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Erin Halfelven/Morgan Preece: Ginger-with-a-D
Posted by: Admin on Friday, August 16, 2002 - 12:52 AM Printer Friendly
Every relationship needs a little spice...
Ginger-with-a-D and
the Hunk-and-a-Half

by Erin Halfelven

If you are too young to read this in your jurisdiction or under eighteen then go away. If you are offended by graphic sex, what are you doing here anyway.

Ginger-with-a-D and the Hunk-and-a-Half

by Erin Halfelven

I'm a big girl and I like big men. Okay, so I'm spoiled that way. But at five-ten, I need a big guy to feel like a girl is supposed to feel, I guess. Y'know, all cute and protected and.... Well, it's a crock, of course, but that's what all the television and movies and books all tell you. So, I can't really get, well interested in a guy unless he's taller than me when I'm wearing heels.

And I do like to wear heels. I stand out in a crowd anyway, at my height and with red hair! but add four inches and no one misses seeing me. I work in an office, filing and data entry and boring stuff, but I like to dress nice. It's hard to find a dress with a long enough skirt to cover my knees so mostly, I don't and just wear them at whatever length they come to. The office manager says that the dress code for women allows pants but I started as a temp and always wore dresses and everyone who wore pants a lot is long gone. Sometimes, I wear pants on Friday but always really tight ones.

Obviously, the boss likes women to look like women. Waddayagonnado, right? I got full-time now with health insurance and vacation and all I had to do was show a little leg. I see these cases about sexual harassment in the paper all the time but nobody has touched me or even made sexist jokes around me. Well, we tell sexist jokes when we go to lunch, the girls and me. About men, of course.

Like: How many men does it take to screw in a light bulb? One, that's what men are for. I made that one up myself because I'm always being asked to change light bulbs by other women and, really, I don't like it. I don't ask them to get stuff off low shelves for me.

So. I'm at work, it's a bank national headquarters, so we don't get a lot of walk-in traffic but one day this guy came in. He was tall, really tall, like six-eight at least. Standing in the clerical/data entry pool area, he looks like he's expecting something. I've never seen him before and it's not my job but I went over to see what he wanted. Well, I was curious. He had wavy black hair and a sort of Mediterranean nose and I thought maybe he was from, where is it? They're having a war there in Europe and everyone is real tall.

"I'm Phil Upton," he said, holding out a large hand. No rings on either hand, I noticed. We shook hands, his grip firm but respecting that I was a woman so no power games.

"I'm Ginger Rodgers. With a d," I said. "No relation." He smelled good and his clothing had a nice way of hanging on him.

He laughed. "Right. Ginger-with-a-d." He grinned. "Are you the office manager?"

"Uh, no. It's Rodgers-with-a-d." I said, realizing as I did that I had been had. I blushed and he grinned. Well, I pointed out the office manager and he went over to sell her whatever it was he was selling or whatever he was doing on our floor. I felt a little idiotic for falling for his little game but he sure had a cute set of buns.

I went back to work but when he finished with the office manager he came over to my desk. "Hi there, Ginger-with-a-d," he said.

I said something original, like, "oh, you," or "hmmph!" He grinned and sort of rested one of his high-pocket buns on the edge of my desk. "Lunch?" he asked.

Well, he's direct, I thought. I considered. Being tall, I carry weight well but I had put on a few pounds over the holidays and had intended to skip lunch or just eat cottage cheese from the machine. You don't get many chances with a hunk-and-a-half like this one, Gin, I told myself. "Sure!" I answered. I glanced at the clock, 11:30. "Now?"

"Suits me," he said. And pretty soon we were swinging down the street to the little restaurant row at the center of the big office buildings. "Work here long?" he asked.

"Just two years, this May," I said. I didn't have to pull my stride to let him keep up, he even threatened to pull ahead.

"Oh, sorry," he said. "I'm going too fast for you?"

"Not at all," I said. "Here's Don Francisco's, you wanted Mexican?" He held the door for me. Since we were early we got a booth quick. I slid in and he sat beside me on the same side. It's a good thing Don F has big booths.

He ordered for both of us but offered me a veto I didn't use. Enchiladas suizas with rice and salad. A strawberry daiquiri. I'd never been with a man who just ordered for me without asking permission before. I had to uncross my arms and ankles, I don't know why I did that.

Maybe he thought I had crossed my arms to better display my breasts. Well, I was proud enough of them but now he gave them more than a once over. From his height, sitting down he was even more taller than me than when we were standing up, he could probably see right down to the little blue lace underwire I was wearing.

I let him look, feeling a bit, um, well, naughty sounds so seventh-graderish. Anyway, I let him look. When next I looked at him he met my eyes. His a deep brown like old leather, mine, well, green I like to say but they're really a sort of gray-mud color. We both smiled and right then I knew I was going to bed with him that night. Barring car accidents or earthquakes or alien invasion, I would spread my legs on his bed that very evening and he would fuck me until I cried out.

I told you I was spoiled but I don't know a single woman who can't get just about any man she really wants. Cause they, bless their pointy little pricks, always want us more than we want them. Or so we let them believe, and most of them do.

