Jesus Fucking Christ.

I do this every time she invites me over and I don't know why I forget which apartment is hers and I knock on H205.

I don't hear her voice or footsteps and after about three paranoid seconds I remember she is on the third floor, not the second, and I haul ass up the concrete stairs without giving her neighbor a chance to answer the door.

I have no explanation prepared for why I have a bulky jacket on, pockets bulging, reeking of weed and if the door opened and it was the wrong apartment, I can only imagine what would happen.

I literally smell like I just rolled through a pot farm field with a machete.

I stand on her cutesy red, pink and green doormat that I really should try to remember next time and knock on the apartment door. I try not to let my mind wander down carnal paths as she calls out "I'm coming!"

I must maintain my professional demeanor.

She swings the door open quickly and winces as it bangs against her entryway wall. She gives an embarrassed smile and looks up happily at me.

"That was totally on purpose, I swear!" We both laugh.

She's still wearing her work clothes, black blouse and gray skirt, no shoes, silky smooth hair let down out of the Bitchy Bank Lady bun she keeps it in.

Without her heels on she easily 10 inches shorter than me, just a tiny little woman, glowing skin and slenderly built. I know she told me once how old she was but I can't for the life of me remember. She's not too much older I recall, but she could pass for a college senior.

I don't look, per se, but rather merely glance at the creases of her blouse caused by her pert little breasts, somewhere between a proud A cup or a self conscious B. She won't ever have to worry about the ravages of time or gravity like other, more busty women will.

Just a glance, like I said, but long enough to notice that an extra button must have been undone and a relatively generous offering of smooth, creamy cleavage is peeking out, the hint of a padded push-up bra, rose petal colored.

This must be a recent development in her wardrobe I deduce as I can't imagine that it would be in compliance with her financial institution's corporate dress code policy.

We've finished our little chuckle about the door whacking the wall, and now I'm afraid I've missed the opportunity to say something clever as we have drifted into a slightly awkward silence.

"So...do you want to come inside, or..." she pauses, letting the possible innuendo hang in the silent air between us for a few moments, her freshly glossed lips slowly turning to a challenging smirk, daring me to answer.

Of course I do, I tell her, mirroring her smirk and narrowing my eyes with mock suspicion as I let her lead me into her quiet and otherwise empty apartment.

"Just me, no one else here." She offers this information without prompting and a flurry of pornographic thoughts bombard me at once.

Professional. Godammit.

Resist the urge to to grab her shoulders and spin her around, pin her to the wall and kiss her glittery little mouth, rip that blouse open and-

Professional, I tell myself. I silently chant it in my mind like a mantra, a security blanket against the boogie man of my own primal desires.

Treacherous bastard eyes pay no attention to my inner struggle and instead fixate on her little bottom as I follow her inside, closing her front door and locking it so that no surprise visitors would stumble in on our illicit activities.

I can not tell if she is wearing panties as no distinct lines are visible.

She looks back over her shoulder and my eyes are already somewhere else.

The wall socket, yes, very interesting wall socket. Oh, and this light switch, quite well placed and handy.

She's lived here for three months and still has no pictures on the walls. A few cardboard moving boxes labeled "living room" are still in the corner, a testament to how busy she is at the bank. But a half full liter of tequila and a plastic jug of yellow liquid margarita mix on her counter might offer better explanation as to why those boxes don't get unpacked after work.

Ah, I see it there though, what I'm really here for- an old spaghetti sauce jar, it's label half removed, pinning a few envelopes between the wall and itself.

At the bottom of the repurposed jar is one lonely little green nugget of Strawberry Cough, the only weed that she has left from my last visit, nearly a month ago.

I'm here to top her jar off and keep this little woman happy. The flirty pot smoking bank manager with the innuendos, but I seem to be doing a better job of mentally devouring her.

Once again my eyes settle on the backside of her skirt as she walks around the corner into her apartment's tiny kitchen. There is very little chance of her catching my gaze as her back is to me. I rationalize with myself that looking is different than touching, and unnoticed looking is quite professional whereas touching is very bad and would not go unnoticed.

I make a solid argument, difficult in which to find flaw, so I allow myself to keep looking yet I am still unable to determine if there are panties under that skirt.

Perhaps, after a long stressful day at the office, she slid them off to relax around the same time that her top button was unfastened and her hair was let down.

It's possible that she slipped out of them and touched up her lip gloss when she heard me knock, that she wants me to notice.

