It’s a while since I posted a picture. Technology and lack of opportunity have conspired against me. So even though it’s late (or early) for an HNT I thought I’d go ahead anyway.

Readers can decide for themselves what they think I might have done with my hand shortly after this picture was taken – around 20 minutes later.

Lean forward.

Trail your finger slowly down your wide collar and brush your top button, flicking it from the grasp of its buttonhole with a deft, imperceptible twist. The satin drapes forward, revealing the delicate curve of your breast shimmering like cocoa butter in the artificial light. I stare at your satin-trimmed cleavage, and you let me, the swell of your soft breast rising and falling as the intensity my wide-eyed stare causes an eruption to stir deep within your core.

Lean forward.

I trail my finger slowly down your spine and hook it into the waistband of your panties, flicking them deftly over your firm olive cheeks, dropping them to your slightly parted knees. I stare at your glistening lips, running a finger across their slick softness, before guiding my shaft deep into you, its thick heat causing an eruption to stir deep within your core.

My libido comes in waves. Some days it just floats in the background, almost indiscernible, a grey shapeless blur that doesn’t distract me, and can be pushed aside when I have more important things in my line-of-sight.

But then something happens, not always tangible, sometimes blatant, sometimes sub-conscious. And then the vague fog begins to become more dense, coagulating into more solid form, points nudging me as the liquid arousal begins to seep into me. My inner animal stirs, and I begin to change form, muscles tightening, flesh hardening, mind narrowing, thoughts focusing.

My concentration wanes, I become distracted, the female form breaking my train of thought, tearing my eyes away from the job in hand.

The 22-year-old emailed me. She is back in the City. We are meeting for lunch next week.

I don’t participate in enough email threads containing excerpts like:

“take off your panties and bend over, I’m going to spank your arse hard for being cheeky about my english accent, and then I’m going to kick your feet apart, finger you, and then slip my fat cock into your pussy and fuck you until you scream your apology.”

That’s something I should rectify.

She didn’t notice me at first. I stood and watched her for a few minutes until she looked up and saw me staring. I didn’t look away, just held her gaze until her cheeks reddened and she dropped her head back into her book.

A few seconds later she glanced up, and looked surprised to see me still transfixed on her. Her eyes flicked back to her page, but her smile lingered, and I knew she wasn’t reading any more.

I switched off my blackberry, dropped it into my case and walked over to her, noting her eyebrows flicking upwards as she followed my progress surreptitiously. As I approached her table she sub-consciously flicked her handbag beneath her seat with her ankle.

“Is anybody sitting here?”, I asked with faux politeness, a momentary sweep of my eyes across the other empty tables emphasising my deliberate choice of seat.

“Erm, no”, she breathed quietly, still buried in her tome. She paused, and then hastily continued, after considering her words. “Be my guest”, she muttered, barely making a sound. For a second she looked up, eyes sparkling and her pearl-white teeth gleaming between her soft pink lips, and then she dropped back into her story.

I settled in the chair, busily arranging my case, pad and pen, and ordering coffee from the waiter who arrived shortly after I made myself comfortable. I started jotting figures and small diagrams on the page, the nib scratching across the page with little flourishes. She looked, with what she tried to pretend was idle curiosity, and then continued to read.

Then, as I sipped the dark bitterness from my mug, I began to write.

Blonde, short hair.
Pearl beads, multiple loops.

She glanced across at my scribbles, and breathed in, surprised. I continued.

Beige summer dress, red flowers.
Small waist.
Blue eyes.

Her mouth dropped open, and she slowly exhaled, quickly regaining composure. She ran the tip of her tongue across her mouth.

Warm rouge lips.
Freckles.
Slender fingers.

She stole another look, eyes slightly wider this time.

Soft, firm.

Now it was her turn to stare. I carried on scribbling, more slowly, deliberately.

32B, maybe C . . . ?

Pausing between each point, the tap-tap-tap of the metal against the paper, drawing her attention, the sliding curve of the question and the final punctuating stab hanging in the air. I put the pen down, laying the shaft toward her, inviting.

She looked again, unsure, breathing quickly, as I took another swig of hot coffee. Our eyes met for a second, and then she reached and picked up the pen. Her long fingers slipped around the shaft of the Waterman, and she slowly pressed the tip of the nip down, starting a new line.

