the spreading wetness in my panties. I found myself periodically drifting off to that dirty little (OK, big) place in my mind from whence my stories are born and which takes possession of my body when I am in the throes of passion. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in what he was saying. I was very much so. But I found myself repeatedly and pleasantly distracted by his musculature and trying to remember geometric and physics formulae for volume, mass, motion, and momentum. I did recall that momentum was directly proportional to both an object’s mass and velocity and this concept was way more important than figuring out the number of times a swallow has to beat its wings to maintain air-speed velocity whilst carrying a coconut from tropical to more temperate zones so that Patsy could beat two halves together to simulate a cantering equine.
As I found myself attempting to compute relatively uncomplicated scientific equations absent the luxury of a calculator—and a formulaic cheat sheet (I am, after all, a writer, not a mathematician)—I heard the tail end of a comment of his. Not knowing exactly what he said, I managed an inane smile and nod and hoped that he didn’t think I was a complete dumbbell (unlike those with which he was intimately familiar) who was wholly incapable of participating in stimulating conversation two dates in a row. The truth was that other facets of my being were being stimulated far more than my communication command center.
In reality, my verbal aptitude had migrated—much like Monty Pythonesque coconuts—south. The tingling between my legs was undeniable and grew stronger with each passing second. A barrage of most-assuredly unladylike thoughts had brought me to such a heightened state of arousal that the simple act of eating a Subway turkey sub on wheat with all of the vegetables, one squirt of light mayonnaise, and some pepper turned into a veritable sensory orgy.
I imagined his lips on mine, his arms carefully encircling me, his hands undressing me and subsequently wandering across my body like an itinerant nomad who is captivated by every mountain, valley, and water source. I fantasized about lying naked next to him in my bed, on a picnic blanket, in the back of my SUV, on the beach. Heck, even across the table upon which our sandwiches, chips, and beverages sat, although that could be a bit painful on the joints. Ours, not the table’s because those tables are bolted into the ground.
Nevertheless, I wanted to climb all over his unclothed body like a five-year old on a new playground. I longed to swing from his monkey bars, teeter on his totter, and drink from his fountain. I hungered for him to bury himself in my sandbox.
In all actuality, however, I did ache to feel his mouth all over me, tongue licking, teeth nibbling every inch of my overly-aroused body. I wanted to make him moan with my lips, tongue, teeth, fingers, palms, arms, breasts, legs, hips, nether lips, feet, toes…whatever it took. I yearned to feel his hard cock inside of me, proving all three of Newton’s laws of motion: that a body at rest will remain at rest until acted upon by an external force; that the acceleration of a body is directly proportional and parallel to the net force applied to it; and for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Oh how I desired to be that reaction.
“My break is over,” he announced rather reluctantly, yanking me out of my prolific and fertile erotic fantasy world and back into the present. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“I know,” I replied as we stood and gathered our collective trash from the table. At least I heard that statement. I smiled as we walked out into the parking lot.
Read N.S. Faulk’s other sexy stories published here on Every Night Erotica.
A career student who ran out of money, N.S. Faulk turned to writing erotica for fame and big bucks. She is the proud mom of two amazing daughters who are not allowed to read her stories — EVER! She’d like to thank Tim McGraw and Vin Diesel’s arms for their unknowing inspiration to her writing.