Caitlin Writes Ch. 01

Wrestling my way through queues of people who never seem to realise they won't get to the till unless they let you move away first, I scanned the 'restaurant' for somewhere to sit. This entails wandering around for forty years like Moses in the desert deciding whether to sit next to the bag lady who smells of urine or the school kids comparing Asbos. Just as I was about to stand where I was to eat, I saw an empty chair at a table for two and pounced. Of course, it wasn't until I got closer that I realised it was my tram saviour who was already seated there. I froze, not really sure whether my nerves could take being sat across from him. Enjoying a similarly nutritionless meal as me, he was playing with his wallet. Taking one nervous step forward I could even read the name on his video rental club card as he shuffled things about in his wallet - Roger Thornhill. Strange, I didn't have him down as a Roger.

I was not the only one who decided to pounce at that moment. One of the girls who cleaned the floor area - Sophie, according to her name badge - moved in first, flirting with him shamelessly as she untidied a table in order to talk to him. Like an Englishman facing a penalty shoot-out I waited apprehensively whilst those with a much clearer game plan took advantage. Sophie was pretty, I suppose, in a sluttish way. Her blonde fringe fell over one eye, almost managing to cover the excessive eye-shadow. To draw attention away from her too-square chin her shirt was unbuttoned two buttons too low, and even from where I was I could pick out the detail on her black push-up bra. Clearly he enjoyed her attentions as she thrust her fringe and cleavage around dangerously, and I could hardly blame him. Still, the acceptance that I had been beaten by a younger woman did little to assuage the curious pokers of jealousy that were prodding my chest.

Whichever saint it is that looks after frustrated middle aged women of Irish extraction suddenly turned the full beam of his gaze upon me. As Sophie bustled pointlessly around his table, she caught his beaker of orange juice with one of her pointlessly oversized yet somehow fashionable bangles. What followed was ninety seconds of true slapstick comedy as she attempted to clean his crotch (the new home of the aforementioned orange juice) with her damp rag, before admitting defeat and leading him off, presumably to the kitchens, to get cleaned up. My rival besmirched and a table cleared for me simultaneously, my guardian saint sat back and folded his arms, whilst I enjoyed a hearty meal of gelatinous crap and monosodium glutamate.

Like a lion and a Christian, we battled with ferocity, guile, and a disposable blue biro, but eventually the crossword left me bloody and bruised, and with my elbow in someone's milkshake (question: if she was fussing around the table for three or four minutes, how come she didn't manage to wipe it up?). Folding my paper contemptibly, I thought it best to head for work, with just the briefest of detours to visit the little girl's room. In this particular 'restaurant' (never fails to make me laugh) the toilets are downstairs and so, skirting the mop and bucket, slipping on the wet floor and tripping over the wet floor warning cone, I made my way downstairs and then along the corridor.

A noise at the door made me start, then stop. You hear about it all the time, women being assaulted in a public toilet, and you wonder at how they manage not to be discovered in such a busy place, people in and out so frequently. I listened at the door but couldn't make out the noise. I may be many things (a pound or two overweight, starting to collect laughter lines, getting more insecure about my looks) but I am not, I think, a coward.

Still, it was definitely more prudent to inch the door open slowly until I was sure exactly what was occurring inside the toilets. The door was open around six or eight inches when I realised I could see them, not in front of me, but reflected in the huge mirror on the opposite wall.

Sophie was kneeling on the floor before him. I thought he was holding her head but actually had a handful of hair, the other arm raised above his head. I could see her looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes, waiting for the inevitable. His head was half-turned away from me so I couldn't make out his expression. I could, however, see perfectly his long, smooth cock as Sophie expertly teased it in her right hand.

Gently she kissed it up and down the length of his shaft, taking care to lift his cock and pay attention to his balls. Looking down at her I could see him smiling, and they maintained eye contact as she slowly took his erection into her mouth. When she'd taken in the first three or four inches she closed her lips around it, cheeks sucking in as she availed herself of his cock.

Expertly she fellated him as simultaneously she undid his trousers, pulling them down further. I couldn't see his bum through the mirror, and I found I was imagining feeling it, raking my nails across it as Sophie was now. Her head started to move backwards and forwards as she allowed him to gently fuck her mouth. I could see her hands were exploring him, sliding up and down his belly and round onto his bum. It was clear from his face that she was good, and he was enjoying it.

Her hand slipped between his legs and she fondled his balls with affection, taking them one by one and massaging them gently, conscious of their fragility. He ran his hands through her hair, pulling out her scrunchy so it hung loose and made her dark roots visible. He whispered a command and she broke away for a quick moment to haul the polo shirt over her head, revealing nice but small breasts in a bra that enhanced them. They were not, it occurred to me, anywhere near as large as mine.

For three or four minutes I was transfixed, in the doorway, watching their illicit sexual liaison and marvelling that there were people quite so adventurous, that would take a chance on an encounter with a stranger, particularly at this time of the morning. I think that last comment summed up my mood this morning.

Sophie was clearly free from such hang-ups, and was now giving a true pornstar performance. The whole of his shaft was inside her mouth, so I don't know whether his wide-eyed expression was borne of an impending orgasm or amazement that she could take him all in. He grabbed her head suddenly, both she and I recognising that he was getting close. Slowly, teasingly she withdrew him from her mouth, and turned instead to manual manipulation. With her sophisticated two handed wanking method no man was going to last long, and in less than a minute he came, with her aiming him the best she could into her mouth. She licked his semen from around her mouth but missed the most part.

From the instant I first saw them, I'm sure that I had neither moved, blinked, nor breathed, but as she knelt there, self-satisfied grin only partly obscured by a faceful of sperm, I became aware that my heart was thundering. Whether it was the illicit nature of their interaction or the fact that I had observed it whilst remaining unobserved myself, something had caused me to remain stationary and unseen. Not only that, but I had become aware of increasing sensations within myself. Realising that in my eagerness to watch them I had opened the door further, I tried to discreetly back out and leave them to it, as it were. Of course, the instant I tried to move the door it squeaked like a rat being massaged with a cheese grater, and my cover was well and truly blown. Sophie looked up at me immediately, horrified at first, but slowly smiling as she recognised a feeling writ large across my face that I hadn't even registered myself yet. He turned his head slowly, still grinning like... well, like a man who'd just received a first class blowjob. Our reflected eyes met in the mirror, and locked. I couldn't even blink.

"Told you I'd be thinking about you all day," he said, earnestly.

I'd run out of the restaurant, across a busy road and traversed a public square, into the theatre, down some stairs and along a corridor, up a few more stairs and into my 'office', slamming the door behind me as I locked myself into the toilet cubicle, before breathing again. I wasn't just trembling, I was literally quaking. Whether it was the excitement of what I'd watched or the fact that I'd been caught watching I didn't know, but something had lit a fire under me. In fact, I was ablaze all day, right up until Richard invited me out for a drink that night. Talk about cooling one's ardour.