Flower Shop

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I’m a pretty positive person, but life was pissing me off just now. I had been a very high up executive assistant in an exclusive law firm in NYC. I enjoyed the demands and the pace. But I got tired of the jerk-off associates who thought they could have their way with the administrative staff.

After the third associate showed me his hard cock and told me how much he could do for me if I would just suck it, I quit. My bosses were amazed. “Chelcie, you’ve done so well here, why quit now?” they asked. I couldn’t tell them I was fed up with twenty-something egos and hard dicks. I just told them I had to follow my dream.

And I did have a dream. I had a little nest egg. I used it to open a small florist shop in lower Manhattan. The rent was equivalent to rape, but I knew I could do it. Unfortunately, I opened my shop as the economy crumbled in 2008.

At first it was great. The pinheads who formerly thought they could get in my pants were coming to me for flowers to get into some other woman’s pants. I was making out like gangbusters. Then the housing market tanked. Then derivatives were exposed to be the scam they were. (I could have told them that. Staff understands way more than the principals.)

Suddenly, the horny associates became poor would-be actors, waiting tables for skimpy tips. They didn’t buy flowers anymore. If they could scrape up a few bucks, they tried to lure pussy with cheap crack. I wasn’t ready to deal drugs just yet — even with flowers dying in my cooler and the Con-Ed bill mounting.

The big guys continued to lavish their women with flowers. After all, they had stolen millions because of the Bush banking “reforms.” But, they didn’t look to the tiny shop on 30th Avenue to deliver bouquets to their bimbos for missed assignations. They looked for the big names, or just went online.

I was fucked. But that was part of the problem, I wasn’t fucked — or hadn’t been for quite some time. I blamed my tiny tits. I sport 33bs, and guys just don’t dig them. But, geez, $3,000 for a boob job? Then you have to deal with having boobs! Being a girl is hard enough without having boobs. Screw that.

I spent days in my shop with only one or two customers and fewer calls. I wasn’t making any money. Add to that, no man had shown any interest in me since the 85 year-old guy who asked me to strip for him so he could see if he could gethard anymore. I declined, but that was last spring!

So, one spring morning this year, I found myself in my little office behind the shop, trying to keep my spirits up. I had worn my favorite outfit to work — a tight fitting turtle-neck sweater in illegal bahis green and black cable stitch and black skinny jeans. I felt pretty good about myself because the checking account hadn’t come out red, and I thought I looked hot.

It was an hour before opening, so I decided to make myself feel that much better and I started to rub my pussy lips through the skinny jeans.

I was just looking for a little self-stimulation, but I got carried away. Before I knew it, the jeans were off, I was curled up in my desk chair, knees under my chin and two fingers jamming in and out of my pussy.

As I was about to cum, I heard a noise. I was not alone.

—

I’m just a regular guy. I wasn’t popular in high school. I thought moving to New York City would make me special. I got a degree in English Literature from NYC, but that just made me another of the thousands of unemployable college grads in lower Manhattan.

Like the rest of them, I had written a novel. I poured everything I had into it. Unfortunately, at 27 years old, everything I had was not very much. Hemingway, I was not. I wanted to build a boat and sail around the world. Unfortunately, I had no technical skills, no sailing experience and I found vast expanses of water intimidating. Life had not handed me a lot of tools to be a great novelist.

I was the only son of Vermont parents who loved one another and had since high school. It was sort of a “Leave it to Beaver” upbringing. Hardship was passing up McDonald’s because we had already had it twice that week.

So, I had a bachelor’s degree in English, waiting tables in a chain restaurant that would have served twenty-something up and comers, had they all not been laid off and wanted to becomes servers in chain restaurants.

But, being a hopeless romantic, I fell for the French foreign exchange student who worked as a hostess. She was most certainly hired for her accent, and not for her acuity with the English language.

“You are how many in your partie?” she would ask. She didn’t know the difference between three and eight, but she asked. Since I was fluent in French (another useless talent), I would explain to her. “Ah, bon,” she would reply, and get a great tip.

Somehow, I thought my acuity with the language would get a date with her. She needed me to translate, but wasn’t interested in seeing me outside working hours. I had this great idea that flowers would stir her heart.

So, one day when she was working the early shift and I was not, I stumbled into this little florist shop on 30th Avenue to buy flowers to bring to the elusive Juliette.

The illegal bahis siteleri sign said “Closed” but it was just minutes before opening, and the door was open. I stepped inside, but the showroom was empty. I thought I heard a noise from the back, so I opened the door at the back.

