I am a 34-year-old single woman, five feet six and 130 lbs, with a slim but curvy figure.
I was divorced three years ago, after spending 10 years with a man who was unable to express any emotion. (I have since discovered that this is true of most men.) After about two subsequent years of totally enjoyable, indiscriminate fucking, I began to take stock of my situation. For a midwestern girl raised in a conservative rural town, I was finding sex to be an unlimited, always beautiful experience. However, something was missing.
I discovered what this was one warm April morning, when Garth, the husband of a business associate happened to come into my office. This rather surprised me, since we had very little trade with his organization. We conversed casually, and he invited me out for a drink after work. There was nothing unusual in this, except that for the next eight hours my fantasies ran wild.
I should say that physically Garth was not the type of man who turned me on. I like small, slender, short men, whereas he was tall, big, hairy and bearded, wore cowboy boots and smoked a pipe. I spent the rest of the day debating the pros and cons of fucking him.
The day finally ended, and I joined him at the bar of the motel where he was staying, with fucking still very much on my mind. After several drinks and much idle conversation, I found myself immensely interested in him: his size, his life, his being. I found myself resting my left hand on the back of the booth where he was sitting, and because of the closeness, it seemed only natural to rub his neck and hairline. At that point Garth finally asked if I wanted to fuck him — just like that!