A call from the bank seldom bodes well unless you have a loan officer like this one.
“Mr. Farnsworth,” I said into the telephone, my voice betraying just a hint of nervousness, “this is Ms. Bigelo from your bank. I’m calling to let you know this month’s mortgage payment hasn’t arrived.”
Farnsworth reacted with surprise. He told me he’d sent the check out two weeks ago. But I already knew that. In fact I was holding the check in my hand as we spoke, my eyes fixed on the strong, masculine strokes of his signature.
“It probably got lost in the mail,” I answered with the giddy exuberance of a school girl talking to a football hero. His voice was the clincher. It matched his signature so perfectly that I was even more determined to proceed with my plan.
“Why don’t you come down with a replacement check today,” I said, “and avoid the late charge.”
He immediately agreed and we set a time for later that afternoon. I hung up the phone and sighed with relief. I was going to meet the man who had been monopolizing my fantasies.
The whole thing had started six months earlier when I had been promoted to loan acceptance officer at the local bank where I work. It was my responsibility to sort through the monthly mortgage payments, making sure they were up to date and properly processed. Not a real exciting job, or so I had originally thought. But after the third month, something funny started happening to me. I found myself looking forward to certain checks. Mr. Harry Farnsworth’s, for example.
You can tell a lot about people from their checks. First off, of course, there’s the person’s sex, although it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that most mortgage payments are made by men anyway. Then there’s his level of success. Quite reasonably, a man who’s making three-thousand-dollar-a-month mortgage payments must be doing quite well for himself. And finally there’s the guy’s handwriting, the way he dots his I’s and crosses his T’s.
I’ve always known handwriting was the window to the soul.
Most people write like shit their childish scrawls showing minds arrested in adolescence or just as bad trapped in a depressed disarray of adulthood. Looking at such checks I could almost see the men who’d written them gray and lackluster, overweight and terrified of the world around them.
A few however, filled in their checks with bold, decisive, controlled strokes that suggested power, grace and style. Given the boredom level of my new job, it shouldn’t come as a great surprise that I eventually began scrutinizing all the checks in this category in an effort to glean as much additional information as possible. Sort of the way an archaeologist might examine an undeciphered ancient scroll.
Having a basic knowledge of handwriting analysis, I began, for example, looking for men who’d leave their O’s slightly open. This suggests honesty and if the O is slightly larger than normal a healthy interest in the opposite sex. A few of the mortgage payments, although written with a neat, exciting flourish, had tiny O’s that turned me right off.
In the beginning, all of this was pretty much a game with me. And it might have even stayed that way if I hadn’t eventually pulled the files that went with five of the most interesting signatures. Mortgage application forms, after all, are packed with personal information.
It was, as it turned out, a very disappointing experience. Most of the men were old and/or married. Two of them were just squeaking by on their payments. And one ran a funeral parlor. Yuk! My fantasies about them quickly evaporated.
Only Harry Farnsworth still intrigued me, his very name suggesting stability and the elegance of old English family ties. According to his records, he was a forty-one-year-old engineer with an aerospace firm whose salary was well into the six figures. Even more intriguing, he’d been married six years, but his wife had died two years earlier. Since this information seemed to confirm the strong, stable image I’d been building of Farnsworth, I now found myself looking forward to the receipt of his checks almost as if they were love letters.
Still, I had never intended to make contact with any of these people. I’m an attractive woman of thirty-four with an active sex life, not the kind who seeks out fantasy to escape a boring, meaningless existence. The only thing at all unusual about me is the way I like to draw things out with my lovers, sometimes taking an hour or even two to reach the first orgasm.
But there it was anyway: the thought of making contact. Once it entered my mind, it just kept growing, finally taking over almost all my waking thoughts and frequently, my dreams as well. Hence the phone call, carefully thought out over the preceding month.
Now, as I sat at my desk waiting for Farnsworth’s arrival, each new man entering the place set my heart skipping with both fear and hope. Would I be disappointed? Or would he be as I’d imagined?
“Ms. Bigelo?” Farnsworth seemed to come out of nowhere. About six feet tall, he was dressed in a three-piece power suit, wore dark horn-rimmed glasses and had the mature good looks of a man in control of his life. He was, in fact, just as I had hoped.
“Ms. Bigelo?” he repeated. I could barely find my voice. But I knew I’d better snap out of it real fast if I didn’t want him to think I was an idiot or something.
