Coffeeshop

This coffee seems endless. We're getting to that awkward stage where one of us has to tip their hand so we both know where we're going after this, but neither of us want to. Me, because I'm so nervous after so many years of rejection; you, I don't know. I don't know what motivates you yet, what's going on behind those dark, restless eyes. Of course I know you're looking at me – didn't you tell me you like to watch! - but I don't know if it's a searching, recording gaze or an inventory of my faults. I've been attuned to look for negatives, lately, and I'm fighting off that instinct, harder than you know.

I watch your lovely fingers twiddle with the handle of your mug, wishing they were somewhere else, out of sight. A memory comes back to me of a cab ride, long ago, coming home a little bit drunk from the clubs on Queen with an old friend I'd run into after years of estrangement. I guess we were both a little drunk, because when he gently (oh, so intentional, not tentative, but soft, soft) pulled me to face him dead on, put his coat over my leopard wrap dress and began stroking and working my pussy, I didn't stop him. It was one of the hottest experiences of my life; gives me an idea.

I excuse myself, innocently, and duck over to the washroom. Stripping off my panties, which are a damp, hot mess, and stuffing them into my purse, I catch sight of myself in the mirror – my colour is high, my breasts flushed red – how can you NOT know?

I come back out to join you, swishing my hips a little less than usual as the wetness between them threatens to gush down my legs. That's something you don't know about me, that I overwet. Doctors have told me there's nothing to be done about it. I'm clenching up, trying to keep the glistening warmth inside my swollen lips.

When I sit back down, I can tel you have decided to say something about the elephant having coffee with us, but before you get to it I pass you the panties under the table. I can tell you don't know what they are for a second, but then your fingers touch the sticky lace gusset and I see redness wash, beautifully, over your fine features.

I lean over and whisper to you, telling you exactly what's in your hand. I stretch, one leg out straight and further apart from the other, creating a cleft, and in a few seconds all you can smell is the essence of hot chocolate and my warm, earthy scent.

Terrified at your response, I force myself through it, leaning back in my chair and faking a huge yawn and stretch. It tightens the fabric of my black shift dress over my breasts, putting them into stark relief. It's cold in the coffeeshop and my nipples are so prominent that people at the next table cough self-consciously and look away.

After a few seconds I start to worry I've stepped wrongly; you don't say anything or move from your forward posture over the table. Just as I'm about to cough, embarrassed, and leave, I feel it – a warm hand on my knee, on the outstretched leg. I can't help but shudder a little – it's been so very long since I've been touched in this way. Slowly, purposefully, I feel your hand work its way up my leg. I don't dare look you in the eyes. Am I afraid I'll break the spell, or afraid I won't be able to look away again?

Tiny shocks run up and down my whole body, small explosions, the warmup show for the fireworks display to come later – maybe.

You pull your chair up next to me for better access, and you are near it now, so close, my inner thigh so sensitive to even your smallest touch I'm afraid I will lose myself right here, in front of everyone. You sense this and I see, briefly, a wicked smile cross your face, and I love it. Just before – just at the edge of my heat! - you stop and slowly flick my hard, slick clit with your index fingers, and I'm undone.

You gesture to the unisex bathroom and all I can do is nod quietly, afraid to open my mouth and hear nothing but a sharp cry escape. You motion to me to go first, and, taking a second to collect myself, I stand, assisted by the chair. Now that I know my deep ache is a shared one, I walk like there's a fire in my pussy, slowly moving my ass in the most rhythmic way I can, pumping them as I walk, trying to put you in mind of the rhythms to come.

You take so long to follow I worry we're found out, but fantasize that you needed time to collect yourself, to tame the cock I've seen briefly and can't wait to have inside me. I picture your face, drawn, forcing yourself to calm down, to walk normally, to not rush it, and a small moan comes out me unbidden.

The handle turns, and it all happens so quickly now. Closed, locked, and before I know it, my dress is over my head, on the floor, my ass on the cold counter top, my hands full with your stiff, thick cock – I can't believe how hard you are, but then I can't believe how wet I am either. You can't believe how wet I am either, and I see you put it together that you could have me any way you wanted, any way at all, because I am so ready I could burst. You put your hands on my face and neck and gently lean me back for your entry, making soft sounds I don't understand.

And then – then! - you are inside me, all the way, balls deep, and my poor pussy which has regained its virginal tightness after so long unused rebels with some pain, squeezing down hard, almost as if to push you out, but you stiffen and lean in even more, overcoming my body's last objections. I hear you cry out in pleasure at the small, hot space you're in. After a moment when I milk you with my pussy, big intense spasms around your unyielding hardness, you can't take it anymore and start fucking me in earnest, eyes open, though they sometimes roll back into your head. It's so raw, so hard, like a piston, like a jackhammer, and I cum on it, thrashing around and knocking over the decorative soap dish.

Encouraged, you grab my hips firmly with your hands, bend over me really go for it, working your pleasure, dragging out every sensation, relishing this moment we have both been craving so long, whether we knew it or not.

It doesn't matter what happens after this – this is me, giving myself to you completely, opening up to you like a present, and you taking what is so, completely, yours.

I wrap my legs around your wildly bucking waist and draw you even deeper, as if that were possible; kissing your neck, breathing hot, short, gasping breaths down your back, and you stop for a second – that precious second, there is nothing more endless and short at the same time in the whole world – and explode in my hot wet slit, lowing like a bull steer. I put my hands over your mouth to muffle the sound and you suck them, my fingers in your mouth, holding on for dear life as your endless petit mort cascades over us both. When the thrusts stop, I move my hands away, and your mouth is on my neck, my clavicle, my cheeks, my lips – we'll worry about what happens next later. Right now, this is more than enough.