wife loves a black manJuly 19, 2012 by: cuckold_videos
I get to work, note the confusion and mess and noise and dusty men everywhere in the lobby, and think to myself Oh, damn! They’re finally moving another tenant into the building. Well, it was nice having the building to ourselves while it lasted! Three out of four empty floors, and the last taken up by the little software company I contract for. So quiet. So many good parking spaces! Well, the quiet is certainly gone now. And the parking spaces will follow it into history.
As I’m waiting for the elevator to come, I glance over at the workmen who are busily doing something far beyond my comprehension with pieces of wood and huge tarps and paint. Well, I may not understand it, but at least it moves, I think, as I wait for the slowest elevator in the world to arrive to take me up to my floor. Some of the guys working in the lobby are glancing my way, checking me out, trying to figure out what I look like under my business suit, I guess. Well, they’re allowed to look, just as I am. I hear my elevator ding and stand in front of the doors, but off to the side so people can get out.
Oh brother, more workmen! Beep, beep! Let `em through first-—they’re bigger than me after all. Oh wow, look at the really tall dark-skinned guy in the back. Lovely glowing black skin, rippling with muscles, and, on top, oh my, that adorable baby face that so many young black men seem to have these days. I stare at Mr. Gorgeous in open admiration–can’t help myself, he’s just my type—but unlike the other dusty gentlemen, he does not look my way once! As he exits the elevator, he keeps his eyes straight ahead and brushes by so close to me it makes me think he doesn’t even see me there! I blush and look down in confusion: I may not be the prettiest woman in the world, but I’m not that bad looking. I’m especially not used to going unnoticed in this way. Oh well, he’s probably got some gorgeous girlfriend waiting for him at home that would make someone like me fade into the woodwork. A guy like that could have any woman he wanted—light or dark. Well I’m sort of in-between, hee hee, so I have both sides covered. Shut up, undie-brains, he’s NOT interested in you! Period!
Still, I can’t get him off my mind. I find it hard to concentrate on my work and catch myself staring off into space thinking of Mr. Gorgeous’s beautiful dark eyes and riveting bone structure. Mmmmmm. Wonder how long the workmen are going to be here?
I look for this guy when I leave work, but do not see him, or any of the other workmen, for that matter. I consider briefly going walking down some of the empty halls, just to check out what they’re doing, you know, observe their progress and maybe ask a few questions about the future residents of this floor, then laugh at myself for that transparent self-lie.
The next morning I decide not to dress as conservatively. While I still wear a suit jacket (my cardinal rule: never go to the client’s site without one) it’s a short casual tweed that hangs open over a form fitting cream ribbed sweater and a tight brown plaid skirt, about two inches shorter than I’d normally wear to work. Under the skirt I’ve got some dark brown tights that look great with the skirt. Some nice brown leather pumps give me an extra three inches of height and give my long legs that wonderful shape to that only heels do. I look positively collegiate! As usual, my butt sticks out too much in back, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Apparently the workmen like college girls, because when I enter the lobby I get glance after glance after glance and three or four nodding hellos. I look around for MY workman and see him over at the end of the lobby, near a corner. Mr. Gorgeous is facing my way, but again appears to not even see me. He can’t possibly miss me, but still, his eyes stare through me emptily, as if no one was standing in my spot. What the hell is his problem, I ask myself as I sigh in frustration. Boy, that must be some hot mama who’s warming his bed each night. I know what this outfit does to most men, and it doesn’t make them ignore me. I get into my elevator and give him one more longing look before the doors clothes. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a faint sneer on those beautiful features. All right, Mr. Stuck Up, be that way. This is war!
No it’s not, I conclude half an hour later when I AGAIN can’t keep my mind on my work. I manage to make it till ten o’clock, then, on the pretext of going on a break, head downstairs, purportedly to go outside to “clear my head and get some sun.” Just who am I trying to fool? There he is, still on the first floor, hammering on something and with his shirt off, sexier than ever. And I have to walk by him to get to the benches on the patio! I keep my eyes down (easy to do—it’s unnerving having all those guys staring at me) and don’t look at Mr. Gorgeous until I’m almost upon him. Then I glance up quickly and flash him my widest, friendliest grin. The other guys near him start laughing and calling out to him (his name is Brian, what a cute name!) when they see this but he only gives me a small curt nod, just the barest acknowledgement of my existence. Man, this guy is a tough case!