“Nice to meet you Harry…uh, Mr. Farnsworth,” I said, extending my hand as I stood up from my desk. I wanted him to see the merchandise. I’d worn a particularly revealing dress that day, hardly appropriate for the bank but effective for getting a man’s attention. Judging from the look on his face, it was doing its job.
I sat back down, indicating that Farnsworth should do the same. He handed me the check and I pretended to study it, trying to figure out my next move. Despite all my planning I hadn’t really thought past this moment. How was I going to get him to ask me out without being obvious?
“It’s unusual to call about a late check, isn’t it?” Farnsworth finally asked. It was almost as though he was reading my mind.
“Oh, yes,” I answered, scrambling for an explanation. “But…well, you know, I’m familiar with all our accounts and sometimes I feel like I actually, uh, know the people I process. You, for example,” I said, regaining a sense of control, “are always meticulously punctual. And you have such a perfect credit rating, I thought it would be a shame to have that ruined just because of the post office.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” he said, standing up. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
Panic engulfed me as I realized he was preparing to leave. “I, uh, notice you haven’t applied for one of our mortgage insurance policies,” I almost shouted. “You know, in case of death or something.”
He smiled at me. “I don’t plan on dying.” Then his face suddenly darkened. “And anyway, there’s no one to name as beneficiary.” He gave me a wave, then turned and headed out the door.
My mind screamed, “No!” The guy was a solid-gold hunk and, despite having had him here, right in front of me, I’d let him slip through my grasp. But then, what did I expect? Everything I’d learned about Farnsworth from his handwriting and his files suggested he wouldn’t be the kind of man who’d chase after his loan officer. If he were, I wouldn’t have been interested in him in the first place.
The next few weeks were filled with confusion and a growing sense of lustful urgency. I wanted this man’s dick inside me. I wanted to feel it, hard and rigid as it filled my pussy and my mouth. I wanted his come to splash across my tits. I wanted him to take me and pound me and satisfy me with his maleness.
But I couldn’t think of any way to make that happen unless I went directly to him. The very thought of such a bold move made me shudder with embarrassment and fear. It was so outrageous, so absolutely unlike me. I knew that anyone looking at this objectively would think I was a nut case just like that woman in Fatal Attraction. Despite this, however, I slowly found the resolve I needed.
It was a Saturday morning when I parked my car down the block from Farnsworth’s home. Nervously awaiting his appearance, I slouched behind my steering wheel, knowing I couldn’t let him see me. It would be too embarrassing. But there was nothing I could do about his neighbors, especially the family whose house I parked in front of. I just hoped they wouldn’t call the cops or confront me directly. If they did, I knew my resolve would crumble.
Under these circumstances, each minute that passed seemed like an hour. Soon my mind was screaming, mantra-like for Farnsworth to “come out, come out, come out…” of the goddamn house. By the time he finally appeared crossing from his front door to the car in his driveway I thought I’d burst out of my skin.
A few moments later, following Farnsworth as discreetly as possible, I could barely control my car, thanks to the way my hands trembled on the steering wheel. Despite the erratic driving on my part though, things went well enough until he got caught at a traffic light with me sitting right behind him! Oh, God, I prayed, don’t let him see me in his rearview mirror! Just in case God wasn’t listening I did my best to look unaware of Farnsworth.
Once we were underway again, I fell back even further, so as not to duplicate that fiasco. But now I worried that I’d lose him completely. And, to compound matters, the more frightened and confused I became, the hornier I felt. Finally at the breaking point I thrust my right hand down into my crotch and gently massaged my clit, all the time marveling at how wet I was, considering the circumstances. One thing I didn’t want to do, though, was achieve orgasm. If I did, I was sure I’d lose my resolve to establish contact.
When I followed him into the supermarket parking lot, I couldn’t help sighing with relief. This was perfect the best possible circumstance I could have hoped for. It should be easy for me to arrange a “chance” meeting here.
Parking a couple of spaces down from Farnsworth, my hand groped spastically for the ignition key. “Damn,” I cursed as I saw Farnsworth exit his car and head for the market, “what’s wrong with me?” Grabbing the key at last I yanked it from the ignition almost snapping it off and stumbled out of the car, slamming the door behind me.
“Mr. Farnsworth? Is that you?” I shouted, walking up behind him.
Farnsworth turned toward me, his eyes going wide, just as they had in the bank. I wondered fleetingly if it was his surprise at seeing me or the short skirt and tight blouse I had worn for the occasion.
“Ms. Bigelo?” he responded. “What are you doing here?” As he spoke his eyes traveled quickly up and down my body, something he hadn’t done quite so openly at the bank.
