The Painter

I’m not at all impressed ini­tially. It’s an ugly color, and I think the build­ing looked fine the way it was. So when they put down the drop cloths and get ready to start our sec­tion of the build­ing, I’m fully pre­pared to be annoyed. The stink of paint fumes waft­ing through my office door all day. The only thing worse is the reek of sweaty men no doubt show­ing off unat­trac­tive plumber’s crack. Ugh.

The morn­ing goes by as it usu­ally does. Time moves quickly when you stay busy and before I know it, it’s almost lunchtime. The painter has moved from one end of the facade to the door, and I can see him through the glass — but only his legs as he stands on his lad­der. A client comes to the door,  but the lad­der is in the way. The painter dis­mounts, moves his lad­der out of the way, holds the door open for my client. I look up as the door opens, and for a split sec­ond, our eyes lock. My mouth starts to sali­vate as I real­ize that this is no mid­dle aged bald­ing spec­i­men of man. Oh my god, he’s hot. Dark hair, chis­eled fea­tures cov­ered with a fine sheen of sweat, gor­geous eyes. Tight white t-shirt over tight abs tucked into jeans slung low on rangy hips. My eyes drop lower of their own accord, and I drag them up to meet his eyes, my cheeks flam­ing red.

Oh my god, the painter. The client says some­thing to me, the door closed behind her, but it takes me a moment to real­ize that she’s talk­ing. I can’t drag myself away from the sight of his long legs mount­ing the lad­der, putting his waist just above my eye level. I strug­gle to focus, work­ing on autopi­lot, try­ing to take care of my client while ignor­ing the mag­nif­i­cent exam­ple of mas­culin­ity dis­played not three feet away from my desk. The client leaves, and I try to drag my mind back to my work. I type up doc­u­ments, work­ing on motions and answers, but I can’t pre­tend I don’t know he’s right there.

I look up. Oh god, he’s watch­ing me. Our eyes meet again, and like a fright­ened deer, I jerk my gaze away, keep­ing my eyes squarely on my com­puter mon­i­tor. I can feel him watch­ing me now, though. It’s like his gaze paints my body with heat, scorch­ing the exposed skin of my col­lar­bone, run­ning down the length of my neck into the val­ley between my breasts. I can only imag­ine the van­tage point he must have out there, and I’m imme­di­ately self-conscious about show­ing so much cleav­age. It’s really not that this is a boo­bie shirt, but most shirts become boo­bie shirts with a set like mine.

The rest of the morn­ing flies by, and it’s lunchtime. I close the office, look­ing around expec­tantly when I leave, but he’s nowhere to be found. Some­thing like unful­filled expec­ta­tions clog my throat and I leave for lunch with mixed feel­ings of long­ing. When I come back though, he’s there. Set up on the other side of the door. I slide past him, reach­ing under the lad­der to check the mail box. I’m so intent on ignor­ing his pres­ence that when he speaks, I jump like a fright­ened deer and drop every­thing I’m hold­ing. He’s a gen­tle­man, at least, kneel­ing on the front stoop with me, help­ing me col­lect the scat­tered papers before they blow away in the wind. His hand brushes the inside of my knee, and I jerk my gaze up to his, con­scious of a trail of fire burn­ing its way up my thigh. He says some­thing, small talk, and I stut­ter some­thing back, lost in the blue depths of his eyes. We stay like that for a moment too long, then I’m embar­rassed, fum­bling with the key in the lock, des­per­ate to put the safety of glass between us.

I can’t for­get he’s there. Every move I make, every ges­ture, I know he can see me. When I look up, he’s right there, tall and gor­geous with those jeans bal­anced pre­car­i­ously on those jut­ting hips. It’s hard to con­cen­trate when all the blood in my body keeps rush­ing between my legs. I look up, that bulge in his jeans is framed at eye level, and is it my imag­i­na­tion, or does it look larger, dis­torted and hard­ened some­how? I squeeze my thighs together, not sure if I’m try­ing to stave off arousal or savor it.

I run my hands over the sides of my breasts, squeez­ing lightly so the tops bulge out of my bra. It’s just me and him, no one else exists for this moment. The phone could be ring­ing off the hook and I’m not sure I’d hear it. I run the palms of my hands over the stiff­en­ing nip­ples, then slide my hands lower, over the curve of my belly, over the length of my thighs to the hem of my dress, then back up, pulling the fab­ric up as I go. I glance up to see if he’s watch­ing. He’s star­ing, absent mind­edly rub­bing the bulge in his jeans as he keeps up the pre­tense of painting.

I sweep my skirt up to my waist, expos­ing the lace tri­an­gle of my panties. I lick the fin­gers of one hand while pulling the thin fab­ric aside with the other, expos­ing my mound to him. I’m already wet and swollen, my lips engorged and my clit pro­trud­ing, just beg­ging for atten­tion. I can’t refuse it any­more than I can stop what I’ve started, and my fin­gers are tug­ging, stroking my throb­bing clit while I lean back in my chair, one leg up on my desk while my fin­gers seek and press, stroke and push. I can’t believe how slip­pery wet I am — the scent of my arousal fills the air, my nip­ples are hard, exposed over the top of my dress, while I fin­ger myself while this total stranger watches.

It’s so fuck­ing hot. He’s aban­doned all pre­tense of paint­ing, just watch­ing me while he strokes his cock through the thick fab­ric of his jeans. I won­der how his cock would taste in my mouth and if he’ll be bold enough to open the door, bury his hand in my hair… The men­tal image of me on my knees before him, his cock buried in my throat, his sweat on my skin over­whelms me and I’m com­ing, right there at my desk, try­ing not to scream, squeez­ing my bot­tom lip between my teeth to keep from mak­ing any noise while my body explodes and he watches me.

I lay there, half sprawled out, con­scious that any­one could walk in at any moment, and when my heart stops rac­ing, I read­just my cloth­ing and head to the bath­room, all the while stu­diously avoid­ing his gaze through the win­dow, so raw, so hun­gry. I’m slightly embar­rassed by what I’ve just done, but still incred­i­bly turned on as I splash water on my heated cheeks and try to put myself back into some kind of work­ing order. I’m just leav­ing the bath­room when  I hear the office door open. Think­ing it’s prob­a­bly a client, I rush back to my desk, mouth open, ready to par­rot some kind of “can I help you” line.

The words die in my throat — it’s him, stand­ing there, in the door­way to my office. The door swings shut behind him and I just stand there, mouth open, won­der­ing what I should do. I briefly won­der if I sh0uld offer him a bot­tle of water, then that old line crosses my mind “cof­fee, tea, or me”. I think I can do a lot bet­ter than a bot­tle of water. I cross the room, to the door behind him, where he watches me, still silent, not hav­ing spo­ken a sin­gle word, watch­ing me as I lock the office door.