Thoughts on a customer, x-posted variously
Maybe it's just that I'm not getting any, and haven't for some time, but the smallest things can set me off sometimes.
I work at a hotel, doing front desk and night audit. It is, for the most part, boring as all hell, but it pays rent and gives me health coverage and gets my geeky ass out of the house on a regular basis.
The upside and the downside of this job is that I work with people. This feels most like a downside when some uptight, pushy customer is unhappy with the service and decides to tell me all about it. Ask for something to be fixed, sure, but for God's sake don't offer me your complaint in the form of an epic poem, 'cause I just don't care.
Except that there's this guy in-house right now. He's fussy and finicky and nothing is ever quite good enough and he's showed up at front desk to ask that something be fixed or adjusted or changed at least once a day for the week or so he's been here. He's not cranky about it, and he seems to like me well enough, but he's terribly long-winded. This ought to bore me to tears.
But he can talk as long as he wants.
He's cute, I guess, in a bland sort of way. Blond and blue-eyed, clean-cut and slender. Pleasant. Nothing special. But his voice. My gawd, his voice.
It's a soft voice with a smooth, easy Texan drawl, not as deep as I'd usually like but touching on the deeper registers just enough so I notice. Like a hand hovering over my skin, tracing my curves, only occasionally touching and never quite where I expect it. When he talks I want to close my eyes and wait, wait, barely breathing, for the next unintended caress.
It's absolutely maddening to wonder if he'd handle my body with the same slow-and-lazy ease he has with the language.
I keep driving myself insane with images of him kneeling on the floor between my legs while I sprawl backwards over a bed, his mouth against my pussy, murmring sweet and dirty things, calling me princess and whore, telling me I'm beautiful and shameless, giving my clit the same treatment he gives his words, tasting it like candy and melting it like chocolate and just giving me a knowing smile when I arch my back and come against his sweet, sweet mouth.
I know he's going to be back again this morning, probably complaining that there's no hot water or something. The temptation to offer some highly inappropriate things as compensation will be there like it always is. Maybe he'll call me "sweetheart" again and I'll stand there with my face composed and attentive and polite while I cream my panties.
If only they were all this much fun...
I work at a hotel, doing front desk and night audit. It is, for the most part, boring as all hell, but it pays rent and gives me health coverage and gets my geeky ass out of the house on a regular basis.
The upside and the downside of this job is that I work with people. This feels most like a downside when some uptight, pushy customer is unhappy with the service and decides to tell me all about it. Ask for something to be fixed, sure, but for God's sake don't offer me your complaint in the form of an epic poem, 'cause I just don't care.
Except that there's this guy in-house right now. He's fussy and finicky and nothing is ever quite good enough and he's showed up at front desk to ask that something be fixed or adjusted or changed at least once a day for the week or so he's been here. He's not cranky about it, and he seems to like me well enough, but he's terribly long-winded. This ought to bore me to tears.
But he can talk as long as he wants.
He's cute, I guess, in a bland sort of way. Blond and blue-eyed, clean-cut and slender. Pleasant. Nothing special. But his voice. My gawd, his voice.
It's a soft voice with a smooth, easy Texan drawl, not as deep as I'd usually like but touching on the deeper registers just enough so I notice. Like a hand hovering over my skin, tracing my curves, only occasionally touching and never quite where I expect it. When he talks I want to close my eyes and wait, wait, barely breathing, for the next unintended caress.
It's absolutely maddening to wonder if he'd handle my body with the same slow-and-lazy ease he has with the language.
I keep driving myself insane with images of him kneeling on the floor between my legs while I sprawl backwards over a bed, his mouth against my pussy, murmring sweet and dirty things, calling me princess and whore, telling me I'm beautiful and shameless, giving my clit the same treatment he gives his words, tasting it like candy and melting it like chocolate and just giving me a knowing smile when I arch my back and come against his sweet, sweet mouth.
I know he's going to be back again this morning, probably complaining that there's no hot water or something. The temptation to offer some highly inappropriate things as compensation will be there like it always is. Maybe he'll call me "sweetheart" again and I'll stand there with my face composed and attentive and polite while I cream my panties.
If only they were all this much fun...