This is different from my usual stories. No naked sex slaves in it, no BDSM, just two people enjoying each other for a brief interlude.
Omega Man
“I read your poem.” It was the end of my Omega networking meeting, and I was making my way through the crowd towards the door.
I’m bad at names and worse at faces. It’s the bane of my networking group existence, especially because about 80 percent of the members are middle-aged men who work in finance. How can anyone tell them apart? I tried to look interested but not too friendly, although I had a sinking feeling. “Which one?” I asked, but I was sure I already knew.
He gave a double take, like it had not occurred to him that I might have written more than one poem. “The one that won the contest at the library.” Yup. My obscure neighborhood library only printed about 100 copies of the pamphlet with the winning poems, but just my luck that this guy had somehow found one of them.
Never let them see you sweat. I would not have submitted that poem if I had thought it had a chance of winning. I had thrown it together and barely proofread it before emailing it off. The theme of the contest this year was “Together.” My poem was about endless business lunches with pasty-faced white men where the topics tended to run the gamut from golf to beer. Anyone who knew I was an Omega member would recognize I was writing about it. I made very specific fun of a few interactions. I hoped none of them had been with --
Zeb. Thank heaven for nametags. I was pretty sure he had not been part of the conversations I had written about because his name was unusual enough that I would have remembered it. Probably.
I tried to smile ingratiatingly, but I just ended up stammering “Oh. Umm.” Good going.
Zeb grinned. “Your secrets are safe with me, Diana.”
Secrets, plural? Oh, shit, I had also written in that poem about how I was ready to move on from my divorce and open my heart. And my legs.
But not at Omega. I was here for marketing purposes, nothing else.
“Would you like to grab some coffee with me?”
I looked down at my meetup list, pretending confusion. “Are we assigned together this week?” I asked.
“Nope,” Zeb said. “I just thought I might be able to surprise you by being an interesting pasty-faced white man.”
Fuck fuck fuck. I tried to retreat to full networking mode. “Remind me what you do?” I said.
“I’m an investment advisor.” Of course. Zeb must have seen the look on my face, because he shrugged. “That’s not all I am,” he said. “Just like you’re not just a lawyer. We both have depth.” He raised his eyebrows while he said it, like he was being both ironic and completely serious at the same time.
“ “If you tell me something genuinely interesting about yourself I’ll get coffee with you.” Why did I say that? Why was I not just walking away? I suddenly realized that we were the only people left in the room.
He tilted his head. For the first time I really looked at him, trying to differentiate him from everyone else. 50ish like me, about six feet tall, salt and pepper hair, a bit pudgy, the standard navy suit. Definitely pasty-faced. But he had pretty eyes. They were bluish green, like in a photograph of the ocean.
“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve had a crush on you since you first joined Omega last year, when you talked about how you knew you wanted to be a lawyer after your friend was killed by the drunk driver.”
“You know that story was marketing, right?”
“Really? It wasn’t true?”
“It was. But it was also marketing.” I blushed. I had been put on the spot when I had told that story, and I hadn’t realized that people were really listening to me.
Zeb looked contrite. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I talk to you at every single meeting and you never, ever know who I am.”
Oh, god, I hate this. I’ve read all the articles on how to remember people. Look them in the eye, repeat their names, use mnemonics. I can do that one-on-one or even in small groups, but so many people come to our Omega chapter and there are a lot of visiting members at every meeting and it’s overwhelming. By now I know the names of all the women in my group, at least, but the men . . . there are just too many of them.
“Forget it. I’m sorry. I know we’re not supposed to hit on each other.” He turned away.
“No, wait,” I said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” My face was hot. “We can get coffee if you still want to.”
He gave me a crooked, kind of dorky grin. “Networking coffee? Or, you know, coffee coffee? Because I’m fine with either.”
I fell back on bravado. “I mean, what’s the difference? Either way it’s small talk, right?”
Someone came into the room and starting cleaning the sideboard with the picked-over breakfast snacks on it. We went into the hallway and grabbed our coats from the closet. We said thank you in unison to the receptionist, and then we both laughed. As we opened the glass doors that led to the elevator bay Zeb said, “Well, one difference might be that if it’s coffee coffee I might try to kiss you in the elevator.”
“Then networking coffee,” I said without thinking. Zeb looked disappointed. “I mean, I don’t even know you. I don’t know if you’re married, or . . .”
