Feb 022012
 

She sits across from me.  Her hair is black, curly, pulled back tight in a chignon.  Her eyes are hazel.  She looks distracted.  She wears black leggings and brown boots, a black v-neck t-shirt and a light blue sweater, unbuttoned, a silk scarf around her neck.  A tiny necklace with a copper serving spoon and a spatula dangling from it rests at the top of her v-neck, in her cleavage, which is  minimal.  She projects an almost asexual beauty.

She seems engrossed in her laptop – typing furiously, as if she doesn’t notice the world.

“Hey.” The chat box in my GMail pops open, a username I don’t recognize.

“Hey,” I type back.  “Who’s this?”

There’s a pause.  “You wrote a description of me in your blog just a moment ago.”

I look around.  I had written that first paragraph as a musing on beauty, and paused to take a phone call.  Some minutes had passed.

“Huh?” I write back.

“Chignon.”

“Um.”

I look up at her.  She’s still looking at her screen, seemingly oblivious to me.

“Stop looking at me,” she types.

“Um,” I type back.

I pull my eyes down to my screen, but she’s all of four feet from me – she never leaves my field of vision.

“Tell me what you want to do to me,” she types.

“You’re kidding me,” I type.

“No.”

“How do I know it’s you?” I write.  “If it’s you, untie your chignon and retie it.”

She does.

“Fuck,” I type.

“That’s it?  Just ‘fuck’?” she writes back.

“No, I mean…”

“Yes?”

“I mean, what I want to do is to follow you into the bathroom.”

“Yes?”

“And pin you against the wall.”

“Yes?”

“I want to grab your chignon, pull your head back and lower my lips on yours from above.”

“Uh-huh?”

“And I want to grab your ass, and pull you toward me.”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to feel my cock through my jeans, through your leggings, as you stand on your tip-toes in those boots, pressed against me.”

She’s still typing.  Is she really having multiple conversations?

“Go on….”

“I want to shove my hand down the back of your leggings, to cup your ass, and pull you even closer.  I want to reach down, underneath you, to feel your cunt’s dripping juices meet my fingers as they reach up into you from behind, under your leg.”

“Good….”

“I want to turn you around…”

“Yes?”

“To bend you down, to tell you to press your hands against the wall.”

“Yes?”

“To pull your leggings down to the middle of your thighs, but no further.”

“Go on….” 

“To spread your legs a bit….”

“Yes?”

“To unbutton my fly….”

“Mmmmm.”

“To pull my cock out, and to shove it deep up inside you.”

“Mmmmm.”

“As you squeeze your thighs together on my cock.”

“Yum.”

“To wrap my arm around your throat, to pull your head back toward me, hard, while I’m fucking you.”

“Mmmmm.”

I look at her.  Nothing’s changed in her expression.  To all the world, she’s yet another customer in the coffeeshop, just working intently on whatever she’s working on.  I think I see her shift her weight just a bit, as if to accommodate a little wetness between her legs.

“Then, I want you on your knees.”

“In the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t the floor dirty?”

“I don’t fucking care.  Get your leggings dirty for me.”

“Ok.”

“I want to feel your lips wrap around my cock.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to fuck your face.”

“You don’t?!?”

“No.  I want you to fuck my cock with your face.”

“Hold on a minute…” she writes.

“Ok.”

She stands up, picks up her purse.  Looks around, but not at me.

She walks toward the bathroom, where there’s a short line.

I think for a moment.

But just a moment.

I follow her….

  One Response to “Coffee shop”

  1. […] I write about fucking other women, about knowing my wife fucks other men, about sometimes our doing all that together, as if it were […]

Say something! (I just did....)