The Yellow Pages Girl

Author's note: Like many of my stories, this one has its roots in reality. This one is a slow burn, so if you are expecting torrid sex on Page One, you may be disappointed, but hopefully you will enjoy the journey. With grateful thanks to Goodtime Sarah for her help and input.

CHARLOTTE

26th November 1993. My birthday. The internet, or World Wide Web as we called it then, was in its infancy. Windows 95 wouldn't come along for another two years. Mobile phones were an expensive play toy for yuppies. Things were just starting to get back on track after the economic collapse in the late 80s.

I'm Charlotte. I'm now 26 years old and, to be honest, my life is a bit of a mess. I split up with my boyfriend Tony about three months ago, when he decided that our relationship was getting 'too intense'. In other words, the bastard wanted to screw around.

So, I ended up on my own in what was our shared flat, with all the bills to pay and only my salary to pay them, which didn't leave much left over for luxuries like food.

Then I got made redundant from my job in telesales. Just fucking brilliant.

With only a tiny bit of redundancy money to tide me over for a week or two, I had to totally focus on getting a new job, double-quick. I decided I couldn't be doing with the commitment of the flat, so I gave notice on it and told mum and dad they might have a house guest for a while. At the very least, their garage would need to double up as a temporary store.

I never thought it would come to that. I had flown the nest and was making my way in the world and hated the idea of having creep back 'home', with my tail between my legs. Not that I wouldn't have been very welcome; my parents would have been glad of the company for a while, but that's not the point.

And to crown it all, my sex life was non-existent. Tony had been fairly good in that department, and I could expect a good session at least twice a week. After three months of no skin-to-skin contact, I was getting deeply frustrated. It wasn't even as though I could afford to go out clubbing and pick up some hunk to help put out my fire.

The thing is, I'm not exactly unattractive. I'm about 5' 6", with long, mid-brown wavy hair and quite a pretty face. I think I have a nice figure, with shapely legs and quite a slim waist, but the best bit of me, in my opinion, is my boobs. They aren't huge, just making a C-cup, but they have a nice shape; they don't sag, and I have very sensitive nipples. In fact, if a guy can take the trouble, I can orgasm by just having them played with and sucked.

But I certainly wasn't feeling very attractive. I had taken to slumming around in trackie bottoms and a sweatshirt all day. What was the point in dressing up, or making an effort? I was really beginning to feel like I'd been crapped on from a great height. I hadn't even really got any good friends in this area. Funny how work colleagues suddenly distance themselves from you, when you're no longer part of the team...

Then the phone rang. Which was slightly surprising, as I'd received the Final Demand a few days before, and was expecting it to be cut off at any moment. Thinking it would be some cold-caller offering to take up my claim for 'the accident I'd been involved in', I was taken aback when the power-lunch voice on the other end, announced himself to be the Area Manager of Yellow Pages.

I had filled in dozens of job applications, and vaguely remembered sending my CV off in response to an advert for field sales, working for the well-known directory.

I did my best to snap back into sales professional mode, and sound as positive and upbeat as I could. We chatted for a while about the job role and my sales experience. Although I'd only been office-based so far, he hoped I was ready for the step-up into Field Sales, and meet real prospects, face-to-face.

The upshot was that I got an interview, at a session which was based in a local hotel. I guessed it wouldn't just be me there. In fact, I reckoned they'd probably start with fifty hopefuls and whittle them down to the two or three they needed to fill the roles.

Still, it was an opportunity, and there weren't many others on the horizon. So on the day of the interview, I set off in good time, looking my 'business best', in a skirt suit and with my hair and makeup looking perfect.

A long day of presentations, tasks and tiring role-play exercises resulted in me being short-listed for one of three jobs. A week later, I was at the company's regional office for a one-to-one interview with another Area Manager, a guy called Matt, who seemed to be absolutely wired. This could have been due to the fact that he seemed to drink as many litres of black coffee, as most people breathe air.

After a while, it became slightly obvious that they were having some difficulty in retaining someone in the role. Essentially, the job revolved around 'business development' in 'new target areas'. There were 'masses of opportunity for the right person' and 'great rewards for success'.