Outside the usual peace of the patio is broken by more workmen doing stuff. There’s some kind of dust in the air and an annoying electrical saw is whining. I make it through my fifteen minutes, however, as I’m too embarrassed to just sit there for a couple and then go back in. That would be too obvious I think. I’ve taken my jacket off in the sun, and decide not to put it back on until I’m back in the elevator. I walk briskly but with very small steps by Mr. Gorgeous, swinging my hips just slightly. I look at him again, and wonder of wonders HE’s smiling at me! What a beautiful smile he has! My elation doesn’t last very long however.
Him, clearly condescending: “Do you know that you’ve got cement dust all over the back of your skirt?”
Me, blushing deeply: “Uh, no! I uh didn’t! Thank you for telling me!”
Him, victorious: “No problem!”
In the midst of my humiliation, I have one of those rare mental flashes that I think of as inspired. It occurs to me to brush the cement dust off my bottom right there next to him, with my back to him. So I do, very businesslike and efficient, that is, if you can be businesslike and efficient brushing your hands over every inch of your too-large ass in front of a group of staring men.
Me, innocently: “Could you tell me if I got it all?”
Him, amused: “No you missed a couple of spots on the left side.”
Me, after brushing again: “Now?”
Him, chuckling: “No, you’d better go look at yourself in a mirror.”
I turn around and flash him another huge smile, “OK, I’ll do that!” and go off to my elevator. Once again, the guys start chuckling and talking to him as soon as I start to step away. “So…who won that round?” I giddily ask myself, thinking about one of the silliest questions I’d ever seen posted on the World Wide Web. “If there was a body parts war, who would win? The penises or the vaginas?” It seemed a straight draw to me.
The next few days pass with little change. The handsome workman and I have reached the stage of smiling buddies. I always smile at him first and he now grins back. It makes my day to see his face light up that way. And oh jeez, he has a DIMPLE! I’ve also noticed that after one of those smiles the seat of my office chair is always damp when I go to lunch. Unda, you are disgusting!
On one such day, at lunch, I head down to the lobby with a few of the women programmers. We’re all going to go to lunch at a nearby Mexican restaurant that one of the women really loves. As we go down in the elevator, we start to giggle and talk about the workmen. I tell them which one I think is cute and most of them agree he’s a doll, but they also think he’s mean because he never seems to notice them. In the hallway, we’re giggling again, typical female gang behavior, and, as we walk by Mr. Gorgeous on our way out to the cars, I look at him, stick my tongue out at him really fast, and then flash a smile. He chuckles when he sees that. Today is a chuckles day! All RIGHT! I’m walking on air.
I have no idea of what I ate for lunch that day. No idea at all. My stomach’s a bundle of nerves all afternoon long, however, and finally, around two hours before I usually go home, I decide to call it a day. I’m not getting anything done in this state. I’m glad I contract and can set my own hours, more or less. I say goodbye to the people around me, then head out into the hall. As I’m waiting for the ever-slow elevator, I have a second inspiration. Two great ideas in one week is pretty unusual for me. I wonder what’s going on. Dumb question, Unda. Necessity is the mother of invention, etc.
I turn away from the elevator and head around the corner for the stairwell. I have noticed that Mr. Gorgeous is often not in the lobby in the afternoons, and my great idea is to find out where he might be. I go down one flight of stairs to the third floor. I listen at the fire door for men’s voices, don’t hear anything, and decide to go in. I’m feeling not unlike a fool now, wandering these empty corridors. But I wander them thoroughly, checking out every room. Nothing. No one. So, of course, the girl who never gives up goes down to the SECOND floor and starts nosing around. I don’t have to nose far. Oh Jesus, there he is, painting a hallway wall. And he’s ALL ALONE! He looks up, not smiling, as my heels tap out my presence. Me, suddenly abashed: “Hi there. Um, do you know where the ladies room is on this floor?”