I get to work, note the confusion and mess and noise and dusty men everywhere in the lobby, and think to myself Oh, damn! They’re finally moving another tenant into the building. Well, it was nice having the building to ourselves while it lasted! Three out of four empty floors, and the last taken up by the little software company I contract for. So quiet. So many good parking spaces! Well, the quiet is certainly gone now. And the parking spaces will follow it into history.

As I’m waiting for the elevator to come, I glance over at the workmen who are busily doing something far beyond my comprehension with pieces of wood and huge tarps and paint. Well, I may not understand it, but at least it moves, I think, as I wait for the slowest elevator in the world to arrive to take me up to my floor. Some of the guys working in the lobby are glancing my way, checking me out, trying to figure out what I look like under my business suit, I guess. Well, they’re allowed to look, just as I am. I hear my elevator ding and stand in front of the doors, but off to the side so people can get out.

Oh brother, more workmen! Beep, beep! Let `em through first-—they’re bigger than me after all. Oh wow, look at the really tall dark-skinned guy in the back. Lovely glowing black skin, rippling with muscles, and, on top, oh my, that adorable baby face that so many young black men seem to have these days. I stare at Mr. Gorgeous in open admiration–can’t help myself, he’s just my type—but unlike the other dusty gentlemen, he does not look my way once! As he exits the elevator, he keeps his eyes straight ahead and brushes by so close to me it makes me think he doesn’t even see me there! I blush and look down in confusion: I may not be the prettiest woman in the world, but I’m not that bad looking. I’m especially not used to going unnoticed in this way. Oh well, he’s probably got some gorgeous girlfriend waiting for him at home that would make someone like me fade into the woodwork. A guy like that could have any woman he wanted—light or dark. Well I’m sort of in-between, hee hee, so I have both sides covered. Shut up, undie-brains, he’s NOT interested in you! Period!

Still, I can’t get him off my mind. I find it hard to concentrate on my work and catch myself staring off into space thinking of Mr. Gorgeous’s beautiful dark eyes and riveting bone structure. Mmmmmm. Wonder how long the workmen are going to be here?

I look for this guy when I leave work, but do not see him, or any of the other workmen, for that matter. I consider briefly going walking down some of the empty halls, just to check out what they’re doing, you know, observe their progress and maybe ask a few questions about the future residents of this floor, then laugh at myself for that transparent self-lie.

The next morning I decide not to dress as conservatively. While I still wear a suit jacket (my cardinal rule: never go to the client’s site without one) it’s a short casual tweed that hangs open over a form fitting cream ribbed sweater and a tight brown plaid skirt, about two inches shorter than I’d normally wear to work. Under the skirt I’ve got some dark brown tights that look great with the skirt. Some nice brown leather pumps give me an extra three inches of height and give my long legs that wonderful shape to that only heels do. I look positively collegiate! As usual, my butt sticks out too much in back, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Apparently the workmen like college girls, because when I enter the lobby I get glance after glance after glance and three or four nodding hellos. I look around for MY workman and see him over at the end of the lobby, near a corner. Mr. Gorgeous is facing my way, but again appears to not even see me. He can’t possibly miss me, but still, his eyes stare through me emptily, as if no one was standing in my spot. What the hell is his problem, I ask myself as I sigh in frustration. Boy, that must be some hot mama who’s warming his bed each night. I know what this outfit does to most men, and it doesn’t make them ignore me. I get into my elevator and give him one more longing look before the doors clothes. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a faint sneer on those beautiful features. All right, Mr. Stuck Up, be that way. This is war!

No it’s not, I conclude half an hour later when I AGAIN can’t keep my mind on my work. I manage to make it till ten o’clock, then, on the pretext of going on a break, head downstairs, purportedly to go outside to “clear my head and get some sun.” Just who am I trying to fool? There he is, still on the first floor, hammering on something and with his shirt off, sexier than ever. And I have to walk by him to get to the benches on the patio! I keep my eyes down (easy to do—it’s unnerving having all those guys staring at me) and don’t look at Mr. Gorgeous until I’m almost upon him. Then I glance up quickly and flash him my widest, friendliest grin. The other guys near him start laughing and calling out to him (his name is Brian, what a cute name!) when they see this but he only gives me a small curt nod, just the barest acknowledgement of my existence. Man, this guy is a tough case!

