In my mid 20s, I had yet to understand how much I liked showing off. I didn’t understand what fun could be had, especially if I found a woman who deep down knew she needed more. Something that I could give her.
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That is when I met Molly. A client of mine. She definitely caught my early – 5’ nothing, small chest but amazingly curvy hips, with bright red hair. Always dressed in a way that always clutched tight to her body. She was late 30s early 40s at the time and had been married for quite some time as far as I knew.
At first, things started as playful banter as we interacted, but things really escalated during our business trip to one of her companies satellite locations.
We had ended our evening at the bar and Molly had a unique aura about her that night. Like she had something she was hiding but wanted me to know.
We sat at the bar, both a couple drinks in she with some fancy red blend, me nursing a soda because I had no interest in being dulled tonight. Molly had kicked off her heels by then, one foot tucked under her on the leather stool. Her dress hugged her hips like it had been painted on, and she kept brushing that wild red hair behind her ear every time she looked at me.
“You always like to sit like that?” I asked, grinning. “All twisted up and staring at me sideways?”
She laughed. “Depends who I’m sitting with.”
There was something in the way she said it: low, lingering, like her words were laced with something heavier. That same little grin she always had in meetings, except this time there was no boardroom between us.
She glanced down at my lap and back up again. No shame.
“Can I be honest?” she asked, swirling her wine.
I raised an eyebrow. “Only if it’s something I’ll enjoy.”
She smirked. “I’ve noticed your, um, silhouette. Pretty much every time we’ve met.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said, not even blinking. “The slacks don’t hide much. Especially when you lean back and manspread like you’re trying to prove a point.”
I let that hang for a second, then leaned in. “You think it’s just for show?”
She held my gaze, her smile fading into something slower. More real.
“I’ve been married eighteen years,” she said. “My husband’s a good man. Kind. Steady. But I don’t feel him? I guess. Not really. Not like I should.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I see the way you move,” she added. “The way you look at me. And then I see that bulge straining under your pants. You must know what it does to people.”
I chuckled, slow and low. “I’m starting to.”
She bit her lip and looked around. The bar was thinning out. We both knew exactly where this was going, but I let the silence build.
Finally, I said, “So what are you going to do about it?”
Her pupils dilated just a little. She looked down again, breathing heavier now.
“I want to feel what it’s like,” she whispered. “To be full. Actually full. Just once.”
I stood up, slow and deliberate. The bulge she’d been obsessing over rose with me, heavy in my slacks — unmistakable. Her eyes locked onto it, and her breath caught.
I reached out a hand.
“Then finish your wine,” I said. “And come find out what your husband never could give you.”
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