I couldn't just out and out tell him that I had decided to fuck him that night. It isn't done that way, usually. Well, sometimes, but that is another story. So I asked him if he lived here or was just in town on business. He said he had an apartment in Westwood and I said near the college and he said well, yeah. I went to UCLA, I told him, no degree, just for a year.

He said why no degree, and I just shrugged. No point in telling him about Harry and getting pregnant and dropping out and marriage and divorce and all that stupid stuff. "I just meant I know the area. So where's your apartment?" He told me and I said, "Mmm. Selling toner is good to you. That's a nice complex, a big pool and nice apts." I dropped a hand, like into my lap, only, accidentally it landed on his thigh and I, like gave it one stroke, before putting it where it belonged.

He said he didn't exactly sell toner, he was a personnel consultant. Then he dropped his hand onto my thigh and I let it lay there without brushing it off. I just looked at him and widened my eyes a little and let my mouth open just enough that he could see the tip of my tongue between my teeth. So, of course, he invited me to his apartment that evening.

Well, we had dinner in Marina del Rey after work and a drive down by the water then back to his apartment. My little rent-control place in Santa Monica would all fit into his living room. And I wouldn't ever fit back into those tight pants if I kept eating like that. And he wanted to go to the Cheesecake Factory, but I did veto that. "If I ate anymore I'd just have to go right to sleep," I said with a sad smile.

So there we were, in Cristobal Court. Yuppie-pups laired all around us, their daddies and mommies paying for the good life while Buffy and Trevor earned a ticket to the Republican Party Convention. Heavy oak furniture, big screen tv, killer sound system, designer kitchen. Deja vu, for me since I dated a techno-wizard who lived here when I was a blushing co-ed. The Co-ed Motel, old Roger used to call his place to his gay roommate, who told me during one of his "oh, girlfriend" confidante phases.

Phil apologized for the condition of the place, it had probably been half a week since the cleaning lady had been by. Looked fine to me. He made me a drink I didn't touch and we sat on the couch, exploring. We used our hands, our lips and our tongues.

I liked kissing him, he knew how. Mouth damp but not sloppy, lips firm against mine, our tongues danced a little tango while his right hand tangled in my hair and his left played with my buttons. I put my hands on either side of his face, a little sandpapery at something after nine p.m. I smelt the man, and sucked in air around his kisses to keep my mouth dry enough inside and because I needed the oxygen.

We dispensed with shoes and coats and shirts and ties and my blue dress there on the couch. He held my ass in one of his big hands and sort of half-carried me into the bedroom. I slipped off my bra and hose and panties and lay across his big old bed. King-size. I watched as he stripped off the pants and underwear, I didn't feel disappointed, he was built to scale at least. And his dick was already hard.

I wanted it then.

I wanted it like I wanted a pony when I was ten. I wanted to whimper. I spread my legs and beckoned him and we didn't waste any time in doing the deed the first time. I was wet, he was hard; embrace with hands and knees, press together as he guided himself into me. Then pump and pump, I arched my back to help him and thrust to meet his thrusts and he spurted in less than a dozen or so strokes. I didn't let go but held him as he softened and pulled out and the sticky cum ran onto my thigh and into that place between your ass and your pussy, whatever that's called.

I let him go and he stood on all fours over me, big and, well, big is enough. "Eat me," I whispered. A gentleman never refuses a lady's invitation to dinner and he obliged by going down on me right then with whistle stops at my nipples and my navel. I love for a man to eat me just after he's filled me with his cum, I'll happily swallow when I give him a blowjob later if he eats me when I'm juicy.

God, he had a big tongue. He used it like a flexible dick, and a finger and a vibrator. I had a trumpet player once who could tongue me so fast I once pissed in the bed by accident; Phil must have been a goddamn trombonist. He pinned me with his arms, my thighs against my sides, my knees against my ribcage. I couldn't get away from his, well, his maddening snake of a tongue. I loved it, I couldn't breathe deep in that position or I would have let out a moan that might have got his lease revoked. I must have came six or seven times before we both needed air.

"Jeez, Phil," I said. "Jeez!"

He smiled lazily. He motioned. His dick was hard again. I love a guy who gets hard from eating me. Well, we danced horizontal polka, only this time I sat astride him and controlled the rhythm. I crouched over a bit where he could reach my tits with his hands. He coached me, "Ginger, take it easy, now. Slow, you don't want this to be over too so-oo-on, soon." He tweaked my nipples when he wanted it faster.

The choreography worked, we finished in practically a dead heat, my gasping moan and his cry of "Gin!" came simultaneously. I let him rest, while I fingered myself to another couple of climaxes. He seemed to get off on watching me diddle myself this way. Then we kissed and cuddled for awhile and I leaked cum and pussy juice on to the bed. We should have put down towels but bachelors never put forethought before foreplay, when they remember the foreplay. Like I'd needed much that night.

It was time for the blowjob.

"How do you want this?" I asked. "Am I going to prime the pump or is this just desserts?" Did he want me to get him ready for another round of penetration or was I going to have to swallow it. Fine with me either way, since if he did want penetration, likely he'd want to do my ass and a girl ought to save something for the second date.

