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Winston Bramblenook was your typical milquetoast. A seller of high quality, leather bound literary classics, his daily door to door grind rarely netted him any big sales. From month to month, his meager commission and almost as miniscule hourly wage were barely enough to pay his rent and the few small bills he accrued. His personal life was in even worse shape, and couldn’t have been more boring if he was in a coma. Standing at a slightly above average five-ten, the brittle man weighed in at a mere hundred and thirty-eight pounds, sopping wet. If he lifted anything heavier than a box of cereal, his biceps would recoil instantly and grumble vehemently in protest.
Winston was a prudent man, very reasonable and of much more than average intelligence. He had a very large storehouse of common sense in his brainy skull, and he knew the score. He knew that if a woman wanted him, there was probably some ulterior motive, more than likely some foul scheme afoot. It wasn’t that he was always a suspicious man, per se, but he was simply a realist. He was scrawny, of only average looks at best, and had nothing really to offer a woman…except his heart. And, sadly, very few women were willing to work their way past his ho-hum exterior to get to that beating gem. At least, that had been his experience.
This being the case, how he could’ve become entangled in the events I am about to relate, was well beyond his capacity to understand. How could he have allowed himself to become so enmeshed in such a fiasco? Had he been mad? Had his testicles suddenly become engorged with enough semen and hormones to cloud the brain he had always been so proud of? Sadly, he will never know the answers. Suffice it to say, Winston Bramblenook was just like any other man who hadn’t had sex in quite some time. Backed up hormones can make thinking a daunting task and level-headed decision making all but impossible, even for a man with Winston’s intellect. The poor fellow learned this the hard way.
Even before the unfortunate events took place, his choice of selling territory was not thoughtfully made. Even this decision was hormonally induced. True, it was a subconscious decision that Winston only partially realized was spurred on by recent, testosterone-laced memory, and he therefore couldn’t be totally faulted for its unfortunate outcome. Nonetheless, it was a case of creaky, rusting gonads compelling the brain to do unwise things, and poor Winston paid the price.
Thus goaded on by subconscious hormonal scheming, Winston found himself working the sector he himself had requested – to the shocked gasps of both his employer and coworkers – with his suitcase full of classic literature and unrealistic hopes of selling same. The scrawny man found himself wandering the darkened, dangerous, dockside streets of New York City. His boss and coworkers thought he’d either gone insane or had somehow recently acquired a death wish.
And just exactly why was he braving this questionable neighborhood, which callously chewed up men like Winston every night – as little more than a light evening snack – when the darkness crept in? It was because of a woman – and, of course, Winston’s clogged sexual plumbing. The object of his carnal affections was none other than the delicious and devious Veronica Van Meers, whom he’d only seen from afar one day as he oversaw the loading of a shipment of books onto a freighter bound for Europe.
The said delectable Ms Van Meers sat on the balcony of her third floor apartment, her long, shapely legs resting comfortably on the wrought iron railing surrounding it. For a woman living in a dockside flat, she was stunningly accoutered in a skin tight black dress – sinfully slitted halfway up her thigh on the right side – succulently clinging fishnet hose and black spike heels that had glistened in the midday sun. Her richly shining, midnight black hair had been up in an elegant bun, showing off her beautiful face. Her eyes were dark and mysterious, but totally inviting. Her lush lips seemed to beckon to Winston, even as her tongue licked them to keep a constant shine on them.
As she lounged back comfortably on her balcony with her legs up, Winston had caught a brief glimpse well up her thigh. He’d blushed, feeling that he’d somehow deflowered the woman. And he’d instantly gotten an erection… which Veronica noticed with a wicked laugh.
As he oversaw the loading of the books, he constantly stole glances of Veronica, all the while sweating nervously and trying to stand in such a way as to see both the dockside cranes and Veronica, while not letting anyone see the bulge in his pants. But the more Winston tried to hide his erection, the more Veronica noticed it, and the more she laughed – and wholeheartedly encouraged that sign of arousal. In fact, to add to his predicament, she purposely spread her legs atop the railing, slipping forward on her lounge chair, bending one leg at the knee, allowing the book salesman an unfettered view bahis firmaları up her dress. To Winston’s increased fidgeting nervousness – and utter delight – Veronica wore fishnet pantyhose, but no panties. Even from the distance he was from her, Winston could see Veronica’s most intimate treasure. Not only was she flaunting it at him, but even the sun seemed to be helping him to view its seductive details, for that fiery globe was at just the right angle to not only shine directly up her thighs, but also to reflect off the railing, as if purposely lighting up that treat for his delighted eyes.
