Sweaty Palms

In some strange way, it was his profound ugliness that attracted me to him. There was something very raw about this person, who took absolutely no interest in his appearance or social conduct. When I first met him, I couldn't stand him; he was rude and blunt to everyone he spoke to, including, most upsettingly, me. I might not be perfect, but I'd become used to people generally liking me. You don't often need much more that a nice smile and a pair of big titties before men at least warm to you, and I had both of these, so I suppose I was just disgruntled by his rough manner. It wasn't until later that he started to grow on me, as I realised you just have to get used to him and not take him personally.

I never stopped wondering how he got his job at such a nice bar, however. No-one who drank there liked him, I mean, as you can imagine, customer service was not his forte. I guess it's just one of life's little mysteries.

Anyway, we're closing up one night, everyone else has already gone, and something's different. I meant, it had felt different all evening. He had actually made efforts to speak nicely to me at least three or four times, which far exceeded his previous all time record of once. So there I am, all flattered that he's spoken to me, and I'm starting to notice that if he'd just tidy himself up a bit, and smile once in a while, he'd actually be quite good looking. I think I described him once as having cult appeal.

But of course none of this mattered. He was still just some ugly, miserable guy I hardly knew, who had funny looking teeth, and a jagged scar above his left eyebrow, who often forgot to shave for a few too many days, and sometimes came into work smelling less-than-perfect. And even if he did have a really nice jawline jutting out from under that mop of hair, he was still that odd guy I didn't really like , and I still had a boyfriend I loved.

So there I am, just looking for some wines we needed in the cellar, while he finished sorting out the books upstairs. When I heard him slam the cash register shut and start to come downstairs I just assumed he was coming to tell me he'd finished upstairs and that I needed to hurry up so we could finish and lock up for the night. When he came in, though, he didn't really say anything, he just stood there. I turned to face him and started trying to think of something to say or ask him to kill the silence. It was then that I noticed the bulge at his crotch. He looked awkward, like he had too much to say and didn't know where to start. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and back again. We were both sweating.

I began to tingle and throb. My stomach tightened. It was useless trying to tell myself it was fear or anxiety causing my body to behave as it was.

In my head, I was making some evasive little joke, then stepping around him and heading back upstairs. In the real world I was starting to pull my skirt up a little, and, saying nothing, backing further into the room. He followed a step, letting the heavy door slam behind him. The air in the tiny room was hot and musty, and I could feel ancient dust and dirt clinging to my moist skin. Taking another step back, I hit the oak table, and without thinking, slid back so that I was sat on top of it with my legs parted.

Straight away he was between my legs, pushing my skirt up around my waist, and pulling my panties down. It felt disgusting. He was completely unattractive. I fixed my eyes for a moment on the sweat patches under his armpits, whilst silently hoping he didn't kiss me, because I'd noticed earlier that day that he had bad breath. And yet here I was spreading my legs for him, watching him discard my drenched panties with clammy, dirty hands.

It was about this point that I realised what I liked about him. It was his complete lack of self consciousness, and how it was rubbing off on me. This grubby looking man, with his lack of social skills, and neglect for personal hygiene, didn't care how he or I looked. He didn't care that my thighs weren't as firm as they could be, or that I was sweating so much that I probably smelled as much as he did. He didn't want to worship me, he just wanted to fuck me.

Anyway, while I'm there having my little epiphanies about the complex nature of our relationship, he's now freed his throbbing cock, and I just glance long enough to spot it's mediocre size, and wonder how clean it is, before he's pushing it inside me. I almost came just from that, just from how horny I had become, but somehow didn't. He stopped for a moment, embedded in my pussy, and shoved me a bit further onto the table, before starting to move in and out.

We weren't having sex, we were mating. As I was sprawled on the unlucky table, gasping with pleasure and pain as he pushed deeper and deeper, he just kept pounding slowly into me, grunting like an animal. There was very little eye contact, just slippery friction and unpleasant noises.

As his mechanical thrusting sped up, I squirmed beneath him, trying to get as much clitoral contact as possible, and increase the frequency of times he managed to hit my g-spot. He was pounding into me like a pneumatic drill now, grunting with each movement, his expression almost pained with concentration. I felt his body stiffen with one last thrust as he came, heaving his whole body forward and pausing there, basking. I came just after him, not amazingly, but enough. He let his body sink and cover mine, and we lay there, still connected for a little while, just panting.

Finally he slid out, took a step back, and began pulling up his pants. I also stood and started to gather myself.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. We chatted, although not about the fact we'd just fucked, finished everything up and went home.

I only worked there another month before quitting when something better came along. I never bothered to keep in touch with him. I suppose it's not a very exciting tale. Just two people fucking. But that's what I like about it.