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by Big Ed Magusson


erotic fictionI usually start jonesing on Thursdays. This week, it starts Wednesday. Three long days before I can see her.

As usual, once the adrenaline rush starts, work becomes a blur. My pulse throbs. My skin crackles. The testosterone soaks into my soul. I don't give a damn about PowerPoint, not that I ever did. I mark time, desperate for the weekend, desperate for the relief.

It doesn't help that Wednesday is the staff meeting from Hell. Two hours of listening to my boss and his favorite flunky extol the virtues of their most recent shuffling of org structure boxes and the new software tools they've bought to quote 'streamline our efficiency' endquote. I tune out. I can already hear the music in my mind. Fortunately, before it’s my turn for 'around the table' reporting, my cubicle mate pokes me. My boss frowns when I explain the most recent code snafu that will delay me finishing the beautiful graphs for his European conference. I promise I'll have them Friday close of business, which seems to mollify him a bit. Just a bit.

Wednesday afternoon does not improve. The data scrolling across my screen doesn’t make sense. I do another line walkthrough of the code. I don’t see anything wrong. I try some hand calculations. They don’t match my screen. When the janitor fires up the vacuum cleaner, I give up and head out. Once again, I have nothing to show for my day.

At home, I pop a Boston Market Frozen Meatloaf Dinner in the microwave and turn on Entertainment Tonight. It’s mindless, but it’s better than the news, which is better than the silence if I turn the TV off. The distraction helps a little. After I've eaten and washed my fork and glass, my mind drifts back to her. I sit back on the couch, open my pants, and masturbate to my first orgasm of the evening.

It’s okay. I mean, it’s an orgasm, so how bad can it be? Other than the mess, of course. I throw my shirt in the laundry and look for a book to read. Preferably one that I haven’t reread so recently that I can remember it all. I take my time and settle on a dog-eared worn favorite. It fills my evening until it’s time for bed.

I can’t sleep, though. Every time I clear my mind, thoughts of her slink back in and my blood heats. I give up and throw back the covers and stroke myself to another orgasm. It’s not enough, so I go for a third. Finally, sheer exhaustion overwhelms me and I drift into dreamland.

Thursday begins promisingly. I find the code bug. A misplaced comma. Test runs go well. I start a batch run and head down to the break room. My third cup of coffee has gone cold and I want some Reese’s Cups out of the vending machine.

I sag into a chair near the microwave and my mind drifts where it always does. I recall her smile during my last visit. She’d been pleased to see me, pleased to sit with me. We’d talked over drinks for a long time, before we began. The memories of her pushing her hair back and laughing at one of my jokes are more vivid than those of her bare breasts coming into view moments later. While I will never forget the vision of her nipples, be they stiff or soft, I’ve seen them so often that individual times just blur together.

Not the first time she let me touch them, though. She laughed at how delicately I fingered them, as if they might break. She told me to pinch them lightly, and when I did, she teased that she’d said pinch, not caress. I remember the quirk of her mouth and the way her nipple stiffened under my hands. Mostly I remember the shine of amusement in her eyes.

My boss kicks my chair and both my daydream and my coffee slosh to the floor. He wants to know why I’m loafing. He wants to know why I don’t have results yet. My protests are drowned out by his angry escalating tirade. He says I’m lucky to have a job before he storms out.

I slink back to my desk. My boss is right. I’m lucky to have a job, in today’s economy. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

When I was little, I dreamed of Mars. I dreamed of space and consumed all the science fiction I could find. I dreamed of being an astronaut. I dreamed of amazing things.

I never dreamed of PowerPoint and a ten by ten foot shared cubicle with restricted internet access. I never dreamed of the tedium of numbers on a screen, mostly meaningless. I never dreamed of days where my only view of the stars was on the drive back to my tiny empty apartment.

Thursday afternoon goes worse. IT pushes a security patch through and only gives a five minute warning. I’m three quarters through a five hour batch job. The forced reboot keeps me after hours long enough that dinner is McDonald’s once again.

When I do arrive home, I’m peeved and irritated and pissed off. Yet the throb in my blood continues. I think of her, but my mind is too clouded with anger to let me enjoy it. Instead, I fire up my computer and go websurfing. I find some extreme porn out of Europe and get myself off a couple of times before I’m calm enough to crawl into bed. As I fall asleep, I remind myself that there’s only one more day until Saturday. Just one more day. One more day.

Friday is a blur. I’m shaky even before the caffeine. My boss stops by and apologizes for yelling at me, but I barely hear him. I’m in too much of a testosterone and adrenaline fog. My perception of time fails as well. Hours leap by, unremembered. Then the minutes crawl from four to five o’clock before I finally finally finally dash out the door.

At home, I check the club’s website. My heart’s in my hand as the site loads, as I’m terrified she won’t be working. But there’s her name, in the list of afternoon dancers. I let out a deep breath. Less than a dozen and a half hours to go. Less than a day until I can see her again.

I sleep fitfully Friday night, but it’s the fitfulness of excited anticipation. Tomorrow, life will be better. Tomorrow will repair everything that is broken in my life, at least for a little while. I lay awake, dreaming about tomorrow. Somehow, eventually I sleep.

Saturday afternoon, I drive to the club. As always, it feels like a longer commute than I know it is. Traffic isn’t heavy but I still curse the other drivers. When I near the club, I force myself to be calm. Irritation never helps. Being angry never helps. Deep breaths, and I am as relaxed as I can be.