As she watched Winston stare up her dress and self-consciously try to cover his telltale bulge, she chuckled openly and puffed seductively on a cigarette that was comfortably seated in a long, black holder. She seemed so regal, so high society, and yet she brazenly flashed him as he tried with increasing difficulty to concentrate on his job. A royal slut, that’s what his mind had somehow labeled her as. But, whether she was a whore or a debutante, she was still way out of his league. He had no doubt of that. So, at the time, he’d just enjoyed the view. What else was there to do? But, when his job was done, and it was time for him to head back to the office for more wares to sell, Veronica waved to him, spreading her legs a bit wider apart, bending BOTH legs at the knees, giving him his best view yet. She then kissed her fingertips, put them down between her legs and briefly tapped them against her exposed sex, and then blew that double kiss – from both pairs of shiny lips – at Winston. He was so aroused he could barely walk. Nonetheless, he tried to keep his composure. He even nodded and smiled up at her as he turned to leave. As he walked away – difficult as that was – he could hear her cruel laughter.
To be sure, this entire encounter never once CONSCIOUSLY entered his thoughts as he wandered down to the docks on the misty night of the most unfortunate incident. But, why else would any sane man brave those rough streets, selling books of all things, and wearing a suit no less?! And how is it poor Winston skipped over most of the flats in the area, making only half-hearted attempts at salesmanship at those apartments he did stop at, as if he were in a hurry and didn’t really want to make a sale at all? And why did he stop at every single apartment on the third floor on the dock side of that one particular building? Surely it was a map and a plan clandestinely doled out to his totally oblivious brain by the testosterone trapped in his genitals. His sexual psyche had its own agenda, and was merely putting Winston through his usual bookselling motions before leading him to the real purpose of this nocturnal escapade. And that was, of course, sex…hopefully with the aforementioned delectable Ms Van Meers.
Winston received two death threats, had six doors slammed in his face, was flashed by an eighty year old woman sucking on a stogie, and was propositioned by the ugliest transvestite he’d ever seen, before he came to the door that his sexual subconscious had been leading him to the entire time. All those other doors were just to ease his conscience, to give him the false sense that he truly was trying to sell books in this neighborhood. But now, his hormones had him where they wanted him. Win or lose, his nether region was gearing up for a night of hot, sweaty, nasty tum-bumping ecstasy!
With his heart pounding in his chest, Winston nervously adjusted his tie, took several deep breaths, and rapped lightly on the wooden door before him with trembling knuckles. In the back of his brain, several years worth of congealed testosterone prayed Veronica was home. Even if all she did was laugh in his face, just seeing her up close would provide fodder for many fantasy adventures with her for years to come. Besides which, he’d have proven something to himself. At least he’d TRIED. He could ask no more of himself.
Winston vaguely remembered seeing a light coming from her window, so his hopes were high of at least seeing the lovely Ms Van Meers again, regardless of the outcome. However, all of this might be moot anyway, for there was no answer to his knock. He rapped again, sweat beginning to pop from thousands of pores all over his body. When there was no response to the second knock, his groin started to go back into shutdown mode, and Winston sighed, preparing to leave.
Suddenly, the door flew open. There stood Veronica, in the tightest white blouse and shortest red skirt Winston had ever seen. The sheer, mocha hose she wore were so gossamer as to be almost nonexistent, and her red stiletto heels made her tower a good two inches over the breathless salesman. She puffed on her cigarette holder, smiling at Winston. She laughed a short, quick laugh, during which she exhaled the smoke that was in her lungs. Then she puffed on the holder again, bent down, and blew the smoke into Winston’s face. As he tried to keep from coughing, Veronica said kaçak iddaa calmly, “It’s about time you showed up. I thought you’d never get here. Come in, book man, let’s see what you have for me. When I see what you’ve got, I’ll show you a few things of my own.” Her grin alone gave him a rock-hard chubby.
