You sit next to me. Well, not next to me, exactly. We sit at adjacent tables. I’m on my laptop. You’re on your phone.
The coffee shop is full.
I text you, from my laptop. (I do this all the time, incidentally. I send texts from either my Verizon desktop app – which sucks – or from Google Hangouts – which also sucks – but both are better than typing on my phone.)
“Don’t look at me, please.”
“Please spread your legs a little for me.”
You’re wearing jeans. You open them, just a bit.
“Good girl. Thank you. Is your pussy wet yet?”
“Is it wet yet?”
“No! You have to make it wet, silly.”
“You mean that my simply asking if it’s wet, asking if you can feel sensations in your cunt in anticipation of my tongue, of my fingers, of my cock, doesn’t do it for you?”
“That imagining the sensation of my tongue pressing against your clit, as I slide a finger deep up inside of you, doesn’t make you wet?”
“That imagining how hard my cock is (you can steal a glance, you know – from where you’re sitting, you can see that it’s bulging in my jeans) doesn’t make you wet?”
“That imagining me feeding you my cock, slowly, trailing it down your cheek, across your lips, doesn’t make you wet?”
“That imagining swirling your tongue around the head of my cock doesn’t make you wet? That imagining me asking you to touch your clit while you lick my cock doesn’t make you wet? That imagining taking my entire cock in your mouth doesn’t make you wet?”
“Please spread your legs a little wider for me, now.”
You do as I ask.
“Good girl. Is your pussy wet yet?”
“Um…. please can we leave now?”
“Leave? Where would we go? What would we do?”
“Do you want me to tell you where we’re going? What we’ll do? Or do you want me to surprise you?”
“Do you want simply to follow me? For me to lead you to our destination? And, once there, to direct you? To use you? To collect the pleasure from you that I need? To deliver to you the pleasure that you need?”
At this, I stand, and walk out.
Do you follow?