Messing around with colleagues: don’t do it. I can give you that advice because I’ve got butter on my head. Or rather, because I’ve got experience. A long time ago, I jumped into bed with Annet. For a few months, we fucked the stars out of the sky, but when it went wrong, nothing worked on the shop floor anymore. It was her or me out the door, and in the end, I packed my bags.
When Joyce was introduced to me as a new colleague a year or so ago, I barely noticed her. Joyce isn’t the kind of woman men turn their heads for. Unjustly, as I came to realize over time. Because even though Joyce doesn’t have a divine body, that naughty glint in her eyes gets you sooner or later. Mean tongues might call her fat, but my tongue is rarely mean, and when it does get mad, it’s to bring a woman to ecstasy. Sure, Joyce is a bit chubby, but her curves are just right. Joyce is deliciously chubby. Voluptuous, I think they call it. In winter, she often wears short skirts with tights underneath, and in that tight fabric, her thighs look like something you’d want to sink your teeth into. Cup D, I’d guess, but I like to call it SD. With the S for sturdy.
The tricky thing is that Joyce started being really nice to me pretty quickly. I now know she’s just a really nice girl, but back then, I took it as a form of flirting. And I was really nice back. Not because I’m such a nice guy, but because I started to like her and could hardly resist her. She lives alone in the center of Amersfoort, and the fact that male colleagues sometimes joke that she’s in desperate need of some love didn’t make it any easier for me. Every now and then, I fantasized about her kicking off her sneakers, peeling down her tights, and me exploring the soft flesh underneath with my lips and tongue. A terrible way to uphold my principle of “no messing around with colleagues.” Still, I tried to imagine what it’d be like to kiss that spot where her thighs meet, to unzip that skirt, how her breathing would sound if I touched her nipples.
“If you’re ever near Amersfoort, you’ve got to come by for coffee,” Joyce said a few weeks ago. I promised I would, while vowing to be wiser than that. But now I’m pressing her doorbell, even though I’ve got no damn business being in Amersfoort. Unless you count Joyce. The fragile membrane separating dreams from reality is starting to crack.
She peers at me through the crack in the door, pleasantly surprised. “Rutger!” she says, swinging the door wider. “How nice, come in.”
I step into her world and pull the door shut behind me. Joyce walks ahead of me through the little hallway, its decor completely lost on me because my eyes are glued to her round backside, hugged tight by her eternal skirt. I order myself to keep it at coffee, I promise myself something tasty with the coffee.
A little later, Joyce is busy in her kitchen, deftly handling an impressive espresso machine. “What brings you to my city?” she calls over the hissing.
I bite my tongue, but it’s no use, and I lay my cards on the table: “You.”
Joyce turns around and smiles at me with a sparkle in her eyes. “How nice!” she says for the second time in a short span. Only “come in” doesn’t follow this time. Her arms forget the espresso machine and hang by her sides. My hands find hers, our gazes locked. Her fingers intertwine with mine, I feel her sweaty warmth.
“Jeez, Rutger, I don’t really know what to say.”
I shake my head in response and pull her a little closer. Joyce rises onto her tiptoes, bringing our lips within reach. I purse mine and press a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. She smells of some spicy perfume, with a hint of sweat lingering from the summer heat. I tickle the inside of her hand with my thumb, and Joyce returns my kiss. The first few kisses are shallow but tender, our lips brushing, just touching. But then the pressure builds, our mouths open, and our tongues join in. At the same time, I let go of her hands and place mine around her waist, hers on my shoulders. I taste the inside of her mouth, glide the tip of my tongue over her smooth teeth, circle hers, and breathe in her scent. My right hand moves up to cup the back of her head. Joyce kneads my shoulders, her breathing quickens. I run my fingers through her soft hair now, kiss her cheeks, the tip of her nose, the soft flesh of her neck. My other hand slides from her waist down to the firm curves of Joyce’s buttocks, eliciting a little moan right in my ear. I think this is the point of no return.
My left hand strokes the fabric stretched over her buttocks and doesn’t have to do it alone for long, because my right hand soon joins in. With both hands, I pull her pelvis closer to mine, and I feel the warmth of her groin against my budding erection. Joyce has her arms around my neck by now, and I feel her lips move against mine as she whispers something between a “yes” and an “ah.” She rests her head sideways on my shoulder, her hot breath driving me wild against my neck. That makes me pull her waist even tighter against me, and this time Joyce responds with a slight but unmistakable thrust back.
My fingers tug at her top, pulling the hem out from the waistband of her skirt. The warm, soft skin underneath is maddening. I knead the tender flesh above her waist, which again prompts a slight thrust from her pelvis. That spurs me to slide my hands further up, to the valley between her shoulder blades, where her bra strap stretches like a suspension bridge. I find the clasp and unhook it with a quick motion. I knead her shoulders, let my thumbs slip into her armpits, and lick the inside of her ear at the same time.
“I…” Joyce stammers.
