We are sat in a coffee shop in my rustic neighborhood mall. Large windows let in the warm seductive rays of a sleepy sun. It is late in the afternoon. The last wave of customers is coming in. The air is serene, the hustle-bustle of business a constant hum that muffles the voices of patrons. Our little bubble of privacy in the open.
Our cups are half-empty, their lukewarm contents long forgotten. Mirroring each other, we sit leaning back, legs crossed at an angle, and torsos facing straight. There’s a small wooden table between us. My hand rests there. Yours are folded in your lap. I can see your well-worn sneakers and part of your leg. You’ve come wearing a skirt, as I had asked.
This is the first time we have met in person. Our exchanges online were not long. They were, however, quite raw. Our current conversation is equally proper. How do you behave when you ask polite, probing questions of a stranger who has already disclosed their filthiest fantasies when they were faceless? Meaningful as interest in books and sports and art may be, in this moment it is an exercise in platitudes.
You laugh at some offhand remark I make. I like the sound of your pleasure.
Neither of us, you and I, are attending to the other’s words. Our minds are preoccupied with the undercurrent of this encounter. And what a tempest it is. I see you uncrossing and then crossing your legs. I observe the flush creeping up from the V of your blouse up the skin of your neck. I notice that hint of a smile playing across your lips, perhaps in response to mine, which threatens to break into a smirk. I see your eyes holding mine, bridging the silences between us.
But you break, sometimes, as your eyes wander. Lower. I feel you on my lips as I talk. Lower. I feel you in the hollow of my throat as I sip. Lower. I feel you on the back of my hand on the table. Yes, there. Returning, again and again.
What’s so interesting about my finger tracing circles on the smooth surface? Or the metronome of my thumb caressing the table? Or the shadows of my veins put in relief? Why are you so entranced by the seconds ticking on my watch? Are you waiting for something?
I know. I know you know. I know you know that I know. I smirk. You bite your lip.
I lean forward conspiratorially and you follow. The polite smile gone. Eyes widening, the silence electric with anticipation. My hand dips in my pocket as I draw out a ball of lacy, black, bunched-up fabric. I deposit it in your outstretched palm.
Taking a moment to smooth the pleats of your skirt, you stand up, one hand a fist enclosing the returned article, a part of it showing. I have forbidden you from pocketing it or from hiding its entirety. Will others notice? With a nod, I give you leave. I watch you meander through the tables and patrons to revisit the restroom.
As I wait for your return, I look out past the windows. The shadows have finally taken over. The last wisps of light reflect in the western clouds.
Our evening has just begun.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/pspdql/brewing_mf_ds_exhib