Now he was annoyed “Seriously? In this morning’s meeting I said it was the fifth anniversary of my divorce, remember?”
I did remember someone saying that. I just hadn’t remembered that it was him.
The elevator came. I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored doors. I don’t really enjoy wearing makeup or straightening my hair – which, through some genetic quirk is still naturally dark brown – but it’s part of the game. Today I had overslept and had thrown on a bold, almost unprofessional firebrick red lipstick. My mascara brought out my hazel eyes, which are one of my few vanities – that, and my legs, which my flouncy black skirt and heels did a good job of showing off. It did not, however, hid my paunchy stomach or my double chins.
Zeb smiled at me in the mirror. He was carefully standing a couple of feet away. “You look good,” he said. He tilted his head again.
I suddenly visualized him doing that at the conference table during meetings. “I know!” I exclaimed. “You live in the suburbs, you take the commuter rail into town, you have two sons and a golden retriever, and you play poker!” I was so proud of myself for putting together some of the tidbits he had said at the meetings.
He nodded. “Two points to Gryffindor,” he said. The elevator door opened and he led me towards the café on the first floor of the office building. “And, just so you know, I am completely, one hundred percent single.”
“Me too,” I said.
We went into the café. I ordered decaf tea and Zeb ordered black coffee. It was mid-morning and the place was almost empty. I was surprised when he led me to the back of the restaurant and then around a corner. There were a couple of small round tables there, invisible from the rest of the restaurant. “I come here to work a lot after Omega meetings while I wait for the next train,” he said. “Nobody else ever comes back here this time of day.”
We sat next to each other on the bench against the wall. Neither of us said anything for a minute as we sipped our drinks. I said into the silence, “So tell me about the perfect referral for you.” This was the standard Omega line.
“Could you do something for me, Diana?”
“What?”
“Relax a little. You’re trying so hard. I already know that if I meet someone who was in a car accident I’ll send them to you. You’re obviously are passionate about your clients and very good at what you do. You sold me a long time ago.”
I deflated. Mortifyingly, my eyes welled with tears of frustration. Of course I was trying hard. I was building a law practice that would support my kids and me, while I was also taking care of them without any help. It was exhausting.
“Oh, jeez, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just meant that I really want to get to know you better. I’m so clumsy at this. I’m sorry.”
I took a deep breath. “Trying hard is who I am. I don’t know any other way to be.”
“Then it’s the perfect way for you to be.” He smiled at me over his coffee. Surprisingly, it comforted me, and I actually did relax a little. I liked him, I realized. That was unusual for me – maybe a side effect of always trying too hard.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked. He nodded. “Have you ever dated anyone from Omega?”
“No. I’ve barely dated anyone at all since I’ve been divorced.”
I took a breath. “Do you kiss and tell?”
He looked me in the eye. “Never.”
I don’t know why I took the plunge. “Do you still want to kiss me?”
“Yes.” He put down his coffee cup.
I leaned in towards him, but he took my hand and brought it up to his mouth. He brushed his lips against the back of my knuckles while looking up at me. Suddenly I remembered what it was to melt at someone’s touch. “My ideal referral,” he said, as he turned my hand over, “is someone with between $300,000 and $1 million in non-real estate assets, who wants to make sure they are properly diversified.” He kissed my palm. “That’s just my Omega speech, though.” He kissed my wrist. I made a little noise. I never do that. “My boss likes it when I bring on people with more money.” He lingered over the inside of my arm. “But I love talking to people who are really struggling, to help them come up with a plan.” He carefully put my hand on the table. “That’s one of my passions.”
“Um,” I said. My hand was throbbing, and the throbbing traveled upwards. I wanted him to touch me again. “That’s me. My husband got everything in the divorce. All my savings. I got the equity in the house, but I can’t sell it because I have the kids. I’m 51 and I’m starting from scratch.” There went my carefully built Omega façade. I couldn’t look at Zeb.
He put his arm around me. Even through both of our suits I could feel how warm he was. “I can look at your numbers if you want,” he said.
“I know how to look at numbers. I have a plan. For the next 21 years I work my tail off. I’ve calculated exactly how much I have to make, on average, every single day. It’s a lot. I don’t know if I can do it.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
I nodded against him. “I’m only two years in, and so far I’m on track, but . . .” He was right. It was exhausting. I usually didn’t let myself think about that. “I’m sorry. You wanted to make out with a powerful attorney, and instead you got a whining mess.”
