The Window Washer

Erotica

The Window Washer

By Reed Manning

The Window Washer by Reed Manning

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Copyright ©1996 Dave Smeds First published in Club International, December 1996 NOTICE: This ebook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This book cannot be legally lent or given to others. This ebook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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The Window Washer by Reed Manning

Sandra understood the depth of her horniness when, during her coffee break, she caught herself studying the way the icing was arranged across her danish. For an instant, she could have sworn the pastry had been drenched by a copious outpouring of semen. She'd been working too hard. If she didn't get some sexual attention soon, she'd go insane. A date was out of the question. She had no current boyfriend, no one to call and say, “Be at my place at fivethirty.” No time to troll the singles hang-outs; she had a case going into arbitration in the morning and required every remaining waking moment to prepare for it. She was paying the price of being a successful corporate attorney in the cutthroat arena of midtown Manhattan: Barely past thirty, foxy as hell, dressed in clothes that cost a thousand bucks, and without a man when she needed one. By two p.m., even her pencil was beginning to seem phallic. She caught herself nibbling the eraser and knew she'd gone beyond critical. She eyed the closed door. Her assistant sat on the other side at a station in the secretarial bay. Five steps and the woman would be knocking, then breezing on in with a Brooklyn style of assertiveness that Sandra had been unwilling to tame, since that pushiness served her well when turned in the direction of clients and adversaries. Privacy, even in a so-called “private” office, was an uncertain commodity. However, Sandra had no appointments, and had already left orders not to be interrupted. Getting up to lock the door 3

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might lead to suspicions, but chances were small that she would be disturbed during the next ten minutes. That would be all the time she needed. Rummaging in her purse, she found her special friend. Slim, petite, and battery-powered, it could easily be hidden again quickly. When operating, it purred like hummingbird wings, quiet enough for stealth, kinetic enough to lift Sandra into the clouds. Turning her desk chair to face the window, she raised her skirt, spread her legs, and sighed in anticipation. Her window gave her a panoramic view of city skyline. No rooftops protruded as high as the level of her office. No one with a view of her window was close enough to peer in against the glare of the daylight. Deftly she shoved aside the vee of her panties and inserted the smooth, rigid-plastic cylinder into her pussy. Her lips parted easily, the wetness within granting the instrument a smooth entry into its familiar bower. Usually she went for her clit first to get herself primed. Today, she was already primed. Her paramount need was to be filled. Something bigger would have been better, but beggars couldn't be choosers. When climax approached, she'd give her button its attention. Her vaginal muscles contracted, getting a good grip on the vibrator. She twisted the knob at the base and the stimulation kicked in. Deep pulses traveled into her pubic bone and turned her entire pelvic region into erotic putty. Keeping the toy inside with a single finger, the other digits roamed, stroking her pliant, rubbery twat and her swelling hood, 4

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reaching for her perineum and anus, and fluffing up the few wisps of muff left after her latest waxing—it was swimsuit season, and she favored thong bikinis. A moan—suppressed so as not to alert her secretary— escaped her mouth. She closed her eyes, leaned back, and let the ecstasy build. It didn't take long, given the fire in her crotch. Languorously she withdrew the vibrator from its niche. Moving carefully so as not to drop the slick object, she guided it with the skill of long practice until its tip rested atop her clit. Only then, as her breath was deepening and the orgasm inevitable, did her eyes flutter open... ...only to fasten on a window washer on his platform on the other side of the glass, peering in at her from barely six feet away. She was too far gone to interrupt her throes of pleasure. Her hips lifted from her chair, her knees quaked, and tremors seized her cunt. One, two, three powerful shudders racked her. Her hand and lower body conspired to keep her vibrator glued to the crest of her twat. And all the while, she stared into the goggle-eyed face of the man outside. It was as impressive an orgasm as she'd ever had. Finally the convulsions dimmed enough to restore her control. Her knees snapped together. Blushing furiously, she stood up and restored her skirt so fast she neglected her panties. Down went the blinds. She kept her face averted as the window washer vanished from view. “Oh, my God,” she squeaked. 5

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She couldn't even bear to stay in the room. Rushing into the outer office, she hurried toward the lavatory, pursued by the curious gazes of the secretaries. Taking refuge in a stall, she forced herself to steady her breathing. She fixed the configuration of her panties, paused by the mirror to be sure the rosiness of embarrassment had disappeared, and marched with as much of a business-asusual aura back to her quarters. She refused to open the blinds. It wasn't until five o'clock that she peeked outside. The window washer was gone. No trace of him or his rig could be seen. **** Too distracted now by the memory, she went home during regular commute hours and finished her work there. The latter took until midnight because she was constantly sinking into reverie. Again and again, her mind's eye filled with the details of the window washer's face. She'd seen him for all of twelve seconds, yet in that time she'd memorized every whisker nub on his strong, lean jaw, every speck in the irises of his hazel-green eyes, every strand of his thick, brown locks of hair. Most of all, she remembered his expression. She couldn't think of an occasion when she'd ever been on the receiving end of the sort of intense adoration and approval he had broadcast. It was the look she'd wanted to see in the countenances of every boyfriend she'd ever had, one that told her she wasn't just a sex object, not just a cunt in an office chair. His gaze had been personal. 6