Outside the usual peace of the patio is broken by more workmen doing stuff. There’s some kind of dust in the air and an annoying electrical saw is whining. I make it through my fifteen minutes, however, as I’m too embarrassed to just sit there for a couple and then go back in. That would be too obvious I think. I’ve taken my jacket off in the sun, and decide not to put it back on until I’m back in the elevator. I walk briskly but with very small steps by Mr. Gorgeous, swinging my hips just slightly. I look at him again, and wonder of wonders HE’s smiling at me! What a beautiful smile he has! My elation doesn’t last very long however.

Him, clearly condescending: “Do you know that you’ve got cement dust all over the back of your skirt?”

Me, blushing deeply: “Uh, no! I uh didn’t! Thank you for telling me!”

Him, victorious: “No problem!”

In the midst of my humiliation, I have one of those rare mental flashes that I think of as inspired. It occurs to me to brush the cement dust off my bottom right there next to him, with my back to him. So I do, very businesslike and efficient, that is, if you can be businesslike and efficient brushing your hands over every inch of your too-large ass in front of a group of staring men.

Me, innocently: “Could you tell me if I got it all?”

Him, amused: “No you missed a couple of spots on the left side.”

Me, after brushing again: “Now?”

Him, chuckling: “No, you’d better go look at yourself in a mirror.”

I turn around and flash him another huge smile, “OK, I’ll do that!” and go off to my elevator. Once again, the guys start chuckling and talking to him as soon as I start to step away. “SoÂ…who won that round?” I giddily ask myself, thinking about one of the silliest questions I’d ever seen posted on the World Wide Web. “If there was a body parts war, who would win? The penises or the vaginas?” It seemed a straight draw to me.

The next few days pass with little change. The handsome workman and I have reached the stage of smiling buddies. I always smile at him first and he now grins back. It makes my day to see his face light up that way. And oh jeez, he has a DIMPLE! I’ve also noticed that after one of those smiles the seat of my office chair is always damp when I go to lunch. Unda, you are disgusting!

On one such day, at lunch, I head down to the lobby with a few of the women programmers. We’re all going to go to lunch at a nearby Mexican restaurant that one of the women really loves. As we go down in the elevator, we start to giggle and talk about the workmen. I tell them which one I think is cute and most of them agree he’s a doll, but they also think he’s mean because he never seems to notice them. In the hallway, we’re giggling again, typical female gang behavior, and, as we walk by Mr. Gorgeous on our way out to the cars, I look at him, stick my tongue out at him really fast, and then flash a smile. He chuckles when he sees that. Today is a chuckles day! All RIGHT! I’m walking on air.

I have no idea of what I ate for lunch that day. No idea at all. My stomach’s a bundle of nerves all afternoon long, however, and finally, around two hours before I usually go home, I decide to call it a day. I’m not getting anything done in this state. I’m glad I contract and can set my own hours, more or less. I say goodbye to the people around me, then head out into the hall. As I’m waiting for the ever-slow elevator, I have a second inspiration. Two great ideas in one week is pretty unusual for me. I wonder what’s going on. Dumb question, Unda. Necessity is the mother of invention, etc.

I turn away from the elevator and head around the corner for the stairwell. I have noticed that Mr. Gorgeous is often not in the lobby in the afternoons, and my great idea is to find out where he might be. I go down one flight of stairs to the third floor. I listen at the fire door for men’s voices, don’t hear anything, and decide to go in. I’m feeling not unlike a fool now, wandering these empty corridors. But I wander them thoroughly, checking out every room. Nothing. No one. So, of course, the girl who never gives up goes down to the SECOND floor and starts nosing around. I don’t have to nose far. Oh Jesus, there he is, painting a hallway wall. And he’s ALL ALONE! He looks up, not smiling, as my heels tap out my presence.

Me, suddenly abashed: “Hi there. Um, do you know where the ladies room is on this floor?” (lame, Unda, lame)

Him, slow measured look: “Down the hall.”

Me,” Thanks!”