Or maybe she is just a thong type of girl instead and she doesn't realize that her bra is showing.

Stop looking at her tits and thinking about her underwear.

Knock it off! Professional, remember?

Yeah, but what about her lip gloss?

She takes her place on the opposite side of the kitchen counter. These are our customary positions for the transaction. Her in the kitchen, me in the living room, the counter between us.

She plucks one of the envelopes from behind her pot jar and slides it across the counter towards me. It's from the bank she works at and I can tell from the thickness that she's given me all twenties and tens again. I told her last time that hundreds are fine but I think she enjoys having me count it. Probably some kind of Bank Lady revenge, making other people count money.

"You look good, CoffeeMan." this is her nickname for me as I refer to the product as coffee when we text. It's the first time she's ever said it to me though and the emphasis she added at the end leaves me slightly lightheaded.

I take the envelope with a sideways glance and a cocked eyebrow.

If I were of any lighter complexion, I know that my blush response would be immediately noticeable.

Without missing a beat in the tempo of the conversation though, I reply cooly that it must be my hat as I start to count out the small bills, twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-one, twenty-forty-sixty-eighty-two...

"No, it's not the hat, it's just you. You look good to me."

Twenty-forty-sixty nine-fuck! I'm losing count and if I start over she's going to know that my mind is somewhere else.

Like maybe on the questionable location of her panties.

I give her the look of false suspicion again, eyebrows furrowed and I tell her she doesn't need to flatter me and I reassure her that she is already my favorite customer.

I quickly look around as she throws her head back with a playful laugh, seeing if she took them off and left them in plain sight somewhere- the couch, the love seat, maybe on her bed, I can see into her bedroom from here but no undergarments are visible.

Stop it, man! Attend to business!

"I'm merely being honest. I'm not trying to flatter you, I'm just sayin'," she just says "I think you're attractive. I don't know what you'll do with that information but I've wanted to tell you for a while."

Fuck it, I pretend that I've finished counting, fold the wad of cash in half, tuck it into the front pocket of my faded jeans and then begin pulling out baggies of skunk-smelling buds from my jacket.

"Oooh," she whispers, her shiny lips forming a tight circle that once again brings to mind an amateur sex video.

I smile then, guiltily, at my own nasty thoughts and also with great pride at her reaction to the merchandise.

Her eyes widen as I line them up along the counter next to the empty envelope, one by one until all eight ounces are accounted for.

Hindu Kush next to Rascal OG and Cindy99, Blue Knight and Sour Diesel, then Alaskan Thunderfuck, Black Cherry Cola, and finally Herojuana. I suppose they all look the same to her, but this is my life's true passion and they might as well be different colors to me. I know them all by smell, touch, and sight.

With no small amount of effort I manage to force the thought of those shimmery circled lips and how those smokey eyes would look up at me from below my waist out of my mind and I continue to repeat my mantra.

I am a professional.

I am the CoffeeMan.

I sweep the front of my jacket checking for anymore that I might have accidentally brought along in any of my numerous pockets. I'll admit I was in a distracted rush to get here once I had received her text to come visit.

"Wow," she says, "this is the biggest load you've ever given me all at once..." She's grinning mischievously, pearly whites showing, eyebrows raised, staring straight at me, ready to gauge my reaction and it takes every ounce of my will power not to let my rebellious eyes break contact with hers to drop down to explore the shadowy cleft just beneath her open collar.

I can see it peripherally and that itself is quite enough in concert with her blatant flirtation to evoke another, yet completely different type of physical response.

Thank God I'm standing on the other side of this counter.

A big load.

Jesus Fucking Christ, this woman.

She wins.

I abandon all pretense of professionalism, blow straight past innocent flirtation, and end up somewhere on the shady side of horny-yet-subtly-eloquent-and-suggestive-reciprocation.

I tell her that variety is the spice of life and anybody can get sick of anything, even steak, lobster, and vanilla ice cream if that's all they ever get to eat, that I would hate for her to get bored with what I had to offer and start calling a different supplier.

She is opening the baggies and holding them up to her nose as if they were test strips at a perfume counter.

"Mmm, I have to agree, CoffeeMan..." Her tone is sultry and is heading steadily into come-hither territory.

"Everyone needs a little variety now and then," she sets the baggie she was sniffing back into the lineup "and thanks for bringing so many different kinds for me to choose from...but what do you have that is going to keep me most satisfied?"

I let her know that there is a distinct possibility that I might have something in mind.

***

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.