In other words, the job involved endless cold calling, with no established accounts to nurture and benefit from.

He then went on to explain how basically, the job would involve living out of a suitcase. I'd be on the road almost constantly, opening up new business and developing the territory. The downside, he explained, was that I would rarely ever be able to get home. The base salary was modest, but a lot more than I was getting right now, and the commission structure was reasonable.

He then went on to point out the upside. I would have a company car and I would stay in hotels at the company's expense. My accommodation expenses would include breakfast and dinner, a modest bar bill, but no lunch.

'Fuck lunch,' I suddenly thought. 'Here was the answer to my prayers! No flat, no bills, an expense account, and a car to swan around in! A swanky hotel every night, no doubt filled with lots of bored single males, out 'on the road' like me! I couldn't have given a shit if they wanted me to stay out seven nights a week. In fact, that would suit me just fine.'

"Where do I sign?" I asked.

After a week of induction and training, I was finally handed the keys to a brand-new Ford Mondeo. Don't laugh, it was a hell of a lot better than my decrepit Honda Civic, which I cheerfully sold for £250 cash. I left the training centre, with my sales portfolio nestling on the passenger seat. And I had a company fuel card... no more scrabbling around for a fiver for petrol!

On the way home, I treated myself to a bottle of Prosecco from the local Spar. This was a night to celebrate... the beginning of a new life! Tomorrow, I would travel to my parents' place and drop off all my worldly goods. Then on Sunday, I would hand in the key to my flat.

After the second glass of fizz, I was starting to feel a buzz between my legs, that I hadn't felt for a while. Although I had taken off and hung up my precious business attire, I was still wearing my 'best' knickers and bra, with a simple robe over the top, and my hair tied back. Consequently, I was feeling pretty good with myself, and the world in general.

