I Am Not An Object

A short tale about what happened to me whilst out shopping a week before Christmas, when I popped into Marks and Spencer for a few essentials, not shirts or suits, no, I don’t need any more suits and shirts, although there was a rather nice suit on offer… but no. I resisted. This isn’t about clothing, it’s about an intimate encounter. Let me explain.

I’d finished my Christmas shopping, buying some wrapping materials, shiny bows, ribbons and tags, along with a t shirt that was an absolute bargain and wasn’t a shirt or a suit.

As I made my way out of the shop, I was distracted by an array of Christmas gifts on an aisle near the exit doors. As I peered at the rows of games and jigsaw puzzles, I felt something brushing the underside of my left buttock; deliberate, firm and disturbingly pleasant. I started slightly and glanced behind me. There stood a blonde woman, the curls of her hair cascading down from underneath her fur hat, settling onto her fine woollen red coat, her big brown eyes staring at me.

We spent a couple of seconds staring at each other, me trying to process what had just happened. She cocked her head to one side, still considering me. I was completely confounded. What was my next move? Ask her what she thought she was doing? Thank her for her attention, I was very flattered but I am a happily married, middle aged man?

In fact, my next thought was – yes, I am middle aged, I’m not 20 years old, when my attractiveness would justify the attentions of an older woman. But her sheer forwardness had disarmed me. I merely smiled. Head still cocked to one side, she pursed her lips and furrowed her brow briefly – was there a hint of a pout, a slow, luxurious attempt to flirt with me? She was in her mid 40s, I judged. Then she gave a smile of her own, the deep red of her lipstick contrasting her bright, white teeth, before directing her gaze onto some scented candles, her leather gloved hands passing over the glistening cellophane.

I swallowed hard and moved along the aisle, pretending to consider the parping cardboard penguins that were on offer. As I did, I was aware once more of my buttock being stroked, this time more carefully, more deliberate. Oh dear, I thought, how do I get out of this situation? How do I explain a predatory, albeit attractive woman trying to seduce me in Marks and Spencers? I span around this time, to find her a couple of paces behind me. She must have sensed my unease, but I decided not to be impolite. I gave a faint smile once more and lightly shook my head. Gently wagging my finger, I backed away and made my way out of the shop. She watched me leave, that mischievous look of defiance on her face, as if what she had done was the most natural act in the world.

I considered my newly found sexual magnetism as I waited for the lift. As it arrived, I once more felt  my buttocks being tickled. I hardly dare look around. Had my attractive blonde friend followed me? Slowly I turned, and felt a caress once more. I looked down. In the large bag I was carrying, 2 rolls of Christmas wrapping protruded, swaying back and forth. As they did so, they lightly stroked the underside of my bottom…

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About ruralspaceman

A man trapped inside a middle aged body still tries to be hip and trendy. Actually, no he doesn't. He says it as he sees it. as long as it's not too controversial. Living with his wife, Lady Barton St Mary, two children, Miss Katherine and Master Johnny in Randall Towers, he is constantly frustrated by the mechanisms of modern life and the issues raised by being the husband of a high flying executive and member of the aristocracy. All he wants is a quiet life and a full set of Deal or No Deal DVDs. Please help him.
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4 Responses to I Am Not An Object

  1. kazaj21 says:

    Ha ha. Bless what a disappointment 😉😉😣😣

  2. thomas peck says:

    What a shame! I would forget the last line, and just go with the fantasy. Hey, there’s hope for all of us yet!!!

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