tagAnalStreet Life, Redux

Street Life, Redux

byMarston_Greene©

This is my favorite time and place. A warm, sunny early Summers day. A pavement café with not just good, but dynamite service and the best barista's in the world. Not just America, Brazil, Canada, or anywhere, but the whole world. Across the street a little way from the college. It's where I like to come after a hard day in the lab, just chilling out and girl watching.

A copy of the UK Financial Times folded on the table. No sense reading it, it's all old news. Wearing my best old English city style pinstripe with dazzlingly white laundered collar, no tie and heavy, almost opaque Ray-Ban polarized sunglasses. A slightly louche haircut. The look I'm after is mildly predatory Lecturer in English literature. Modern day Restoration Poet. All that literary shizzle.

There's another reason which keeps me coming back here, apart from the amazing coffee. There's a saucy little breeze that haunts this part of the street. A real skirt lifter, which has a habit of popping up from nowhere, flipping up the hems of floaty summer dresses, short skirts and even the odd Burka past wonderful hips for a fleeting display of soft curves barely covered, or, thank you God, sometimes not at all, by brief cotton or nylon. Just past the third drain cover twenty metres before the corner of the street. My favorite table lends me the perfect Erie from which to observe. Seated royally, I am King Eagle, patient watcher for passing prey.

There are all sorts of reactions to the breezes cheeky caress, from the delightful new-girl-in-the-city who shrieks and covers her embarrassment with both hands, scattering handbag contents and offering me the chance to play the gentleman. They're so sweet it's an effort not to take unfair advantage, but they're not who I'm after.

Five of the local street girls, liberal studies students I think, who simply don't care, parade their cute little bottoms groupwise to the cheeky caress of city air as happy little zephyrs play havoc with hemlines. I've seen them many times. Sometimes they wear just stockings and garter belts underneath, sometimes nothing. Just for the tease, the little minxes. They know what they're about, sly glances checking out the boys for bulging crotches and laughing at silly male tongues hanging out, sashaying past catcalls and occasional embarrassed wolf whistle. They have no cares in the world. For now.

Then there are those I call my 'regulars'. The older, solitary females with a touch of the exhibitionist in their souls. Bless 'em. Flash Mary, don't know her real name, it's just what I call her. A well built, dark haired woman in her early thirties habitually wearing a mid-thigh skirt whose favorite pickup is passing by the bar next door, 'accidentally' dropping her handbag, then bending over to give all a quick pussy flash, tempting out one of the more gentlemanly freshman jocks, thus cutting a sheep from the flock for a thorough shearing. I believe she's a legal secretary for one of the older law firms around the corner I think. No knickers and a sex drive that could haul locomotives.

Sometimes when I sit in my favorite perch I get a curious glance from her, one of those kindred soul linking looks which tell a million stories. Or perhaps she wonders why an obvious lurker like me never makes a move on such a willing mark. Possibly because she makes it too easy. Rumors drift my way that she's got a BDSM kink in her nature that could derail a train. Not that I'm tempted. My tastes don't run that way. All those straps, chains and handcuffs are far too complicated, and so limiting. I often wonder if anyone ever forgets their keys.

I check my watch, a discreet but expensive looking fake timepiece. A Breitling, not a Rolex. Rolexes are so passé. Good. Almost time for the main event.

And here she comes, my dark haired beauty. A Mediterranean complexioned wonder with legs to kill for. Plain white scoop neck T-shirt with sports bra clearly visible in the bright West Coast sunlight. The vaguest shadow of dark areolae and pencil butt nipples clearly apparent to my polarized light aided gaze. Slightly uncertain eyes, like a fawn away from its mother. Almost knee length black sports skirt and sensible heels. Searching through her also sensible dark shoulder bag of darker little secrets. Walking my way. Timing is everything. A truck drives by.

Five paces away, as I knew it would, the breeze strikes. Not a flip, but a full blown surge of hot summer air propelling hems almost up to armpits. Treating everyone to a neatly trimmed bush barely restrained by the briefest of plain white cotton briefs. Smooth and shapely cotton bisected buttocks are exposed to the collective gaze. Wolf whistles cascade across from the bar next door.