"I want you tied up for this," he said.

"What?" I thought I was hearing things. "Tied up? I've never done that." A lie but it had not been a good experience and I had no wish to repeat it.

"Look, the idea of a girl, tied up and giving me a blowjob is, well, I practically get off just thinking about it." We lay there a while just thinking about it. I didn't see him having anything that looked like an orgasm.

I sighed. It came down to, did I trust him. We'd been fucking like crazy but honestly, I'd only known the guy for a few hours. I'm going to let him tie me up and then what does he do. "Phil," I said, "how about you let me tie you up?"


"Sauce for the goose, Phil." I said. "Just think, helpless guy getting his cock sucked and he can't do a goddamn thing about it." You want a guy to think something is sexy, cuss a little. They don't hear women cuss very often and you'd be surprised how many of them have a button on that particular subject. "You let me tie you up," I promised, "I'll let you tie me up." I didn't think he would.

He had the silk scarves, big surprise. He directed me in how to do this. I'd wondered about the big old-fashioned iron headboard on the king-size bed. I hadn't noticed the iron loops welded to the side of the fucking frame, so to speak. I decided that he had made this bargain before.

Pretty soon I had him trussed up, hands above his head to the headboard, legs spread wide and his ankles tied to those iron loops. I straightened up from tying the last knot. He looked at me, as near as neutral an expression I have ever seen from a man involved in a passionate enterprise. He wanted to give nothing away.

I strode out of the room.

"Gin," he said quietly.

"Be right back," I said.

When I came back, I had his shirt and tie. I smiled as I put them on. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asked; calmly, I must admit.

"You'll see," I promised. I picked up his boxer underpants and stepped into them. I giggled. Big girls sound silly when they giggle but the idea I had demanded giggling, I couldn't help it. I glanced at my captive. His prick had already started to rise while he watched me dress myself in some of his clothes.

I went to the mirror and used an eyebrow pencil to draw a mustache on myself. When he saw what I had done, he grinned, nervously. I strode, swaggered, really, back over to the bed. I wished I had a fedora and a stogie. "Why look hyah," I said in my best Deliverance-baritone. "Somebody has done tied up this hyah quee-ah-boy for owah sexual pleasure."

He didn't know whether to laugh or flinch when I walked up on the bed. I towered over him. "Ho, ho. We are goin' to have ourselves a fine time, afore we let this little chicken go," I said. I flicked his thigh with a toe, trying to grin evilly and not bust a gut. Kneeling on the bed, I grabbed the pillow not behind his head and shoved it up under his butt. His little asshole winked at me. "Why, this boy is a gah-dam vuh-gin,'' I brayed.

"Gin!" he said, a note of panic or at least fright coloring my name.

I bent down on the bed and ran the callused edge of my papercut-scarred thumb along the underside of his helpless prick. It goddamn quivered and I almost lost it right there in an explosion of mirth that would have surely ruined the scene. I let myself slide half off the bed in order to get my face down nearer his dick.

"Dayem," I said. I put a knuckle against his asshole and pressed, gently. His cock wanted to stand up and he moaned a little. I wet my lips and took the head of his dick into my mouth while I caressed his asshole with that knuckle, and teased his balls with a finger. I used my tongue on the tender spot just behind and under the tip. He moaned.

I pulled back and looked at his cock then at his face. He had a hopeful look. I don't know if he had much jism left, I've never been sure of just how much of the stuff a guy holds, but he had a pearly drop glistening in the little navel-like opening in the end of his dick. I licked it off and he moaned again.

I left his asshole alone while I fitted my mouth down over his cock. I adjusted my position to get the right head-bobbing angle and then I did my best cocksucking routine. Up and down and a little suction and don't forget the tongue.

He moaned several times and struggled against the restraints and just before he came I pushed that knuckle up against his asshole again like I wanted to cram the whole fist up inside him. I thought the damn cum was going to come out my nose, I swallowed all I could but who would have thought he had that much left in him.

I left him lying there awhile, gasping, while I wiped my mouth on his forty dollar shirt. His dick looked as limp as cooked spaghetti but still leaked a little semen on to the sheets. It's hard to think of something to say when you're still tasting a mouthful of salty cum but I managed. "These modern quee-ah boys," I shook my head, "just ain't got no stayin' power," I said sadly.

He laughed.

I did let him tie me up later. He played with my tits and finger fucked me silly then we lay and cuddled while I was still tied up. I felt helpless, but safe.

Two months ago I moved in; we bought several new leather restraints and some black rubber dildos in various sizes for the housewarming.

Copyright 1998, 1999, 2000, 2002 by Erin Halfelven. All rights reserved.

Note: TG FtM-CD bondage deals x-rated anal oral

Ginger-with-a-D | Login/Create an account | 1 Comment
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Re: Ginger-with-a-D (Score: 1)
by pjladyfox on Sep 23, 2004 - 02:06 PM
(User info | Send a message)
Hmmm, I could have swore I left a comment on this one since I clearly remember reading it. Odd that. Otherwise, a nice short and sweet story. ^_^

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