He tightened his arm against me. “I wanted to make you with you, Diana,” he said. His chest rumbled as he spoke. “I still do, if you want to. Every aspect of you. Powerful attorney, struggling single mom, whatever else is in there. I want to know you and I want to touch you. All of you. If you also want to.”
“What if I’m a seral killer?”
I could feel his smile. “You’re not. But I think you’re afraid of what will happen if we start kissing. So we don’t have to. And if we start, we can stop whenever either of us wants.”
“I haven’t been with anyone since my husband,” I blurted. God, I was telling him all my secrets. I was glad our faces were at an angle where we couldn’t see each other.
He kissed the side of my head. I turned so that we were facing each other. He just sat there, until I leaned forward and our lips met. I opened my mouth just a little. He tasted like coffee. The kiss was soft and romantic, and the thought made me pull back and laugh.
“What?” he said.
“It’s just – I haven’t made out with anyone in decades.”
He cocked his head and put his hand on my shoulder. I leaned in to kiss him again. His hand drifted down and unbuttoned the top button of my suit jacket. I pulled back again. “No one ever comes back here?”
“No. I come here almost every week. No one has ever bothered me. Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” We kissed some more. Another button. He reached under my jacket and palmed my breast over my blouse. I moaned a little. It had been so long. His thumb found my nipple. Oh my god.
I shifted so that my legs crossed his lap. I could feel his hardness against the outside of my thigh. I pressed against it. My pussy sprang to life. It had been so long since anything other than my fingers or a toy had had any effect on it. I moaned again, and wriggled against his cock.
He stopped kissing me and asked, “How far do you want to go, Diana?”
I stilled. “Not all the way,” I said. “We would have to talk first, and --” I was embarrassed. I didn’t know how to have this conversation.
“Diseases, and birth control, and all the rest,” he said. “And on the off chance that someone comes back here we don’t want to get arrested.”
I started to pull away. “Will someone come?”
He tightened his arm around me. “No. They never do, I swear.” He kissed me again, a short peck on the lips. At the same time he put his hand on my inner thigh, just above my knee. It burned me. “We can go just far enough that we don’t have to have a conversation,” he said. He moved his hand up. I was glad that I had forgotten to put on my usual biker shorts under my skirt this morning. God, I wanted his hand higher. “Just touch each other, like this.” His finger brushed against my panties, over my clit.
I panted. “Yes,” I said. “I want that.” He brushed my clit again. I wriggled. I tried to grab his cock through his slacks, but the angle wasn’t quite right. He shifted me a little so I had better access. I took a second to unbutton his pants and unzip his fly. I moved his underwear – boxers – so that his cock could spring up through the hole in it. I licked the palm of my hand and grabbed it. He moaned like I had earlier, and moved my panties to reach under them.
His fingers were magic. He pushed into my pussy and I cried out. Then he moved almost back to my clit, but not quite, and pulsed there. I was dizzy. I tried to focus on his cock, wanting to give him the pleasure that he was giving me. He moved his finger up and down my slit. I squeezed his cock harder. And then he slowly moved upwards, until at last he was touching my clit. Oh god. He slid down to my pussy and pressed in again, and then went back to my clit. “Stop,” I said. “I don’t want to come without you.”
He laughed. “You won’t,” he said. I let go of his cock long enough to lick my palm again. He kept fingering me, my pussy, my slit, my clit. I moved up and down on his shaft.
“When you come, I will too,” he said. He pushed into my pussy hard, two fingers. I put my mouth on his shoulder so I would not cry out too loud. His thumb was on my clit and his fingers fucked my pussy. I felt like I was hanging over a precipice. And then he shifted his thumb to the very top of my clit and moved it up and down, and I fell, my pussy convulsing on his fingers, my hand convulsing on his cock, my mouth biting into his shoulder. With a grunt he thrust his cock up through my fist and exploded onto his shirt. His thumb still moved slowly on my clit. I stopped coming but his touch felt so good, like love or ice cream.
I let go of his now soft cock and he took his hand out of my panties. “So,” he said with a smile that was just short of smug, “was that interesting enough?”
Note from the author: If you enjoyed this, check out my book with this and other short stories in it, The Mature Woman's Guide to Desire.
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