In her panic, she stumbles forward and half the contents of her shoulder bag spray forwards, right at my grateful feet. Including a little pink bullet vibrator, which is neatly and discretely trapped under my shiny Italian-shod right foot. I catch her purse in mid flight as though knowing exactly where it was going to go, which is also true. Holding it out to her as the little gust subsides and she gets her skirt back under control. She scrabbles around for makeup things on the sidewalk. The waitress helps and is rewarded with a shared embarrassed smile. Worth her tips as always.

"Close shave." I say, passing the errant money holder back. She finishes grovelling around under my table and graces me with a genuine. "Thank you." I don't need to persuade her to sit at my table. She still looks a little distracted.

"Can I offer you coffee? You look a little shaken." The green aproned waiter sees my practiced hand and eye contact and makes her way over. "I'd like two Espresso's, dark roast, and an Almond biscotti for my friend." I instruct.

"Oh, but.." My dark haired beauty pauses. "How did you know my favorite?" As if I shouldn't. The waitress retreats into the café to fill my order.

"Is it?" I express pleased surprise. "I had no idea. But the Espresso here is superb, and the biscotti they serve here are too moreish for words." I lower my voice "You also lost this." Pressing the little bullet into her hand with a conspiratorial arched eyebrow.

Without a word, she shrugs her thanks and blushes slightly. I feel her shiver with relief. Her urge is very strong today. I can feel it in the brief pressure of her hand. The vibrator disappears, her hand reappears, along with a relieved smile marking a crossing of her personal Rubicon.

"By the way, I'm Erin." She holds out the right hand that so recently held that splendidly woman scented mini-vibrator.

"Michael." I return. "Smythe-Willets." Her handclasp is brief, but warm with a yearning promise. "I'm in Physics." I half-truth, nodding toward the University buildings several blocks over.

"You're a scientist?" She's obviously bought the media guff about 'science' being some sort of holy grail.

"I prefer researcher." A little modesty never hurts. Yes, I've got a Ph.D and a Masters, but it's all pretty dull as an Associate History Professor and part time Lab Technician. Even though my real jobs are a kilometre and a hundred and forty two years away from 1990's Seattle. Hey, they pay my bills.

A few moments later, our coffees and her Biscotti are delivered. Another reason to love this place, speed of service. Ishmael the lightning Barista must be on duty today. I pass a period-correct ten dollar note over with a nod to keep the change.

"You don't look like a scientist." She sips prettily at her Espresso with a jiggle of shoulders raising wonderful ripples across visible cleavage. "No bottle end glasses or white coat."

"I try not to. It's not a flattering look." That raises a wonderful giggle. Her responding blush touches my scabby, lecherous heart. I can even feel her carefully denied heat. She glances at my copy of the FT.

"No Physicist reads the British Financial Times." She opines. Fortunately she hasn't noticed the date.

"How many physicists do you know?" I give her my most winning smile.

"Just the one." Again that impossibly, achingly gorgeous movement. My heart melts, and I think I really want her.

"So how do you know?" I ask.

"About Physicists and the FT?" There's a pause while she nibbles the end of her biscotti, then continues. "It just doesn't seem right. Isn't Physics all about atoms and stuff? Not stocks and shares?"

"Kind of." I concede her point as though I'm no ordinary Physicist. "Also about Sub quantum effects, Quarks, Bosons, wave effects and a lot of advanced mathematics."

"E equals M Cee squared?"

"At the most basic, yes." Although where I'm from, passing the speed of light is old hat. But this is neither the time and place to tell anyone. One mustn't tempt causality. Or anyone's trust fund. I'm not here for that. Besides that, Physics is more of a hobby.

"So, like Quantum physics?" She asks. I reply with a smile and take a sip of my own coffee. Slickly dark with that lovely silken tobacco-like bite on the tongue. Perfection. No need for sugar. I close my eyes for a moment to savor. Her right hand has discarded her Biscotti in the saucer and drifted onto my knee below the table. I use the back of my left hand to stroke it gently, and there is a responding, slightly more urgent pressure creeping up my upper leg. She looks sideways across the street for a moment as though disinterested.

"So, what do you do?" I ask at length. Left hand still stroking her right, which has come to temporary rest half way up. Her fingers seem to be drumming with indecision, as though debating how high to go.

"Nothing so important or interesting as being a Physicist."

"Physics is important, but at the moment, not as interesting as you." Her pupils are dilated, even against this sunlight.

"I'm a Marketing Analyst." It comes out hurriedly, as though she's embarrassed by her career choice. Well, we all have to pay our college loans somehow.