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The next day during an idle moment in the arbitration proceeding, she found herself sketching his face in the margins of a page of notes. Two nights later, she woke up at three in the morning hot and bothered, and masturbated in the dark to the fantasy of him walking through her bedroom doorway. And at work, she inevitably caught herself listening for the sound of ropes and pulleys as window-washer platforms moved up and down the building. Without consciously acknowledging what she was doing, she visited her favorite “naughty” boutique for women and acquired a new accessory, which she hid in a locked drawer of her desk. As she fondled the key, she pictured just what she would do when the laborer showed up again. If she found the courage. **** Finally, about two weeks after she had last seen the man, she spotted the lines of his rig trailing by her window. Fabricating an excuse to jaunt up to the office two floors up, she glimpsed him working. Same guy. The sight triggered a pulse from deep in her chest through to the crowns of her tits, hardening her nipples. When his platform was just above her floor, about to descend, she left word not to be interrupted, locked her doors—the hell what her assistant might think!—and stripped doe naked. She climbed on her desk and perched on hands and knees, ass toward the window. As the platform descended, she turned her face away. At the chosen moment, she dipped the lifelike dildo she'd pulled from the locked drawer into a little jar of personal 7

The Window Washer by Reed Manning

lubricant. Aiming carefully, certain that he was watching, she shoved the thing into her asshole. Her butt accepted the knob inside, then resisted as the shaft began to penetrate, as if her tunnel were too small to accommodate its girth. She let that impression sink in, to suggest to her audience-of-one how snug her hole would be for him, then she let her sphincters ease. Inward crept the dildo, inch by inch, until the fingers of the hand holding the device touched the rim of moistened flesh. By then the hard presence, held so intimately, felt so wonderful she wished she could keep pushing more and more inside, but she settled for the ecstasy of in-and-out. She pictured him absorbing every detail of her tiny, crinkled opening yielding and quivering around the tool as it fucked her. That fantasy combined with the physical stimulation produced mini-quakes from her hips to her knees and back. Her perineum trembled, then her vaginal walls, then her clit. She came. It took her by surprise because she rarely climaxed with so little attention paid to her clit, but it was full, emptying her lungs and raising goose pimples all across her body, from navel to nape of neck to her calves. But not on the moons of her ass—her skin was too hot there, her blood coursing robustly through her capillaries. Only after the surges had subsided did she realize she was flattening her boobs and the side of her face against her desktop, her ass rising as if gravity had been reversed. She sagged back down, spent. Then it was time for another. 8

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She indulged in three orgasms altogether, the last arriving with a gentleness that told her she had found her present limit. Not once had she peered at the window, nor did she give in to the temptation as she cleaned up, slipped back into her clothing, and settled down at her desk to work. Naturally, she was too stirred up to actually get anything done, but she maintained the pretense until she heard the rig descend below her floor. Only then did she turn and look. On the outer surface of the window was a thick splatter of cum, hanging distended and white, a volume so impressive that a tingle grew in her pussy in spite of her exhaustion. No, no, she decided. No more orgasms yet. She'd savor the vision and use the memory to arouse herself that night, when she could give the token the acknowledgment it deserved. **** The cum had been cleaned up by the time she arrived the next morning. That saved her from a panic attack prior to her ten o'clock conference with an associate, but it also left her wistful. She doubted she could be so daring again. The risk to her reputation she was taking had sunk in. Yet she dreamed of an encore. Sometimes literally so, in bed at night, and sometimes while awake, particularly when making further use of her big new dildo. She lived in a state of anticipation for a fortnight, until finally the window-washing rig came by on its regular schedule. She stood, fully dressed, near the glass as the platform came down, ready to make face-to-face contact. But it was a different worker. 9

