Elizabeth Finn: Restoring Jordan

Thank you, dearest J, for allowing me to share your humiliation with my readers. What can I say; I needed to humiliate my girl, Adeline, and your humiliation will never be forgotten by those of us who were there. Always remember your slips, ladies, if you intend to tear your skirt off on a stage…

“Do you want to fuck me?”

His words stop me cold in my tracks. Can you just ask someone something like that and expect them to answer? Well I certainly couldn’t, but this man … I’m sure he gets away with it all the time.

I caught sight of him instantly upon entering the bar with my girlfriends. Far too old for me—I’m guessing mid-to-late thirties at least. But he’s gorgeous, dressed like a man with money. And obviously puts the cock in cocky. He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. But while my gaze followed him from the moment I caught sight of him, his gaze did not find me. Of course it didn’t; I’m me, and he is … breathtaking. He was with a group of other men of similar age and, I’m guessing, stature. But he takes the cake on looks.

It appears more business meeting than men out on the town, especially given it’s only three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Just because my closest friends think this is an appropriate time to celebrate my new internship doesn’t mean the rest of the world is on our clock. And as we chat, laugh, joke, and behave in ways no respectable women should in the middle of the day, I continue to sneak glimpses. But like I said, he does not appear to even know I exist. For that matter, he doesn’t realize our group of young women is even there at all. He’s most enthralled with the conversation of his group, and while the other men at their table have taken turns glancing our way, he glanced at us perhaps once before dismissing us and returning to his group.

When I exit the restroom and come face to face with the man and his oh-so inappropriate question, I freeze. He’s more handsome than I initially thought from forty or so feet away. In fact, he’s incredible to look at. Why a man like him would proposition a girl like me is beyond my comprehension. And in my frozen state, I take in his calm and impassive expression. The question deserves an answer—hell, it deserves a swift slap across the face—but instead, I just stare. And he stares back—waiting.

As his hand reaches out to my body, I don’t stop him. My heart pounds, my brain panics and demands I run, but my body betrays me and flushes and tingles. It’s as if his very masculine, long-fingered hand moves in slow motion as it closes the space between our bodies. When his unfamiliar fingers touch my blouse right above the waist of my pants, my stomach muscles instantly clench and quiver, but I still don’t move. When he undoes the button of my pants with only the fingers of his one hand, I maintain my position. When he slides the zipper of my pants down, moving far slower than necessary, my breaths come in quick desperate gasps, but I still don’t move an inch.

His eyes are smoldering, wide, dark, and intense. I have no good reason to let this complete stranger touch my body, but at the moment, it’s the only thing my body wants. At any moment, someone could enter the small corridor we are standing in, but he isn’t concerned in the least. And as his hand slips past the waist of my underwear, pushing its way to my sex, I stop breathing altogether. His hand is warm and demanding, and I should stop him, I should scream, anything at all to keep this from happening. But he knows I won’t; he knows I have no intention of stopping what is to come. I want his fingers on my skin. I have from the moment I caught sight of him upon entering the bar. Wasn’t this what I was imagining while sitting with my best gal pals celebrating? It’s my celebration after all. Shouldn’t I be able to have a little fun? But the truth of the matter is this isn’t me! I don’t have fun; I don’t fuck around with strangers in narrow corridors of swanky downtown bars. This isn’t me … but still, I won’t stop him. I want to be exactly the type of girl who fucks about with a man like him.

When his finger touches the top of my sex, my hips instantly thrust toward him, and a gasp escapes my lips in my want for more. But his finger doesn’t linger there for longer than a second before sliding between the lips of my vagina, passing over my clitoris as it makes its way to my entry. This man has no idea just how inept I am, and at the moment, I’m far too in heat to stop his touch, slow his movements, or challenge him in any way. I’m without doubt the oldest virgin in the near vicinity, and in the cover of anonymity I won’t be announcing just how inexperienced I am. He is anything but inexperienced, and with any luck my pathetic naïveté won’t be too obvious.

He smells amazing. It’s the smell of expensive cologne, but it’s light and subtle. It isn’t musky, but clean, earthy, and warm. He’s clean-shaven, and his dark hair is tousled but professional. His suit is wool and probably cost more than my rent for the better portion of the year. His teeth are perfectly straight and white. And when I use his arm to steady myself while his fingers explore and invade the most private part of my body, the well-developed muscles of his upper arms ripple and contract at my touch. The quiet, husky moan that emanates from his lips reveals what his impassive and dark eyes don’t: he wants this just as much as I do. That’s impossible, and yet it’s as true as my own desire.

“Come home with me.” He speaks with a warm, purring voice that has my knees shaking.

There’s nothing purring about my voice as I respond, “You could be a serial killer.”

“And yet oddly enough, I’m not…” The slight smile that crosses his delicious-looking mouth assures me he’s not offended by my question … but I’m not sure I should care. This is reckless. But his fingers still tease and linger between my legs; his palm is snug against my skin, brushing over my most sensitive nub and held tight to my body by the clothing that is still firmly in place. I swear I’ll cry if he pulls away from me. But this isn’t me. I don’t do this. I can’t do this. I’m responsible, not reckless. I’m frigid, not a slut. I care about my career, not sex. But still, this man…

His finger plunges into my entry, filling me and releasing a groan so unfamiliar I clasp my hand to my mouth. His eyes watch me. He’s waiting for my response … as though my moan weren’t enough. Didn’t I remain chaste for a reason? Wasn’t there a purpose to it? But even as the questions enter my mind, so too does his finger enter my tight, virgin sheath once more. And I’m reminded I’ve thought often and with intense longing of an experience such as this. Remaining a virgin was nothing more than my immersion in my studies, my fear of becoming attached to something other than my goal. My friends have cried; they’ve languished away at ended relationships. I’ve never had such a problem. Instead, I’ve been focused, driven to the point of obsession on my studies. It’s how I managed to remain at the top of my class. It’s how I managed to land the best internship my grades could buy.

Foster Architectural Designs, to be exact. They award one internship per year for the second half of the spring term, and in two short days I’ll be walking through their doors to my new, albeit temporary, place there. It’s the final hurdle between me and my diploma. They rate brutally, but if you survive … moreover, if you thrive, you will be assured the very best job offers at the very best firms. So, it’s all a reason to celebrate; there is no doubt about this fact. And so the question remains: why not him?