I observed a very attractive 30-something woman, curled up in an office chair, wearing only a very attractive tight fitting turtle-neck sweater in green and black cable stitch, plunging two fingers in and out of her wet, glistening pussy.

My cargo shorts tented immediately.

—

I looked up to see a 30-something guy in cargo shorts with a huge hard-on looking at me. He was kind of cute, sandy blonde, not skinny not fat, blue eyes. More than that, I couldn’t say. Remember, I had my fingers deep in my pussy.

All I could think of to say was, “Can I help you?”

—

I’ve never been cool or slick in any way, but I actually came up with a good line. I took a step closer and said, “I think maybe I can help you.”

—

I’m such a prude, but I swear to God, I actually licked my lips. How did I suddenly become a whore? I said, “Let’s see.”

—

OMG, she didn’t call the cops and accuse me of rape when I said my cool line. Her “Let’s see” lead me to believe she might actually fuck me. Knowing it would land me in jail, I dropped my cargo shorts. Having current laundry issues, I was commando, so my erection popped our straight and true.

—

His cock was actually pretty. I knew immediately I wanted it up my cunt. How had I become such a slut? I didn’t change position, I just reached down and parted my pussy lips for him. His cock kept getting bigger. I hoped I had the pussy for it. But I needed a good fucking and he was right there.

—

She didn’t change position and actually parted her pussy lips for me. I was sure it was trouble, but I pushed the head of my dick against her pussy lips. She actually said, “Fuck me now, hard.” And I did.

— I actually said, “Fuck me now, hard.” And he did. He pounded my wet pussy as i lay curled up in that chair. His hard cock was so much better than my skinny fingers. I got wetter and wetter. I was just ready for him to cum inside me. I wanted to feel the throbbing of his cock pumping jizz into me.

He pounded my wet welcoming pussy. He pounded it hard, and I loved it. When he shoved it deep, I new it would be good. It really was.

—

I felt brave enough to reach out to feel her tits through the soft sweater material. They were small orbs that fit wonderfully in my hands. I’ve never really canlı bahis siteleri liked big tits. The nipples on small ones stood up so nicely, and they were so firm.

She said, “Not much there, I’m afraid.”

—

When he reached out to feel my tits, I was immediately self conscious. It felt so wonderful, but my small tits never did much for any guy. “Not much there, I’m afraid,” I said.

“Oh no, they are perfect. Small tits are so much more exciting. I can feel your hard nipples. Absolutely perfect.”

Then he held his cock deep in my hot, wet pussy, and he exploded into me. That made me cum like I hadn’t since my horny college days. Feeling the throb and the hot squirt of jizz deep in my cooze was more than I could handle. I writhed and I am sure I screamed as he shot his jizz into my hot hole. I’m such a slut — a content slut, but a slut nonetheless.

—

With uncharacteristic male bravado, I pounded her hot, wet pussy with my engorged cock. She was screaming and writhing and I just kept fucking her hot, wet pussy. Then I couldn’t hold back any longer and I shot my jizz deep into her pussy. She writhed so much, I thought my still hard cock would slip out of her, but I held it fast, pubic bone against pubic bone, my cock softening inside her.

We ended up in this really uncomfortable position once the great sex vibes wore off. She was still in the chair curled up and my knees were on either side of her hips, my limp cock still inside her wet pussy. My hamstrings were beginning to tense and cramp. But that was the most incredible sex I had ever had in my life. God, she was perfect.

—

My knees were beginning to cramp, but I loved the feeling of his cock in me, even as if softened. Finally, we had to move. I think it was the best sex I had ever had. I came at least twice, maybe three times. I didn’t remember.

—

“So, I’m Daphne,” I said as his now flaccid cock slid out of my still wet pussy.

“I’m David. I’m sorry if I interrupted you,” he apologized. Apologized!

“David, I think you were just the right thing at the right time.” Before I knew what I was saying, I said, “Would you like a blow job to finish things off right?” I never wanted it before, but I wanted that cock down my throat — and some hot jizz. Was this really me?

“I’ll only accept a blow job if you let me lick your pussy,” David replied. He wanted her clit in his lips and under his tongue. He wanted his fingers and tongue up her wet hole. He wanted that smell and taste in his goatee.

Daphne thought, “I’m locking that door.”

And David thought, “Juliette who?”

—

No flowers were sold that day in that little flower shop that day, but one hard penis spent a lot of time in one very wet vagina that day deep in New York City. But two people were very happy, if a little sweaty and smelly.

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