The Diner

I've had always had something of an exhibitionistic streak. Not the blatant sort exhibitionism, whereas one typically enacts something of a porn scene for various audiences and usually afterwards engages in various additional sexual activities with said audiences, or even the sort that often compelled one to perform strip teases and such. For lack of a better word, I suppose it was a more...subtle sort of thing. I don't know what it was about.

But this is something about which I've fantasised about a lot.

There was a small diner on the corner of the road that was very quiet. It was a small, discreet establishment. He liked it for the superior coffee that they served. I liked it for the french fries.

He was already seated when I walked in. I smiled, headed towards him and paused, noting that somebody was already seated in the booth opposite him. A friend of his. I slid into the seat beside him, opposite the friend. Introductions were exchanged, and we picked up our menus.

He laid his hand on my thigh.

I glanced at him, vaguely surprised, but he did not appear to notice, and I said nothing.

The men resumed their conversation - it was, inevitably, something about cars, and my thoughts began to drift in the general direction of why it was that men could be so very taken with hunks of metal. I was pulled back into reality first by the sensation of his hand stroking up and down my thigh, moving my skirt up and down my leg, and then the waiter, who had come to take our orders. Temporarily distracted from the wandering hand, I placed my order, at the same time firmly lifting his hand and placing it back in his own lap.

I was, meanwhile, being lured into the conversation with the subject being turned to politics. This was something I could get into, but again his hand was quite warm on my thigh, and I shifted in my seat, hoping he would get the message. There was a small smile on the corner of his lips, and a look from him as I moved to remove his hand again stopped me. I was being told, quite firmly, to sit still.

"What do you think about..."

I could not think. His hand had gone from stroking slowly up and down the length of my thigh, to fingertips slowly tracing over my crotch. I stopped midway through my sentence, straining my mind for the right words while my conversational partner watched, bemused.

"I think," said my antagonist, filling in the lengthening silence, "That was a ridiculous thing to have happenened."

I breathed, in a relief that was short lived, for the conversation did not seem to be distracting his hand from my crotch, and I shifted in my seat once again, clearing my throat meaningfully. He ignored me, and taking advantage of the adjustment of my legs, slid his hand further between my thighs. His fingers were now wedged quite firmly between my legs, rubbing up and down with maddening slowness. Quite involuntarily, I felt my breathing begin to quicken just a notch. As if on cue, so too did his fingers. And now I could feel myself moistening just the tiniest fraction.

"Your order," said the waiter, delivering our food with a pleasant smile. The hand between my legs was swiftly removed. I wondered if the fellow could see what was going on. He left. The friend had excused himself to go to the bathroom. We were alone, briefly.

"Sit on my hand," he remarked, casually, quietly.

"What?"

He smiled. "You heard me."

"I did. But what are you - "

That look again, silenced me. I reluctantly - but not as reluctantly as I should have been - shifted, and he slid his hand beneath my thighs. His fingers were against my bare skin. I wondered why I'd elected to wear a g-string that day. His fingers wriggled. My muscles clenched. He was still talking. Briefly, I wondered how his powers of concentration could be so superiour to my own.

I was being asked a question. His fingers had pushed he thin strip of my underwear aside. Fingertips against my hot, moist skin. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. "What -" Fingers, pushing roughly into me. My breath hitched, I whimpered. "What was the question?"

An odd look. The question repeated. The fingers still inside me now. I answered with relative normality, fought to regain a scrap of my composure. I picked up my fork, stabbed a piece of lettuce.

Dropped it, when his fingers began sliding up and down, in and own, finger fucking me with slow, deliberate laziness. The pleasure rose in me like a slowly building tide, and I could feel my moisture leaking out around his fingers, staining my thighs, staining the seat. And...yes, the horrifying sound of wetness. Faint, but still audible to my blushing ears. But I was beyond thought, now. My cheeks were heated, my hips longed to buck, grind against his hand, fingers still deep inside me, thumb pressing against the slick nub of my clit. He was eating with one hand, still speaking calmly. I picked up my glass of water, took a sip. Let out another small whimper at a particularly hard shove up inside me.

Bit my lip to hold in the shrieks.

Faster now, harder, his fingers thrust into me, his thumb rubbing deliberately against my clit. I tightened my hold on the fork. My knuckles whitened. And now...oh, god it was close. The waiter - what did he want? He was asking me something. I opened my mouth to answer - I knew I had to. I couldn't very well sit there and stare at him blankly. But oh...god...fingers. My eyes glazed over...my body shuddered. I came, all over his hand. The waiter - still there. Did he know? But how could he not? He was staring at me in perplexity. I blinked helplessly at him, limp, languid. Somebody was answering for me. He nodded, walked away.

Across the table, the friend was staring at me as though he had just discovered some sort of new, fascinating object.

I glanced over to the man sitting beside me. He had removed his hand, and was casually licking his fingers, a small curve to his mouth.

My cheeks flushed hotly, I took another sip of water and stared pointedly out the window, determined not to lose what little scrap of dignity I had left.

I could not, however, suppress the tiny smile of satisfaction that sprang to my lips, or the warm, satisfied glow that bathed my skin.