Being as I had already packed the TV and stereo ready for the journey to my parents, I was a little stuck for entertainment, so I took my glass and the rest of the bottle to my bedroom. Luckily, I hadn't yet packed my favourite bedside book of short erotic stories. And so it was, fuelled by my first alcohol in a while, and accompanied by my faithful paperback, my fingers delved into the moisture between my legs and wakened a yearning, which had been absent for quite some time. I dreamt of hotel bars and hunky, single men, who would ravish me until daybreak.

~~~~~~

The reality, as you might have expected, turned out to be somewhat different. The 'swanky hotels' were usually Travelodges or Holiday Inn Expresses, often located on a motorway service area. Dinner usually involved a walk across the car park to the nearby McDonalds or Pizza Express. Hardly the kind of location for the 'Do you come here often?' type of chat-up line.

To be fair, I did occasionally get to stay in a proper hotel, with a restaurant and bar. When this did happen, I would make a point of sitting at the bar, having a drink, just waiting for some dishy guy to come along and chat me up. But no. The solo male travellers were either repulsive, or so engrossed in their Filofaxes and paperwork, that they didn't notice me.

I did get a few looks from some reasonable-looking guys, but they never made any effort to talk to me. Maybe they thought I was an escort, touting for business. Sometimes I felt like walking into the restaurant and shouting, "Anyone fancy a fuck? Because I'm fucking desperate!"

And so it went on, week after week. My dreams of banging the living shit out of a different guy every night of the week, were starting to fade. 'How fucking hard is it to get laid?' I would ask myself. I'm pretty good-looking, I've got nice tits and I can hold a conversation. I was even tempted to phone Tony, and ask him over for a fuck, for old times' sake.

I was even struggling to find enough mental sexual stimulation to warrant getting my fingers busy. The porn offerings on the hotel TV's were a joke -- and ludicrously expensive. My fumbling between my legs rarely resulted in any kind of release. Even the shower heads in the bathrooms were usually fixed, preventing any kind of aquatic fun whilst showering.

In bed, I would think of Tony and his big cock, ploughing into me, filling me up with his seed. His hands and lips on my breasts, carrying me to my orgasm. The wondrous feeling, when he would pull back the covers on a Sunday morning, and dive down between my legs, to pleasure me with his lips and his tongue. Sometimes, the mental images were just enough for me achieve a climax, before my fingers were too tired to persist.

Monday 28th February 1994.

I showered and went down to the restaurant to get my buffet breakfast. Pretty much the same breakfast I'd had for the last couple of months. To help alleviate the awkwardness of eating alone, I usually took my work folder down with me, so at least I had something to focus on, other than the other diners. As I munched my toast, I browsed my list of appointments for the day. First on the list was a small printing company in Hereford. The second was a small business selling wood-burning stoves. Just great. With a bit of luck, they would have a £200 advertising budget to spend -- between them.

The first appointment went pretty much as expected, with a concluding comment of, "We'll have a think about it, thanks."

Hey ho. On to number two, the wood-burning stove seller. Probably some crusty old fart with a beard and no advertising budget at all. Great. How could my day possibly get any better?

JOHN

I faintly heard the ring of the showroom doorbell, just as I'd finished the welding on the stove I was working on. Taking off my welding mask, I put down the tools and wiped my grimy hands on an old rag. 'Might be a customer,' I thought to myself. A haze of smoke hung about in the workshop from the welding I'd been doing. There was a lot of work to do. A new shipment had arrived the previous week, and the stoves needed boilers fitting, and various other preparation tasks, before they'd be ready to sell and install.

I trudged into the showroom and was surprised to find a stunningly attractive young lady standing there. Dressed in a dark grey skirt and jacket, she had a folder under her arm.

"Hello, John? I'm Charlotte, from the Yellow Pages," she introduced herself.

'Wow, she's a bit of alright,' I thought to myself, looking her up and down. 'Nice little figure, nice hair, nice tits, by the look of it.'

"Hello," I replied. "Sorry, I'd forgotten you were coming," I said, apologetically. "Otherwise, I'd have cleaned up bit." I rubbed my hand on my jeans, to try and remove some of the black grime, before offering her a handshake. She took my hand and shook it, slightly dubiously.

"Did the office call to say I was coming?" she asked.

"They may have done," I replied. "But I get so many calls from people trying to flog stuff... you know how it is, I'm sure."

Charlotte asked a few questions about the business, so I gave her the tour of the showroom and workshop.

"These things look heavy," she said, looking at the stove I was working on.

"That one weighs in at around a hundred kilos," I said. "Saves me a fortune on the gym membership," I added, laughing at my own joke. It was true. Lugging those great lumps of cast iron around for years, had given me a hard, work-won physique. My biceps threatened to split the rolled-up cotton sleeves of my checked work shirt.

"So I see," said Charlotte. She scanned around the workshop, which was devoid of any kind of seating.

"Um, is there anywhere we can go to talk about the advertising opportunities with the Yellow Pages?"

"Tell you what," I said. "It's high time for a cuppa. Let's go into the house and I'll make us a brew."

CHARLOTTE

Bloody hell. When this guy John emerged from his workshop, he wasn't what I was expecting. Instead of the bearded old codger I'd envisaged, here was a guy in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, a nice smile, and... fucking ripped! Okay, his clothes were filthy... jeans black with dirt, shirt grimy and hands calloused from hard graft. But his blue eyes sparkled, and his muscles... well, his forearms were roped, and his biceps bulged with every slightest movement. His whole body had a sense of strength and power about it. His long hair was thinning, but was tied in a ponytail, which gave him a slightly eccentric look. For the first time in months, I could feel my knickers starting to get damp.

