4:15. My phone buzzes. It’s you. I expect it’s just the usual question of making the 4:30 train. Not today. Too much work due tomorrow.
But the txt reads “Our Irish pub. 5pm. Sit at the bar. A Guinness marking your seat.”
“Okay…” I respond. I guess work will have to wait.
And then my work concentration is totally gone with your final txt: “Pretend you don’t know me.”
Forty-five minutes can feel like years apparently…
I arrive at 5pm on the dot. I paced a bit out front to kill time. Your txt said 5pm, it didn’t sound negotiable.
I see you at the bar as soon as I come in. You’re near the corner of the bar, your back to me and the entrance I just came through. A lone Guinness sits on the first seat around the corner from your right, on the quiet side of the bar that nobody ever sits at.
The seating is strategic. I can see you clearly. Our seats are close, in that nobody can sit between us. But we are separated by the corner of the bar, and both of us a foot or so down our separate sides. Not close enough to talk.
Strangers.
I take in all of you. White blouse, a short flowing skirt, nylons, and hot sexy shoes.
I try to catch your eye, but I might as well be invisible.
You must have been here for a while, as your Guinness is half empty already. Or you’re drinking faster than normal. Nervous?
You make a show of scanning the bar, stopping briefly on this person or that. Eventually your eyes fall on me. You avoid my gaze, and instead make a show of assessing me. A slight smile. And you turn back to your beer.
You shift slightly on your bar stool. You pretend to stretch and raise your knee enough for your skirt to slide up. Your legs are crossed and pointed at the bar, my view is of your side. And now of the tops of your stockings which have become partially visible.
Nobody else can see what I see, behind me a wall. Both the other seats to my right are empty. They’re almost always empty, this side of the bar is too far from the action. Well, normal action.
I return to my beer, it’s going faster than usual.
The bartender makes a rare jaunt over to us loners on the away side, and asks if you want another.
“Sure,” you say, while your fingers inadvertently brush past your breast. Looked totally innocent. Wasn’t.
The bartender looks over at me. I’ve got more left than you, but I signal for another as well.
I glance back at you and as soon as the bartender turns away, your fingers return to your breast, this time clearly pinching your nipple through your top.
Now I see you’ve no bra. How did I miss that?
The material is sheer, so when you sit back and it pulls tight across your chest, your nipples stand out.
That move was riskier, in view of anyone on the far side of the bar. And when I glance around I think you’ve made at least one admirer.
The bartender returns with the two Guinness. If he’s noticed anything, he doesn’t let on. He places my drink down with a “there you go” before put yours down with a little more attention.“
And what brings you out tonight?” he asks.
“Too many angry calls,” you reply. “Needed a drink. Or three.”
The bartender goes on to discuss how those days happen, that’s what beer was made for, or something like.
I’m not paying attention to the conversation.
Because while your talking, your right hand has dropped to your lap. And then pulls the hem of your skirt up past the tops of your stockings. Leaving it there, clearly showing garters disappearing under your skirt.
The bartender can’t see, only I can.
You sit like that for a while after the bartender has left. Occasionally running your fingers over your exposed thigh.
And still, you won’t look at me.
Eventually the bartender comes back to check on us. Well, check on you. You put your hand up to signal no more.
“Where are the washrooms?” you ask. But you’ve been here several times. You know where they are.
He tells you and points, and then moves off.
You make a point of slowly swiveling to the right on your stool to get up, spreading your legs when you’re facing my direction. Wide enough for a quick view of your underwear.
When you return, you’re just as slow getting on your seat. You pull up your skirt and spread yourself wide to me, your underwear is gone.
You’re not back in chair for more than a minute, before you make a show of checking the time on your phone.
And then you get up and start to leave. Part of your second Guinness abandoned.
You seem to pause, to think better of leaving. You didn’t get a bill, maybe you’re coming back for that.
No, instead you walk over to me, and hand me your thong. Lacy. Wet.
And then you’re gone.
I signal for the bill, indicating for both of us. It takes a while to get the bill, and to pay. It’s been maybe ten minutes, and… what? Do I head home?
Just as I’m getting ready to leave, my phone buzzes.
“So? What’s next?”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/s0tavx/a_view_mf