Veronica’s hand shot out at Winston, her long, slim fingers wrapping themselves around his tie. With a tug much stronger than might be expected from such a picture of femininity, those fingers yanked the wide-eyed salesman through the doorway and into the sultry vixen’s apartment. As she whirled about with the astonished Winston in tow, one of her legs kicked out behind her – almost as if it had been a well-practiced move – and efficiently slammed the door shut. Winston heard a lock click, and was suddenly unsure if that was a good thing or not.
Veronica continued walking deeper into her flat, dragging Winston behind her like a helpless rag doll, his surprised feet stumbling along trying to catch up with his captive head.
“I knew you’d come back,” Veronica said, still dragging Winston through her apartment, “they always do.”
Winston stumbled and bumbled along behind her as she steered him briskly through her home. Rooms passed to his right and left at a rate of speed much too high for him to focus on what those rooms might actually contain. He caught glimpses of shelves, furniture, cabinetry and other recognizable items, but the velocity at which Veronica was dragging him did not lend itself to his identifying much more than that. Veronica was talking to him – between puffs on her slim cigarette holder – the entire time she was pulling him along, but the air rushing by his ears, the clomping of his own feet as he fought to keep his balance, and his concern about the uncomfortable tightness of his tie around his neck, all conspired to keep him from truly listening. Not to mention his choking and gasping as cigarette smoke attacked his nostrils and lungs. It all seemed a fascinating – if uncomfortable and possibly fatal – blur to him.
Without warning, Veronica disappeared, and it was only when he felt himself being flung around a corner that he realized she’d simply made a sharp, sudden turn into the very last room of the apartment. When he’d stumbled around the corner after her, his arms flailing for a shot at elusive balance, she reappeared, still yammering away about something. Winston couldn’t concentrate on the words, as he was too busy trying to keep his legs under him.
One of Veronica’s brightly manicured hands flipped a light switch as she entered the room, but that act did nothing to slow her Winston-dragging advance into the middle of the room. Once in the center of that room, she simply stopped short, let go of the poor man’s crumpled tie, and watched him stagger, stumble and fall past her, his momentum causing him to fly forward and down, crumpling into a gasping heap on the floor. When his understandably startled face crashed into the thick fibers of the carpet, his careening backside continued to sail forward, ultimately ending up at a higher elevation than his head…momentarily, anyway. It settled to the floor in its proper anatomical position, but not before the book man heard several vertebrae curse rather loudly.
Eventually, the disheveled Winston gathered himself up, shook the buzzing hornets out of his spinning noggin, and straightened his cockeyed suit jacket. After piecing himself back together – checking for missing or misaligned body parts – and forcing his brain to get its bearings, what he next saw made his loins quiver.
Sitting on the floor, dusting himself off, he was looking directly at Veronica’s Queen size bed, the wooden footboard of which was no more than three feet from his perspiring eyeballs. He got an instant boner at the thought of all the action that bed must’ve seen over the years, and immediately he started swallowing drool. Not only was he in her bedroom – which was erotic enough! – but his quivering pupils were actually given the honor of viewing Veronica’s very own love nest! Where she lay at night, silky underthings clinging to her shapely curves. Or perhaps where she lay naked…possibly touching herself…yearning for a man like…him? Suddenly, the crotch of his pants became even tighter than the knot of his tie around his neck. The hormone factory between his legs had called back all essential personnel to begin working overtime!
“So, little book man,” Veronica cooed, returning from the vanity at the far end of the room where she’d apparently just crushed out the remains of her cigarette, “you like looking up my dress, do you?” She walked in front of him – squeezing herself between his drooling eyes and the foot of her bed – and stood towering over him, her hands on her well-shaped hips. From his position on the floor, Winston could again see well up her thighs, and it was bringing back fond memories. He sighed wistfully before collecting himself kaçak bahis enough to attempt speech.
“Uh…” he stammered, “forgive me…miss…uh….”
“Veronica,” she replied, smiling down at him, “Veronica Van Meers. And who might you be, my little pussy peeper?”