32B.

The pen dropped from her hand like a hot iron, rolling towards me until I laid my fingers across it. I picked it up, smiling, and continued where she’d left off.

32B. And pert.
Nipples slightly erect.

She giggled softly and looked down at the hard bumps punctuating her breasts through the soft material of her dress. I carried on writing.

Small feet. Brown sandals.
Hem of skirts draped just above knee.

As I wrote, her hand lolled away, the book in it long forgotten. She was transfixed, unsure of what the blue ink would say next.

Long slim legs.
Knees parted slightly.

I put the pen down, and finished the last of my coffee, and she reached over and took it, rolling it in her palm and looking at her crossed legs. She struck through the last line and added to the one above it.

Long slim legs, crossed.
Knees parted slightly.

She put the pen down, and looked back studiously at her book. Without waiting, I crossed through her writing and rewrote both lines.

Long slim legs, crossed.
Knees parted slightly.
Long slim pretty legs.
Knees apart, hem draped mid-thigh.

She peered over her book, and the corner of her mouth turned up in a feint smile.

Putting the book down, she looked me straight in the eye and uncrossed her legs. Looking around furtively, she pretended to smooth her skirts, instead drawing them up her thigh to reveal her silky smooth skin. She reached forward for her novel, twisting slightly toward me, trailing one knee behind until she was facing me directly, knees apart. Her eyebrows raised for an instant, and then the book was up and obscuring her grin.

I sat back in my chair, rolling the pen between my thumb and forefinger. Shifting in my seat, I adjusted the thick erection inside my trousers and gazed down between her legs, savouring the perfect view of her neat white panties.

I started to write again, in larger letters, underlining them with a sweeping stroke.

Underwear

I heard her breath quicken again, and she watched the pen dance across the page.

White bra, lace trim.
Thin straps, left side slipped off shoulder.

She subconsciously reached inside her dress and lifted her strap back onto her shoulder.

White cotton knickers.
Not sheer.
Folded up and placed in purse.

I underlined the last line, just for emphasis.

At first, she furrowed her brow, glancing at her handbag and looking perplexed. She looked around the cafe, sure that we were being watched, but all she saw were others going about their business.

After a short pause she pushed her chair back noisily, grabbed her bag, and headed towards the gloomy rear of the cafe. I sipped the dregs of my coffee, and pushed the mug away.

When she returned, her hips swung with an extra swagger, the folds of her dress swaying around her legs. She sat down, slim legs leading towards me, and dropped her purse onto the floor by her seat.

As I looked her up and down, she took the pen and began to write, slowly and deliberately. I traced the words as they flowed from the nib:

White cotton knickers. Not sheer.
Folded up and placed in purse with bra.

As the last letters slipped onto the page, she slipped her hand over her thigh, trailing her skirt up her soft skin. At the same time she let her knees fall apart, until my eyes were drawn between her slender parted legs, to the soft narrow fuzz of her hair, glinting with a few tiny droplets of moisture.

She paused, as I stared, transfixed again, and she smiled, eyes glittering. She began to write again.

Pussy. Trimmed, soft, hair. Soft pink full lips. Wet. Sweet.

I could feel my cock pulsing with every heartbeat.

She started to write one final line.

Hotel across the square. Room 76.

And with that, she reached down to her handbag, stood up put on her cardigan. Pausing only to pick up the pen lid, she began to stroll slowly and elegantly across the road.

I glanced at the paper in front of me, the words making my heart race, as I began to pack my things away, before setting off after her.

So where the hell has everyone gone? Cate and Z are amongst the most recent exits, just two in a long line that have disappeared. They’re two of my favourites – who have been with me since the first post – along with the inimitable Ms I, and a few others. Those that are here (including myself) refrain from posting HNTs in the same quantity nor quality. Thursday used to be a wankfest for me, now some weeks are non-events altogether. I wonder if this mass loss of libido is caused by sunspots… or maybe everyone else’s libido is being sated and it’s just me who’s left thumb-twiddling…

My US trip was good, although not in terms of anything I can describe here. My pleading post (my shame at which almost caused me to delete it) yielded no results, as did an entirely frustrating foray into Craigslist. That said, I was roundly entertained by my colleagues, and friendship can go some way toward relieving a lonely heart (although not a lonely cock, it has to be said). There was one small moment that I very much enjoyed – sitting in First, with the economy-class passengers slowly shuffling by, I saw a very pretty girl that I’d been eyeing up in the terminal. As she waited by my seat I gave her my best “I’d like to fuck you” smile (read: inane grin), and to my surprise she shot a wicked smile and twinkly eyes right back at me, holding my gaze until she was out of sight. I thought about hanging around at baggage reclaim when we landed, and asking for her number, but I had other colleagues to contend with and a car waiting. Shame.