And I do it again! I stick out my tongue at him really, really quick and then grin in an unmistakably mischievous way. And suddenly, in an instant, I find myself halfway down the hall being propelled by a huge hand on the back of my neck. What the hell? A restroom door is flung open at the end of the hall, and I’m pushed, skidding to my knees, into it. Oh god, it’s filthy in here! The last tenants didn’t pay for cleaning before they moved out. Smells of old urine, cigarettes, and MEN. Strong male scent. Stains all over the floor and the urinals. SHIT! I finally notice I’m in the Men’s Room. I start to kneel up but as soon as I do, Mr. Gorgeous’s lower half comes into view. His naked belly is directly in front of my face, in fact, and his hand gently pushing the back of my head closer to it. He’s got a beautiful belly, just a little bit of hair to accent the smooth muscled skin, and there in all its glory is his hard long cock. I have never found myself in this exact position before. I mean, I’ve been in this position but not gotten there in this exact way. I mean, oh hell, who can think with THAT beautiful thing staring at me?

He’s pushing my head, still gently, closer and closer to his dick and suddenly I panic. What do I think I’m doing in here? This is crazy! I don’t even know this guy and here I am three inches from his belly, staring cross-eyed at it while his cock is about to bump me in the chin. I think of biting Mr. Gorgeous’s stomach, then remember those muscular arms and think better of it. Instead I use my hands to push off it and roll backwards, to where I think the bathroom door is located. I bump into a wall and look up and back toward him. He’s just standing there with this hurt confused expression in his big brown eyes. As if he’s saying to me, “how could you do this? I thought we had an understanding.” Although I’m almost at the door, I stay where I am, mesmerized by his glance. I am such a sucker for big brown eyes. Argh!

I mumble an apology, “I’m sorry, I just got nervous for a second,” and head back to him on my knees as fast as I can, aware that the knees of my tights are getting wet from unidentified fluids. There’s an overpowering male scent in the air, increasing my nervousness, but I bury my head in his belly and start kissing it all over, little soft flicky kisses, little licks with my tongue. His hand is back against my head, this time with the fingers buried in my hair, flexing open and closed. I stop kissing for a second and look up at him. His eyes are closed, and his face looks beautiful, beatific. For some reasons this makes me start to giggle. His hand closes in my hair and gives my head a little shake. Why do I instinctively know what that means? I start nuzzling around the base of Mr. Gorgeous’s cock, I love the sexy smell of his crotch and the feel of the hairs there. Mmmmm!

“I’m real horny babe, and I have to get back to work soon.” He speaks! But I don’t like what he’s saying, particularly. What does he think, that he’s just going to shove it in my mouth, quickly offload and leave me kneeling on this dirty floor with a mouth full of jism and a pounding ache between my legs? Just so he can get back to his stupid job? I’m the type of woman that likes to be of service — up to a point. In the end, there’s got to be something in it for me—or, unlike certain easy sluts I know, I just don’t play. I stop my nuzzling, look up into his eyes (which are now half open, lazily watching me) and say rather sharply, “Well, maybe if you’re in such a god-damned hurry, you ought to zip your fly and get back to work RIGHT NOW!”

I’ve barely got the last words out of my mouth before I feel a savage slap on one side of my face. I would have fallen to the floor if his hand hadn’t been holding me up by the hair. Before I can figure out what’s going on, he’s got me by the neck and is dragging me on my ass across the floor. Oh Christ, what have I got myself into? BANG! I gasp in shock as the back of my head hits something very hard, it must be the wall at the far end of the bathroom, over by the last stall. My vision is blurred and so must be my head as I’m sitting here (where is here?) back against the wall, trying to fight my terror and figure out what is happening to me. I can barely breath, as Mr. Gorg- this guy’s hand is tight around my throat, pinning my head in place against the wall. I can’t believe this is happening to me. It’s all too sudden, too painful. “Did I ever tell you, honey, that I like to beat up girls just for the sheer hell of it?” I hear the words but they don’t make a lot of sense to me at the moment. But some part of me understands, because I hear whimpering in response. Is that really me? As dizzy and disoriented as I am, I don’t see his large right hand moving toward me: Wham! Wham! Wham! He slaps one side of my face than the other, while his huge left hand holds my head still, by the neck.

He stops slapping and scrutinizes me carefully. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. My head is nodding drunkenly and I try to beg, “Please stop now! I’ll do anything you say. Just sto-”

“You’ll do anything I say regardless, bitch!”