"Tea? Yes, that would be lovely, thanks," I mumbled.

John led me through into the house and sat me down at the farmhouse-style dining table. I watched him disappear into the kitchen to make tea and couldn't help but focus on his tight little muscled butt. Almost subconsciously, I undid the buttons of my suit jacket, thankful that I'd put on my favourite cream blouse, with a nice lacy bra underneath.

John returned a few minutes later, with two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits.

"I had a quick wash up," he said, his eyes laughing. He jokingly showed me the palms of his hands, which were now almost clean. "So now I can shake hands with you properly," he added, offering a paw for me to hold.

The strength in his grip took me by surprise. I was basically overwhelmed by his sheer manliness, a 'Me Tarzan, you Jane' sort of moment.

"I can't spare too long," he started by saying. "I've got to get a couple of stoves ready to go this afternoon. So let's see what you've got."

Well, I certainly let him see what I'd got. I made sure my jacket was completely opened, and leaned forward, so my boobs were resting on the table. My portfolio was opened just in front of me, silently inviting him to lean over and look closer.

JOHN

I put the mugs of tea on the table. As I placed Charlotte's in front of her, I caught the scent of her perfume. Just a hint, a delicate fragrance.

I sat down at the other side of the big pine table and took a good look at her. She was sitting quite close to the table, her jacket casually undone, with one elbow on the table, a couple of fingers supporting her jaw, as she scanned the folder in front of her. I guessed she was probably in her late twenties, but I'm not a great judge of age.

She was absolutely beautiful. In fact, I couldn't remember ever meeting a woman who was so heart-stoppingly gorgeous. She had long, light brown hair, which she'd styled by tying a couple of strands back. Her face was that of an angel, radiating a natural beauty which can't be found in any jar. She had none of that haughty, self-obsessed, attention-seeking attitude about her, that so many 'beautiful' women have, to their detriment.

But what totally mesmerised me, was her breasts. Oh, my god, they were just perfect. The way she was sitting, meant they were basically leaning on the table. They looked to be a lovely handful in size and were set by off a sexy white bra with a lacy edge, very visible through the almost transparent material of her blouse.

I sensed her looking up from her folder and reluctantly dragged my eyes away from the curve of her boobs, just as I was starting to imagine how they would feel in my hands.

Charlotte smiled as I looked into her eyes and suddenly, I was almost unable to breathe. It was one of those moments when time seemed to stand still, and I felt like I was falling into a whirlpool of sea green.

"Shall we go over some of the options for advertising your business?" she asked. Her voice sounded far away... maybe it was the blood rushing through my ears, the way it does when you're about to faint.

I managed to snap out of my trance and took a sip of tea to moisten my mouth. I could feel my palms sweating and my heart thudding in my chest.

I had fallen into a chasm between two places. On the one hand, in that instant, I had completely and utterly fallen for her. 'Is it possible to fall in love with someone in a fleeting instant?' I asked myself. Then, on the other hand, there was the reality of the situation. She must surely be married, or engaged, or in a relationship 'since we were childhood sweethearts' with some unbelievably good-looking guy. Beautiful women are never on their own, after all.

And from the evidence of the scattered kids' toys around the room, it must have also been very obvious to her, that I was married with children. So my microsecond-long infatuation was rapidly dispelled by harsh reality.

CHARLOTTE

They say that on average, women speak three words to a man's one over any given time. I believe this to be true and am sure the sexes have evolved accordingly. Men have developed the ability to tune out most of what we say and filter it down to just the pertinent details. The men that don't find those details can't communicate with us, which means they don't get laid, which means they can't procreate.

Conversely, women have to decipher what their Y-chromosome counterparts say to them in other ways. Men communicate more with their body language, gestures, grunts and inflections. From the dawn of humanity, untold billions of women have gone mad trying to interpret the meaning of men.

Of course, I knew that that was not the case... probably. There is however, one last method in which men communicate, and that's through the eyes. The eyes are truly windows to the soul, and it's in the eyes where men cannot lie, at least not to me. In my lifetime, I've seen my dad's love, worry, disappointment and pride in his eyes. I've seen the hopefulness in eyes of young men admiring me romantically and the carnality in the eyes of men that were perusing me sexually. It was Tony's eyes that had told me when I was the only girl he was interested in, and it was his eyes that told me when it was over.

Right then, John's eyes were a mess of conversations, all talking over each other at the same time. His eyes were telling me that he wanted me, and badly; that much was obvious, and that was all my steadily moistening slit needed to know. But that was not the end of it. He was intimidated, not of me sexually, but by the fact that he had almost certainly only been with one woman for a considerable number of years. There is a comfort in what is known and there is upheaval in the unknown.

His eyes told me that he loved his wife, but that things had changed somewhere along the way. I imagined how their sex had been when it was new and exciting, when they'd both watched the clock all day at work, waiting for the opportunity to reunite and explore each other's body and the thrill of finding something new and exciting about the other. I guessed that the sex was still probably not at all bad, but it was almost certainly infrequent and mundane.