“I was…uh, visiting my aunt,” I told him, my mind racing to create a plausible scenario. I knew if I wasn’t careful, I’d not only blow my chance at Farnsworth, but just maybe my job at the bank as well.
Farnsworth looked over at the supermarket. “Is she a check-out girl?”
It sounded like he was making fun of me. But I had a ready answer anyway. “I was heading home when I got hungry. I thought I’d stop here and get a sandwich. How’s their deli?”
”Nothing special,” he answered, resuming his trek to the market. “I don’t generally shop here, but it’s close by.”
“Oh well,” I said, following him like a lost puppy. “It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, so it’ll just have to do.”
Farnsworth stopped. “You know,” he said, “I’m hungry too. Why don’t we go someplace decent for lunch? It’s on me.”
At last! For a moment I’d thought he was going to give me another polite wave and walk off, the way he had at the bank. But with his offer of lunch, I knew I had him exactly where I wanted him. I was so excited I felt my nipples grow hard.
After a perfect meal at a small French restaurant, we went to his place. We spent the afternoon and evening together, talking almost nonstop. I learned that he had been devastated by his wife’s death and that he’d only recently returned to dating. Good, I thought, he’s primed and ready. If anybody could bnng him out of mourning, I knew it was me.
It was a long time before Harry allowed anything to show what was on both of our minds. But as the evening grew late and the issue of my staying or leaving could no longer be put off, he made his move. Kissing me on the lips as we sat in front of his fireplace, he gently pushed me down onto the rug beneath us. I kissed him back hungrily while forcing my skirt up by parting my legs, so he’d know he was welcome to explore me further.
Plunging his tongue deep into my mouth, he grabbed my panties from behind, pulling them off my ass and down my legs. When the panties reached my ankles, I kicked them free, allowing Harry to slip between my legs. Then a second later, despite my efforts to slow him down, he plunged his stiff cock inside of me.
My mind exploded with pleasure. It was the biggest cock I had ever felt. Thrusting deep inside of me, filling my pussy to the bursting point, he was reaching places no man had ever found before. For a moment I actually went blind with pleasure, a white vibrating light flooding my vision.
“Oh, God,” Farnsworth moaned after a few minutes of heavy balling.
“Don’t come, Harry,” I gasped. “Not yet.”
He seemed to understand immediately, and slowed down the pace of his thrusts.
“I want to make this last as long as possible,” I whispered in his ear. “I want it to last for hours. I want the sexual tension to keep building and building until neither of us can stand it. Okay?”
He nodded. Then, with both of us on our sides, facing each other, he brought his thrusts to a virtual stop His hard cock still inside of me, we spent the next five or ten minutes kissing each other, our tongues rolling sloppily across every anatomical area we could reach without breaking coitus. And through it all, the only motion I felt from his cock was an occasional twinge and some carefully controlled half-thrusts
Slowly, as we kissed and pawed each other, we changed positions without him withdrawing from deep inside me. From the side-by-side position we went to me facing down on the rug with him behind me, taking me from the rear, his thrusts deeper and bolder, delivered every minute or two. I had to admire his self-control. It was remarkable for anyone, especially a man who’d been without sex as long as Harry had.
Even so, a couple of times over the next hour, he had to pull his cock out of me or risk coming. Once, as a result of this, he even lost his erection for a moment, but it was quickly revived when I put my lips on his cock. Another time he had an abbreviated orgasm. One that did nothing to diminish his erection. Seeing the thin line of come that slowly dripped down from his huge cock, I put my mouth under it to catch it all on my tongue.
At last we both knew it was time to come when we started moaning and laughing at the same time.
“Now,” I said, wrapping my legs around his back. “Shoot it into me now!” It was a scream, a moan, a plea and a demand, all at the same time.
Harry’s release surged inside me like raging waters from a busted dam.
“Do you always make love that way?’ he asked once the shaking of our bodies had finally subsided.
“Yes.” I said, matter-of-factly. “Anything quicker than that is a waste of time.” By then I knew I had him. He’d never had as good a lay as me and he was beginning to suspect that, unless I stayed in his life, he never would again.
I did stay in his life, for six orgasmic, come-drenched months. But eventually I grew bored with things, a problem I’ve had with all my relationships. It seems I always conquer men. What I really want is for a man to conquer me.
Anyway, it was about this time that the bank got a new client. He carried a hefty mortgage, and I couldn’t help noticing what a unique and exciting signature he had. I think I might have to pull his file.