"Predicting buying trends, that sort of thing? Surely not. You don't look like a number cruncher to me. I had you pinned as a drama teacher. Perhaps even a professional dancer. A model even. You look so well toned." Erin responds with a flattered smile. I risk casting a little more bait. "I envy your boyfriend. He's a lucky man."

The small flicker of darkness that crosses her face says it all. I respond with a mildly embarrassed. "Ah. Bad subject."

"No." A two syllable 'no' at that, delivered a little too quickly.

"No?" I reply.

"We broke up."

"Sorry to hear that." Oh no I'm not. Neither is she.

"I don't want to talk about it." She says.

He was a shit, and so am I, but let's not let that alter the course of events shall we? "Apart from being a Marketing Analyst, what do you do?" I neatly sidestep my deliberate error. It never pays to look too smooth, too polished.

"I go to the gym, work out." She offers. I nod along in approval. "What about you?"

"Hang out at nice Coffee shops, talk to pretty girls." I smile. She gives me a full eye contact smile right back. "Think about quantum phase transitions." I add.

"Quantum what?" She's interested. I haven't lost her, good.

"Phase transitions."

"What are they?"

"One of the descriptors of Conformal Phase theory."

"That went right over my head."

"In a dull sort of way." I shrug as though it is nothing. "It's only useful if you want to understand interactions between four and two dimensional spins." And the basics of certain twenty second century time travel theories of course.

"Sounds impressive." She says.

"Does it?" I reply, casually. "To me it's just shop talk. Very mundane."

"Could you explain it to me?"

"Over coffee? Not in sufficient detail."

"It's Saturday afternoon. I live near here." She offers. Her fingers have slowly spiderwalked higher, just short of brushing my tightening crotch. I put my left hand gently on top of her questing right. Who knew that Quantum Physics could make you a babe magnet?

"Shall we?" I suggest, a little suspicious hindthought insinuating that somehow everything is going a little too smoothly. Coffee bar to her place in one move? If you wrote that into a story it would sound way too far fetched. Illogical even. Fortunately people are rarely, if ever, logical. I pick up my copy of the Financial Times and we leave the Café, arm in arm, laughing and chatting like we'd known each other forever. Which in some ways we have.

Round a corner and up some stairs into the little walk up smelling of fresh coffee grounds and baking from close by. As we reach the door I place my hand on her superb ass, eliciting a little gasp from her. She turns, wide mouth and eyes pretending pleased surprise. As her key enters the lock, I run a finger down the cleft of her excellently firm buttocks and she giggles. "Like it?"

"Love it" My fingers slide urgently over cotton. My left hand brushing her breast, right hand pulling her to me, hot mouth on her neck. She arches back and we stumble in through the door. I kick it roughly shut and the latch clicks, leaving us alone in blind shuttered dimness, street noises and snatches of conversation filtering up from below. License these my roving hands and lips. At least to paraphrase John Donne. And she does, oh my honey love is like trying to kiss an octopus.

It's a small apartment, barely three rooms. Kitchen dinette with a really old fashioned TV, barely queen sized bedroom, and toilet with a free standing tub.

Mouths locked, hands tugging desperately at clothing while my body edges her willing struggle toward the partially made bed. In return, her questing right hand reaches down between my thighs, pulling my swelling need toward her heated want, fumbling with archaic zips and fasteners. Freeing my springing cock, already hot for her horny little cunt, pencil butt nipples erect as though trying to push her sports bra away from her skin. I wrap eager fingers around her left breast, thumb and forefinger rotating hardening flesh. "No!" Erin manages to say between pants. "Not yet." Her skirt is over her hips, panties pulled aside, shoving her face forward onto the bed, pushing willing thighs wider, exposing that wonderful slit and quarter sized milk chocolate dimple.

My jacket is off one shoulder, trousers at my knees threatening to trip me headlong. Struggling to get into position over her willing prostration, too-clumsy erection swinging like some wayward dock crane, bouncing almost comically between her thighs as it searches for a way in. She's still struggling with tangling top and sports bra. Wriggling, for a moment I'm not not sure if she wants to help or hinder.

Now she's teasing, hands flat on the mattress, pushing up and back. Then she turns her head to look at me for a moment and grins like a piranha. Marvellous. She is such a wonderfully hungry little slut and I want to feed her.