He has a point, I think in confusion. The anger in his tone really frightens me, but at the same time, it turns me on. Anything could happen now, dazzled, alone on this floor in this restroom with this strong aggressive man. Absolutely anything. I don’t know what else to say in response, but I try to speak anyway. I open my mouth to say something, and suddenly he’s shoving his large dick deep inside it. I start to choke as he moves it furiously in and out of my slack mouth. Did I just hear him say something about fucking a pumpkin? Wouldn’t you know, I can’t keep quiet. I try to say something smart back in return, but “don’t burn yourself on my candle” comes out “mwof ber gypsofff of of comefo.”

“You know baby, you talk too much,” I hear Mr. Gorgeous mutter, almost kindly just before a really jarring shock on the right side of my head knocks me to the floor. I can’t move, and can barely think, I’m seeing those stars that people always talk about when they’re knocked out, and also huge black splotches in front of my eyes. I barely notice when Mr. Gorgeous maneuvers himself so that his cock is once again ramming itself down my throat while I lie on the dirty, stained floor, unable to do a thing about it. “Suck now, baby” he says gently and I try, with slow, dazzled sucks. I can’t seem to move my eyes, they just stare straight ahead at the marvelous musculature of one side of his abdomen as he shoves his cock faster and deeper in my mouth. Both his hands are holding my head, maneuvering it into exactly the right position as my pumpkin hole mouth slowly and distractedly tries to suck him. He’s whispering things in my ear, horribly nasty hot things, like, “get your big fucking lips around my dick bitch and get me off!” I try as hard as I can to obey him. As dazzled as I am, I sense when he’s about to spew and try to clamp down a little harder with my lips (you see, I really am a nice girl after all, I just sometimes have to act mean to get what I want!). He growls — he actually growls when he comes, and I feel the hot sperm shooting deep in my throat and start to choke on it. That turns him on even more, and he presses my head deep into his crotch despite my frantic attempts to breathe. After what seems like forever, he’s done, and I pull away from his crotch in order to take in big, gasping breaths. And then I start to cough hard. Half of the sperm dribbles out my mouth and seeing this, Brian yells at me, “Swallow my cum, bitch!” I swallow what’s left and then just lay my head back down between his legs, still gasping and whimpering a little through my sore mouth, and feeling totally used by this big man. I think irrelevantly to myself, “I’m just a pumpkin cream pie.”

He lays for a minute or two with me, sharing his warmth, which I’m very grateful for then suddenly he pushes me off him. I roll onto my back, and watch him stand up and zip his pants. From my vantage point on the floor, he looks like a giant, his huge legs spread, arms on his hips. What a humiliating sight I must be, my short skirt rolled up to my waist with my thong showing clearly through the semi-transparent tights, knees still wet, my mouth slack, lipstick completely gone, eye makeup smeared from crying, my cheeks beet red from the savage slaps. I wonder if all the cum is off my face. “Aren’t you a filthy mess, you little whore,” he says scornfully. I gaze at his face and see that he is smirking! At me! As if he feels infinitely superior to me! I feel an intense electrical thrill go through my cunt in response to his expression and words, and my hand moves automatically to the right spot between my legs. Mr. Gorgeous laughs long and hard when I do this, and then shakes his head in mock regret, saying “you bitches are all the same.” Never one to let someone have the last word, even when doing so might be a very wise idea, I murmur, still only partially conscious, “Oh yeah? What about Andrea Dworkin?”

Apparently those last two words triggered something quite interesting in him because suddenly, after a vicious kick to my thonged behind, I felt myself in motion again, dragged by the chain I wore around my neck into a bathroom stall, where I was placed face down over a toilet bowl. That ever-present hand was in my hair again, jerking my head back hard, so that I screamed as much from the crick in my neck as from the tearing in my hair. The other hand was jerking my tights down, oh shit, oh no! “I didn’t mean that, I really didn’t” I try to yell, just before a wad of dubiously clean paper towels (lying on the toilet in lieu of tissue paper) is shoved into my mouth. My scream, as he enters my rear dry, is muffled by the paper towels but still, I think curiously, before the searing pain in my ass takes over my consciousness, it manages to echo very nicely in the dirty, high-walled restroom.

©2004 Unda. Crucius. Eximius.

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