I am fashionably late. Twenty minutes after the club opens, I stroll in. I sit in my usual chair at my usual table. I order my usual drink and look around.

The club’s still slow. A dancer on stage goes through the motions to Def Leppard. A few other patrons sit around gabbing. One is already getting a lap dance. Since those are done out in the open—no back room—I quickly determine she’s not here. At least not yet. I surmise she’s in the dressing room and settle in to wait.

I enjoy the club. Yes, it’s seedy, and yes, most of the strippers are a bit past their primes, but they’re nice here. No one yells at me. Everyone, even the other customers, are polite. Management is ‘hands off’—they let the girls do what they like as long as the cops aren’t around. The cops are never around.

I relax, truly relax. It’s like the haze of the last few days has lifted and I can see clearly again. The jitters and the disjointedness have faded. The alcohol is sweet on my lips. The secondhand cigarette smoke is perfume in my nose. Even the sound of Pour Some Sugar on Me giving way to the Black Eyed Peas’ Let’s Get it Started cannot disturb my serenity.

Only the passage of time.

Two dancers do their rotation on stage. Then a third. Then a fourth. She hasn’t appeared. My nerves twitch and cotton fills my mouth. I glance around the club again and an older dancer with shrunken tattoos thinks I’m looking at her. She stubs out her cigarette and slides off her bar stool. I turn away, but she’s already walking over.

“Hi, honey,” she says. “You wanna dance?”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“She here?”

I shake my head.

“So you wanna dance while you wait?”

I frown but shrug. “Sure.”

I reach for my wallet and pull out the requisite twenties.

“My name’s Diamond,” she says and extends her hand. It’s awkward, since she’s so close.

“Nice to meet you,” I say as I give her a limp handshake. I don’t want to do small talk with Diamond. I don’t want Diamond at all, but I don’t want the rising tension of sitting alone either.

She perches on my knees until the music changes. When it does, she whips off her top. Her bare breasts sag into view. No tease. No playfulness. She straddles me and looks me in the eye for the first time.

“No touching the kitty,” she says. “You can touch anywhere but the kitty, understand?”

I nod. There’s really nothing to say.

The song turns. Diamond takes her cue and straddles my lap. She starts facing me and wiggles her hips against mine. I slide to the edge of my seat and she goes straight for the crotch to crotch grind. It’s awkward, and a bit uncomfortable, because I’m not hard. She drags her hair up my body and across my face. Our eyes meet and she looks away.

She never looks away. That’s why I get lost in her gaze.

But Diamond does avert her eyes. She sways and wiggles and then hops off my lap and turns around. Back on my lap, she pushes her ass into me. I hold her hips to keep our balance and she responds by grinding hard into me, and then shifting to an up and down stroke.

This gets me hard. It’s difficult not to, since it so simulates fucking. A woman’s flesh, sliding up and down, up and down, up and down across my dick. The thin fabric between us does little to dampen the sensation, and my cock has no conscience. It doesn’t care who’s touching it as long as it’s touched the right way.

Diamond apparently feels the same. She pulls my hands to her tits. She leans back, her head on my shoulder, me looking down at where my fingers splay across her flesh.

“Squeeze ‘em hard,” she says.

I do, but it does nothing for me. Breasts are to be worshipped. Admired. Touched with reverence. That’s what I do with her.  Squeezing feels like I’m playing with clay.

Diamond pulls forward and drops to the floor. She turns and, looking up at me she licks her lips. She runs her hands up my thighs and looks pointedly at my crotch. She licks her lips again.  Here in the open room, it’s just a tease. It’s still an effective tease. I cannot remember my last blowjob, but my dick is sure it would like one now.

But it doesn’t last. Diamond hops back on my lap, grinds against me, and pulls my hands to her tits once again. She squirms and rocks and bounces up and down before cycling through her routine again. Finally the music ends.

“Another one?” she asks. When I shake my head, she fakes a smile, retrieves her bra, and retreats to the bar.

I let out a heavy sigh. I begin to think the weekend is a bust.

“Hey, baby,” I hear from over my shoulder. I twist in my seat.

It’s her! It’s really her!

“May I join you?” she asks. Her eyes twinkle because I’m already gesturing toward the second chair. She eases into it with a broad smile.

I am at peace. She’s wearing blue lingerie today—deep blue that matches her eyes. Eyes that I want to lose myself in.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

I sigh, a little bit dramatically. “It’s been a rough week.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Anything I can do?”

“I was hoping for a dance.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Just one?”

I chuckle at her tease. “Of course not. But maybe one now?”

“Sure, baby. Then you can tell me all about your week after?”

I nod.

She smiles and stands. I slide to the edge of my chair. She straddles my lap, facing me. I adjust my erection so we’re both comfortable.  We gaze at each other, slowly moving closer until our foreheads touch, never breaking eye contact. She puts her hands around my neck and pushes my face down into her cleavage.

I breathe deep. The smell of her sweat and her skin floods my mind. The softness of her flesh against my cheeks soothes me. The world fades. Sights, sounds, distractions—all are reduced to her body pressed against mine.

The song changes and she starts to move. Slowly, a small grind. "Here we go, baby," she murmurs.

I smile. Finally, all is well in the world.  Finally.

© 2012 Big Ed Magusson. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Big Ed Magusson has been intensely curious about aspects of sexuality, good and bad, for most of his life. For most of the past decade, he has captured his musings in fiction. More of his work can be found at


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