From the Night Porter's Logbook... (2)
By day, she's an electrician at the ice-rink.
By night, she's God Knows What - except on Thursdays. That's her late shift, when she signs-out at 9pm, and then makes a duty-visit to this nice old geezer in Flat 51, who's been living there since the year Dot. Apparently he was able to bail her out of some kind of trouble, ages ago, and hopefully all forgotten, but she was never able to repay the debt.
So once a week, she calls in at Flat 51, to consume his wrinkled prick, and give him something that might pass for some kind of semi-erection.
You might guess that this is indeed duty, not pleasure. In my case, I didn't have to guess for long. The first time I caught her eye, on the way out afterwards, it was all there in the look she gave me. Dissatisfied. And gagging for it. I also felt that I'd caught another little signal - a fractional pause, with her hand on the door-catch, before she disappeared into the night.
The next Thursday evening at nine sharp, I made sure I was pacing slowly around the Ground Floor reception, pretending to check the roof-lights and the announcements on the notice-board, when I heard the buzz of the entry-phone outside the front entrance.
Sure enough, it was her again.
And - once again - that certain look in the eye, very direct, somehow shameless, before the lift arrived and she stepped in.
For the next half-hour, I remained at my desk in the porter's office, which was not strictly professional. A Night Porter is meant to do a lot of patrolling and policing - good-sentry with eyes in the back of his head.
But I didn't want to miss her as she came through reception on the way out. Three times the lift-doors opened, only to reveal, in sequence, one elderly lady on crutches, one pair of chattering schoolboys, and one big guy with a broken nose whom everyone, including me, always steered well clear of.
But the fourth time, it was her.
And this time, our eyes locked, and there was no pretence that she needed to get on her way in a hurry. But she was in a hurry for something else, all right.
The porter's office was not exactly designed for sexual congress, but she wasn't going to be inhibited by a little thing like that. The moment I closed the door behind us, she had pulled down her slacks and pushed me down on to the chair, sitting in my lap and grinding against my tautening lust. Awkwardly I brought out my prick and slid it into her pussy from behind.
More often, it's the man who gets too impatient about things, but this time it was the woman. Having to stifle her groans, she was almost ready to climax in record time, but then unexpectedly reached down and changed holes, and I found myself up her sweet arse - the first time I had ever entered that forbidden zone in a woman.
It was like a thunderbolt, the tightness and the intimacy and the sheer badness of it all. But it caught me off my stroke, and I spunked into her back-passage sooner than I would have liked.
Yet apparently, it was what she liked. Because she looked very satisfied as she buttoned herself up and prepared for her exit.
My first experience of sodomy. And my first experience of a wham-bam woman.
I've got a feeling Thursdays are going to be a bit special from now on.