Flapping and gasping like some struggling fish, waistband of her black skirt up round her ribs, I grab a handful of cotton and it rips with a zipping sound as fabric gives way under a pressure wave of lust. Ragged white scraps are thrown across the room. Her superb ass is mine and she knows it. Up a little more my honey. Let me help you.

I throw off my seam straining jacket, my head is flushed and nothing else matters but filling that pussy, ramming myself into her, feeling what I know will be practised vaginal muscles, massaging, milking my loaded pistol until it explodes. "What are you waiting for?" She pants.

"Impatient, huh?" I stop, taunting. Hands resting like butterflies on her flushing bottom. I know I want to fuck her until my head explodes, but it's just so much fun watching her squirm in anticipation. I take my hand off and give her tender right globe a sharp light smack.

"Ah!" Her neck arches, then her head twists back to look at me. "What was that for?"

"Your bottom needs a good spanking." I retort. Oh my gorgeous, succulent wonder, it looks good enough to eat. I fingertip thwack it again and she almost jumps off the bed.

"Hey." She complains. "That hurts." But I can see her pussy lips parting. She is really getting off on this. Another sharp blow and her tail is almost wagging. I can feel her under my other hand, micro movements of arousal shifting, pushing back up against me. We're both perving off on this and we know it.

I let both hands drift around her amazing hips, stroking, fondling, listening to her laboured breathing. This is such a turn on. She's so hot for me I feel like we're both going to explode right now. In response, the tip of my dick is almost vibrating like a tuning fork. A hound straining at the leash, desperate to chase rabbits right down her tight little hole.

"Wait." Erin straightens and wiggles forward. Fingers scrabble for fastenings and zip. Her skirt ends up on the short piled carpet. Her hair is wild, and she rolls herself underneath facing up, opening her legs wide, carefully shaved and trimmed pubic vee pointing like an arrow to her entrance. "Come on." She urges. "I dare you. Lick me."

Kneeling on the floor in front of the altar of her bed, I oblige, mouth closing over her offering of salty, fresh washed sweetness, nose rhythmically rubbing at her mons pubis. Tongue probing into her yielding damp little slit provoking a series of gasps. "Yes. There. Don't stop!" I'm running teasing fingers up and down the outsides of her thighs as my lips work on her increasingly slippery pussy. Her belly is twitching and spasming, jumping like a trampoline.

Erin's left hand reaches down to grab at my hair, trying to pull me further in. I flicker my tongue into her fleshy depths, once, twice, and can hold back no longer. Lifting my head up, I shift forward, leaving a long tongue track over her belly, pausing to feast briefly at her bullet hard nipples then onto her mouth, giving her a taste of the pussy juice around my lips, feeling her avid little tongue flicker against mine.

Her right hand reaches down, masturbating furiously with one finger, other dancing fingers reaching for my cock tip, guiding it in, stretching knees wide as my engorged meat slithers inside her, all the time moaning and gasping. A counterpoint melody to my own low rhythmic grunting as I thrust into her, feeling practiced vaginal muscles grinding and massaging as I slip ever deeper.

Her calves wrap around my heaving buttocks as I try to push right into her. Driving hard as I can, face to face, watching her expression. Eyes closed, head rolled back, teeth bared and a stuttering moan coming out of her mouth, a low animal sound, each time I drive further.

Fingernails dig into my ribs, hard, and I arch sharply in response to the pain, hips hammering deeper. Erin's eyes flip wide open, irises dark and glittering hungrily for more. Staring up at me with a wild woman's demanding grimace, almost snorting with each wild bucking movement. Demanding that I fuck her ever harder.

For frenetic minutes we're both sweating hard, writhing and straining at each other, locked together, frantically pushing and my hindbrain is yammering senseless animal mutterings into what's left of my conscious mind. All that matters is the movement growing faster and faster, literally slamming us together once a second, the rising pressure driving us both to the edge and beyond.

"AaH!" I almost scream as the flood breaks and I'm spurting inside her. Once, twice, thrice. Her echoing wail of "Hnh!" bounces loudly off the walls and she surges against me, once then again before falling back onto the bed.

My legs won't hold me, my knees won't obey and I can't hold my position. I fall into her, rolling sideways. Out of breath and trying not to crush her panting naked frame.

As our breathing subsides, she wraps long legs round my thigh and rubs her soaked and slippery crotch against my hip, coarse pubic curls scraping at my fevered skin. Her right hand strokes my chest, moving ever lower as it crosses my stomach and down to my exhausted cock.

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