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Shoulders sagging, she waved a generic hello and retreated to her desk chair, watching the new guy only once or twice in the reflection on her computer screen, and then only to reinforce the certainty that it was, indeed, not her “lover.” She struggled with a gamut of emotions, with one feeling rising up above the others: She had no interest in performing for this ... other one. As physically separated as her escapades with the first window washer had been, they had transcended anonymity and attained a kind of intimacy. Sure, the exhibitionism had contained an element of intoxication all by itself, but the aspect that made the events truly enthralling was the connection she had felt. It just wasn't transferable. Which returned her to being lonely young Sandra, Girl Lawyer. She put her head in her palms and sighed. **** Two months later, she was working late, which she hadn't done much for weeks—the incidents with the window washer had convinced her she had to try to assemble a social life. Long after most of the other building occupants had forsaken their offices and cubicles, she boarded the elevator for the trip to street level, descending quite by herself most of the way. Way down on the twentieth floor, her journey was interrupted. A janitor rolled his cart in, which seemed perfectly unremarkable because she knew the service elevator was broken—until she glanced at his face. It was the window washer. 10

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She understood instantly why she hadn't seen him recently. He'd obviously been reassigned indoors, and moved to this remote part of the building. But it was definitely the same man. His hazel eyes tracked her way, locked on her radiant grin, and suddenly his mouth popped open. She didn't say a word. Gesturing him beside her, she pressed the buttons that would take them back to the upper skyscraper. Leaving his cart in the secretarial bay, they tiptoed into her office. Quietly, save for an involuntary giggle, she poured off her clothing. The man slowly dropped his overalls and began unbuttoning his shirt, his hesitancy and lump-in-throat expression showing he didn't quite believe his good fortune, so she gave him some reassurance. Parting the folds of his briefs, she drew out his expanding wang and slid it into her mouth. Immediately she had her own lump in throat. His dick was smooth and hefty. It glided along her lips, throbbed against her tongue, and nudged her inner cheeks with boyish exuberance. Sandra felt her cunt gush. Reaching down, her fingers spread the wetness over her clit and lips, then rose to massage his balls. She tasted the first seepage of pre-cum from his tube and couldn't contain herself. “Fuck me,” she said, rolling onto her back on the carpet and spreading her legs. He grinned and, leaving his socks on in his haste to obey, lowered himself down, pausing to lick. His mouth moved from perineum to clit just once, clearly just to give him a taste, not to lube her or make her cum. After all, the first had already happened, and the second soon would no matter what. 11

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He plunged into her, breaching her expertly and completely in spite of what proved to be a compact fit. Just the right fit, she told herself, sighing as his girth made her tunnel expand. She wrapped her ankles around his neck for as thorough a plowing as possible and let him have at it. Have at it he did, pumping in and out until her juices overflowed and trickled down the crack of her ass, making her anus twitch and wish for an insertion of its own. He had a laborer's muscles, taut and buffed and capable of high endurance. Soon her buns were pink and hot from the slapping contact. Her pussy lips were engorging, reshaping themselves to receive as much—and want as much—impact as possible. Finally, though she tried to delay it, her eyelids fluttered, her anus clenched, her nipples stood up. She was coming. Her heaves and gasps and the spasms with which she was wrapping his cock drove his hips into overdrive. He thundered in and out of her until every last quiver of the climax had its opportunity to course through her. Gazing up through lashes dotted with sweat, licking her lips like a cat who's just been fed a favorite treat, she was aroused all over again when he said, “Roll over and let me give you some more.” She did as asked. He entered her while she was on her hands and knees, probing her slick hole until his scrotum hair tickled her mons. He pressed downward and, taking the hint, she flattened out, legs closed and inside his. That way he could brace his knees on the floor to either side of her thighs. The position made his cock seem immense. She cooed as he settled into a long session of humping, finding the deep 12

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recesses of her pussy, and on the outward stroke rubbing her lightly clenched buns and thighs. “Ooooaaah,” he moaned at last. Knowing he was getting close sent her over the top again. She climaxed to the sensation of jets of semen pouring into her eager, wellprepared cavity. Rolling off, he collapsed on his back, cock still rigidly upright and twitching, with a drop of white oozing from the tip. She captured it on her tongue, swallowed, and nestled up in the crook of his arm to wind down. When their bodies were cool she reached up, stroked his cheek, and whispered, “My name is...” And found she couldn't utter as much as the “s” in Sandra. She grabbed one of her business cards from the desk top, began to write her phone number, and stopped after scribbling only the prefix. “Call me at...” No. The more she knew about him, the less like a fantasy he would become. She wasn't ready to give up her dream lover yet. He seemed to understand. He kissed her back as fervently as she urged him to. They dressed in silence, indulging in long, appraising glances of their well-fucked, afterglow-laden bodies. Saluting, he took his cart back to the elevator and set off for his designated work area. She blew him a kiss as the doors closed. A different elevator took her down, and soon she was home. Opening her cabinet of cleaning supplies, she took a whiff and was reminded of his custodian's uniform, perfumed 13

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by his job. It engaged her memories, sending new warmth to her nipples, her clit, her ass. Perhaps she would add to those memories, perhaps not. The uncertainty was part of the thrill.

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