“Oh, sorry,” his speech again bumbled along, “I’m…I’m Winston Bramblenook, at your service.” He started to get up, but Veronica stopped him, pressing the palm of one hand down gently but firmly on the top of his head. Winston hadn’t expected the move, and the sudden stoppage of his attempted ascent forced a loud “Urk!” from his already choked throat.
“Stay,” Veronica said quietly, “don’t get up. Although,” she added with a wicked smile, “getting up seems to be something you’re quite good at, if I remember correctly…especially when you’re peeking up women’s dresses. In fact, you seem to be quite happy to see me even as we speak.” She chuckled softly as she looked at the bulge in his crumpled pants.
Winston blushed instantly. “Uh…forgive me…I do apologize…for that, and…well…and that day a while back, too. You see…I was…well…I wasn’t really…although I’m sure it APPEARED that….I was…well…” His hands rushed to loosen his choking tie. He needed air. He needed to swallow his nervousness, force it down into his stomach so he could breathe. But Veronica wouldn’t let him. Not only did she stop him from untying his tie, but she even grabbed it again and gave another solid tug on it, again tightening it around his neck.
“Oh, yes, Winston,” she continued, giving his tie short, quick jerks, “it most certainly did appear that you were looking up my dress. Furthermore, it appeared you were enjoying the view quite a bit. Please don’t do me the disservice of denying it. You had an erection the size of a crowbar. A rather nice erection, if I remember correctly. Now, are you going to LIE and say you WEREN’T peeking up my dress?” She held his tie tightly wrapped around her clenched fist and, bending over, pulled his face close to hers. Her eyes said, “Lie to me and I’ll stomp your balls under my red stiletto heels.”
Winston flushed a brighter crimson still. His mind tried to concoct all sorts of lies as to what he was looking at that day – the railing, the reflecting sun, her balcony. He even thought of saying he was a collector of cigarette holders, but that sounded even more lame than the other lies. He fidgeted a bit, wiped sweat from his brow and cleared his throat, stalling tactics until his brain could come up with the right fib. Brave lad. He was almost willing to sacrifice his testicles to preserve his pride.
But then Winston decided that there was no real point in lying. She had him dead to rights, and she didn’t look like the type who’d listen to lies and excuses. Besides, he’d come to her apartment in the hopes of…what?… having sex with her? If that was the case, why bother lying at all? What was the point of searching for sex, only to deny you wanted it when you chanced upon it? Wouldn’t it make more sense to let her know how much he desired her? Shouldn’t he tell her how much she’d turned him on? Hadn’t she seen his erection anyway, and boldly flashed him until he couldn’t walk straight? Hell, she seemed to know everything he was thinking anyway, so, what was the point? Maybe she WANTED sex, and she was just testing or teasing him. She DID say, “It’s about time you got here,” and “I thought you’d never arrive,” and even said she had lots to show him. That sure sounded like SHE wanted sex, too! Unless Ms Van Meers was simply a cock tease, she was in the market for a hot night as much as he was.
By the time he’d ended his internal battle and decided upon a course of action, so had Veronica.
When Winston finally opened his mouth to speak again – even then not sure what words would come out – his eyes were already becoming privy to some erotically pertinent info. Veronica was no longer standing over him. His tie had been set free, though the knot still hugged his Adam’s apple tightly. But the teasing vixen hadn’t moved far. No, not at all. And she did indeed have much to show him.
Winston felt steam bubbling from around his eyeballs. His mouth dropped open and his tongue felt like sandpaper with talcum powder on it. He swallowed, true, but most of the moisture his mouth created was dribbling down his chin. The head of his penis was literally chewing at the back of his zipper. It wanted OUT!
Veronica sat before the poor, drooling idiot, grinning down at him even more wickedly than she had that glorious day on her balcony. And she was giving Winston the show of his life.
Leaning back on her elbows on the mattress, Veronica sat on the very edge of the bed with her body twisted to one side and one high-heeled foot balanced via the slim stiletto heel on the top of the footboard. The other leg she had somehow – in a way that would make a contortionist envious – splayed out a good distance in the opposite direction. If Winston had been wearing blinders, his eyes wouldn’t have been more directly lured to that oh, so familiar view between Veronica’s legs. And she was running true to form…pantyhose with no panties.
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