The 22-y-o is not starting her job until early next year, so she (and I) will have to wait. So I need to put my energies into something or someone else. I will try to start writing again, but inspiration is hard to find.

It’s tempting to disappear too, but I think I’ll stick around and see what/who turns up..

I am stuck alone in a hotel suite, raging hard cock in hand. No porn on the hotel TV, and two more nights of this.

So I need somebody to prevent me wasting this opportunity.There must be readers of this blog in the big Apple. Where are you all?

This close stifling heat makes me feel randy. It’s worse because I’ve been away for a while, and the close proximity to my wife, so any personal handiwork has been off the cards – so I’ve got 10 days’ of semen just waiting to be set free. I’m sure I’ll more than make up for it when I’m in NYC (even though it looks likely I’ll only be pleasuring myself), but the frustration is palpable. A girl just walked past me in a bikini top and shorts, and I nearly tripped over in the street.

In other news, the 21-year-old turned up a couple of weeks ago. She texted me “what would you do if I told you I was outside the office right now?”. My answer, unfotunately, was “nothing”, as I was in an all-day meeting. She should start work nearby soon, so with luck the next time she asks I’ll be able to reply “drag you into the washroom of the local Starbucks, push you to your knees, and slip my cock between those pretty lips of yours”.

I seem be dreaming and thinking about her a lot recently, but that may be a function of my frusation levels…

I am now taking applications for a liaison in the Big Apple.

The successful applicant will need to be available for slow stripping, deep full-mouth kissing and nibbling of various protrusions. She should be able to endure several hours of wandering fingers, firm palms and general soft touch, occasionally punctuated by harsh contact. The ability to endure extended periods of cunnilingus and general tongue work around her most intimate areas would be considered a bonus.

You will be working within an enthusiastic partnership, where activities will be varied and sometimes unusual. The work will be long, gruelling and physically demanding, but at the same time invigorating and satisfying. The intimate environment will be relaxed and casual; the dress code is ‘minimal’, although clothing should be aesthetically pleasing, non-functional and ideally sheer where possible.

Candidates will be expected to show flexibility, as they will be considered for a number of positions, including (but not limited to) standing, sitting, kneeling, and bent forward over various items of furniture. Those with particularly impressive CV may be presented to a full-length mirror whilst sitting astride the interviewer’s lap. They should also demonstrate a flair for verbal communication, as well as a taste for the male anatomy and a keen knowledge of deep throat and gagging techniques.

If you are interested in applying to join this dynamic, energetic and slightly sticky environment, you should present your résumé to the email address on the right, and should include details of previous experience, listing skills – and lingerie – that you can contribute to the organisation. Applicants should include a recent photograph, as well as a brief description of actions which they intend to carry out on their first interactions with the firm flesh.

The closing date for applications is, quite appropriately, Independence Day, with a starting date soon afterwards.

Opportunities have never been particularly forthcoming for me – in terms of my situation here, at least. Finding time when I can come up with a plausible alibi, both personally and professionally, is always tricky. Finding a time when they coincide is almost impossible. Add another person into the mix and the already long odds begin to look like America’s national debt.

So it’s particularly ironic that I will shortly find myself in that indebted country, looking out over the Statue of Liberty, and musing on the fact that despite having more freedom than I’ve had for a very long time, it looks very much like I’ll be kicking my heels in a hotel room, staring at the view and wondering what to do with myself. There’s only so much drumming I can do before my fingers seek other activities to occupy them.

So, the question is, should I try Craigslist? Or AM? Or something else? What’s likely to have the best success rate with the least bullshit? What sites actually hold any hope of a guy actually getting anything other than Spam or fake replies?

Come on ladies – and gents – I need your help.