Legs in a Coffee Shop

I happened to look up as you walked in. You stopped just inside the door, taking a moment to glance around to get an idea of the place before you committed to entering. You adjusted the strap of your purse and crossed to the counter. You tilted your head back to read the menu, waiting for the man ahead of you to finish, and I put down my newspaper to admire you.

You wore a blue suit with a knee-length skirt, a slit running up the back. The collar of your white shirt fanned out over the collar of your jacket. Your brown hair was done up in a bun, and you wore a pair of those Tina Fey glasses that got so popular during last summer. I sipped my coffee and focused on the most important part of the female body (at least to me).

You wore black high heels, polished to catch the light, and nylon stockings. I watched as you shifted your weight from one leg to the other, moving forward when it was your turn to order. Strong, long legs. I focus on the dip at the back of the knee, framed by tight tendons, I already wish I could run my tongue across it.

I'm starting to get hard, and I scoot my chair closer to the table in case you happen to walk by and notice. I use the newspaper as a prop now, holding it up and pretending to read about the economy. You receive your coffee and turn away from the counter. The moment of truth; will you stay or take the coffee to go? I move one hand under the table and squeeze my cock through my khakis, stroking with my fingers as if rubbing a magic lamp. *Stay. STAY,* I think.

You walk to a nearby table and sit down. It's hard to supress my smile so I turn away. I had been planning to leave, but I can't walk out on a sight like your legs. Besides, standing up would be a very embarrassing thing to do at the moment, considering my condition. I keep my hand on my crotch, hoping to cover the bulge as I watch you from the corner of my eye.

You drape your left leg over your right knee, and the heel of your shoe slips off. You let it dangle, exposing the heel of your stockings. Ahh, a gift from above. I must have done something right in a past life. You pull a paperback from your purse and hold it with one hand, using your thumb to hold the pages apart, and read as you wait for your coffee to cool.

My mind starts to wander as I admire your legs. The skirt drapes and leaves a shadow between them, and I wonder if you're wearing panties or a slip. My hand applies pressure to my cock through my pants and soon I'm stroking myself. I'm painfully hard, fighting the confines of my underwear and trousers, but I can't stop. I picture your feet without the shoes, picture myself kneeling in front of you and taking the toes into my mouth one at a time.

Your free hand drops to your thigh and lightly scratches, pushing up the hem of your dress ever so slightly. I lift my eyes to yours and, to my horror, you're looking straight at me. Oh, God. If I can see your lap, certainly you can see mine. I'm all ready to apologize, to plead helplessness due to my gender, when you smile and uncross your legs. You turn in your chair to face me fully, feet on the support strut of the chair, and you bend your knees out.

Your legs form a diamond, and your skirt stretches to its limits between your thighs. My mouth is dry. You smile and bite your bottom lip as your fingers run along the hem of your skirt, teasing me. My heart is pounding and I take the plunge. In for a penny, right? I straighten my back, edge of the table pressed against my stomach, and I slowly unzip my pants. You pull your head back, tilt it slightly so to get a better angle, and you watch as I reach in and push my underwear out of the way.

I know what I'm about to do. I'm about to expose myself in a public coffeeshop. I could get kicked out, at best, or labeled a sex offender. But your eyes, your legs, your wet lips converge and I know there's no choice. I pull my cock from my open fly and move my hand so you can see it. Your lips tighten into a pucker, and you put down your book. You run your fingers along the collar of your blouse, tugging it as if fanning yourself off, and you mouth the words, "Oh, my."

I mouth, "Shoes."

You lift your feet off the strut, and your high heels drop to the floor. They sound like gunfire to me - "click-click-clack! clack!" - but no one else seems to notice. You flex your toes, pretty little suckable toes, and I loop my thumb and forefinger around my cock. It's awkward stroking this way, trying to keep my arm and shoulder still, trying to limit my movements, but I know I'll manage. I run the tip of my forefinger along the underside of my shaft, then circle it around the head. I keep my eyes on you and see your eyes widen behind your glasses. Your lips are parted a little, and the tip of your tongue darts out to wet the bottom lip.

My fingers move slowly up and down my cock, getting a little bolder now. You push your skirt up a little higher and I see the lacy tops of your stockings. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. Suddenly, you pull your knees together and slip from your stool. You hold up one finger and mouth, "I'll be right back, I swear." You leave your shoes behind as you cross the room, getting close to me. You stop next to my chair and put your hand on my shoulder. "Pardon me, sir," you say. Your voice is sultry and travels right to my cock, making it twitch against my palm. "Could you keep an eye on my shoes and make sure no one steals them?"

"S-sure."

You smile, wink, and thank me in that Marilyn-Monroe breathy way. I squeeze the base of my cock and continue to stroke, focusing on the sound of your voice and how amazingly blue your eyes are up close. I'm going slow now; I don't want you to miss the grand finale of your show. I brush my thumb back and forth over the tip of my cock and I feel the pre-come. I spread it over my cock and stroke slowly, trying to make it last until you return.

Suddenly, a hand drops onto my shoulder. I jump, certain it's the manager come to throw me out, but I look up into your gorgeous blue eyes again. "Thank you, sir," you say. When you lift your hand, something drops down my chest and lands on the table. Your stockings, folded into a tight package. I cover them with my free hand and watch as you resume your perch across from me. We smile at each other and I move the stockings down to my lap. I wrap the silky material around my cock and tremble at the sensation. I can't, and don't want to, hold it back any more. I let myself come, shooting ropes of come into your stockings.

When I'm done, I use your stockings to wipe my cock before sticking it back into my pants. I clear my throat, gather your stockings into one hand, and look around. No one seems to be paying me any attention, other than you. I grab my paper and hold it in front of myself in case there were some missed drops. I drop a dollar onto the table, a tip for the waitress who was wise enough to never stop by, and make my way to the door. I can barely look at you, embarrassed now that the arousal has waned. I push through the front door into the sunshine and take a deep gulp of fresh air.

I'm halfway across the parking lot when I hear, "Excuse me!"

I turn and see you charging after me. You look angry, furious, and I wonder just how much I was fantasizing in there. But I know I didn't imagine you giving me your stockings. I turn and say, "Is there a problem?"

"You have something of mine," you say. You take my hand, unfold the fingers, and take your come-soaked stockings from me. "You little thief."

"I'm sorry."

You look me up and down, square your shoulders, and I see a hint of a smile at the corners of your mouth. "I have to be at work in a half hour. But I get forty-five minutes for lunch at 12:30."

"I get an hour at noon."

You twist your lips and shrug. "Well, we'll just have to figure something out, won't we." You reach into your pocket, withdraw a card, and hand it to me. "Don't be late. I might have to start without you."

You turn around and walk away, giving me a look at your ass and your perfect bare legs. I smile, tap your business card against my thigh, and shake my head as I go to my car. Sometimes it was worth splurging for a five dollar cup of coffee on your way to work.