“Me too,” I whisper in her ear. My hand slides forward from her armpit, finds her nipple, and cups her SD-sized breast. Beneath it, I feel her heartbeat like a runaway steam engine. She’s now grinding against my thigh. I think it’s time to say goodbye to the espresso machine and find a more suitable spot. But before we get there, I let my hand slide back down her spine, to the waistband of her skirt and beneath it. It’s too tight, so I hike her skirt up to cup her buttocks from below. I pull her tights down a bit and then feel her divine, naked flesh.
I knead her buttocks for a moment, letting my fingers inch closer to the center each time. The crease between them is steamy warm and damp with sweat. Joyce’s hand moves forward. For a second, I think she’s reaching for my fly, but then she starts stroking my stomach. I can’t take it anymore.
“Shall we find a more comfortable spot?” I whisper.
She looks at me mischievously. “Have I shown you upstairs yet?”
Her bedroom is light and cozy, but that barely registers. She stands by her bed, and I gently push her back until she flops onto her duvet. I sit beside her, push her onto her back, and start kissing her again. She raises her arms, and I pull her top loose from the front too, exposing her stomach. It’s a mound of soft, pink flesh. Her navel sits in the middle of a horizontal fold of skin I want to run my tongue through. But first, I pull her top over her head, and her bra, already unhooked, comes off with it. Her breasts are as firm as I’d fantasized for years, with small, brown nipples standing at attention. I lean forward and lick them. First the left, then the right, and back again. Somewhere below me, I feel Joyce kick off her white sneakers. My hand cups her fleshy waist, then her belly, and seeks the hem of her skirt again. Joyce grips the bedposts, her head tilted to the side, eyes closed, mouth open. I get the impression I’ve got carte blanche from here on out, and I’m damn sure I’m going to cash it in.
The secret of her skirt turns out to be a zipper on the side. I pull it open and tug the skirt down. Another sigh from Joyce, who’s now wearing nothing but her tights and panties. With one smooth motion, I strip those off her legs; Joyce lies ready to be thoroughly taken.
My fantasies turn out to be reality: Joyce is beautifully thick. The curves are tight, perfect, begging to be caressed. I can barely resist burying my face between her thighs, but I manage. I don’t want to come off as too sexist, so I start kissing her again.
“Not fair,” she whispers against my lips. “You’ve still got everything on.”
She’s got a point. I kick off my shoes, drop my pants, and pull my shirt over my head. Joyce watches and welcomes my naked body into her arms. My dick’s grown pretty hard by now and presses against her plump belly. Joyce breaks our kiss, finds my ear with her mouth, and whispers, “Are we going to have sex now?”
“I want to,” I whisper back.
“Me too. Be gentle with me.”
“I’ll do exactly what you want.”
Joyce lets out a sigh. “Mmm, nice. I want this.”
My hands stroke her belly, her breasts, her thighs, her mound, while my lips and tongue play with hers, and my erection presses heavily against her thigh. Joyce fumbles awkwardly over my back for a while, but after a bit, she dares to grip my dick and slide my foreskin up and down. It helps that I slip my middle and index fingers between her legs at moments like this. I feel her getting warmer and wetter with every move. Then my ring finger joins in, and I lick them clean to taste her arousal.
That feels too indirect, so I move down, past her breasts, her belly, her navel. She pushes my head away for a moment, but it’s just for show. As soon as I find her sensitive spot, the resistance melts away. Joyce wraps her legs around my neck as I slide my tongue between her lips and into her pussy. Her heels drum on my back when I tease her anus with my index finger. Joyce squeals, she screams, she moans, she pants. I feel her feet on my back, my dick throbbing into her mattress. I sense her orgasm building, but I don’t want it to go that far yet.
Neither does she. Suddenly, she pushes me off, sits up, and presses me onto my back. “Your turn. Lie down!” she commands.
I flop onto my back and let it happen. I see Joyce’s chubby body rise, her dark blonde hair falling like a veil over her face. I watch her kneel above me, one leg on each side, the soles of her feet visible. The tips of her hair tickle my stomach just before the tip of her tongue does the same to my tip. She teases circles around the head of my penis while her fingers massage my thighs, my balls, and sometimes my shaft. The warmth I feel on my dick starts with her breath, then her mouth, and finally my unrestrained lust. It’d take a miracle not to come in her mouth right now.
“Stop, Joyce. Stop!”
She looks up, giving me a perfect view of her parted lips between her hanging breasts. I’m on the verge of coming, and it’s exactly where it needs to happen.
“What do you want, sweetie?” she asks. “You can come in my mouth if you want. I’d like that.”
I nod toward her wide-open pussy. “There,” I manage to choke out. “But will you come too?”
Joyce rolls over and falls onto her back. “Come on then, honey.”
I climb on top of her, press my erection between her thighs, and slide inside. Joyce yelps and thrusts her pelvis invitingly forward. “Will you come too?” I manage to ask. She moans something that sounds like yes, and then there’s no holding back. I thrust a few more times, deeper than I thought possible, and then I pump my load into her wet, warm pussy with force. My stomach slaps against hers, and I bite her soft neck as Joyce screams and stomps her feet, reaching her climax.
To think that yesterday we were discussing debtors, and tomorrow morning we’ll be doing it again.
