lunch over dinner and a kink

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So, he said, as the second bottle of wine was opened by the waiter in an over priced gourmet restaurant where they had just had foie gras with mandarin and shrimp with chocolate.

So, what if I were to tell you to touch yourself right now, would you do it?

She reached over to cover a bit of her thighs with the white mantel, and she did, she touched herself and wished, desired to be touched by him, or by the waiter or whoever was near by.

It wasn’t a business lunch, but it could have been, almost. Or so it seemed.

But wine with an intelligent conversation, many languages and countries in between, twenty years apart in age and so many confessions to be said, had taken them to that point, where he was asking her to touch herself, and she did.

They drank, and toasted, to serendipity and to all the circumstantial circumstances which had taken them there, in this gray afternoon when she had arrived wearing a hat and a matching coat.

He hadn’t told her where to go, but she had hopped on a taxi and he texted her, take this road, now go right, turn left on that street, go straight. The expectation was growing in her mind and between her thighs, riding a taxi without knowing where she was going to end up. The cab driver probably thought she was a spy, or a prostitute, or a model. She even told him to stop at some points because she didn’t have the next set of directions. When she arrived at the restaurant, she smiled and walked in, asking for his table.

They talked, and seduction was not on the menu, or so they thought. Or so she thought.

But as the cups of wine kept disappearing from their sight, the things they didn’t dare say, arose.

And he kept telling her of all those things they could do, or he would do, if, for example, they were in an airplane, aisle to aisle. He would tell her to touch herself, and the guy sitting next to her would participate. And then, she would have to go to the toilet, and touch herself again.

When they got wherever they were going, in the car, he would fondle her, and lick and bite her nipple as the car driver saw them. When they checked in, he would stay at the lobby checking things and she would ride the elevator with the bellboy, who was so tall and so gorgeous and she would have to do things to him without penetration. And then, and then.

She was drinking wine, and listening to him, looking out the window. Wetting herself while wetting her lips.

She got up, said excuse me, and went to powder her nose. She locked herself in, and started to touch herself. She was wet enough to do so, and began to quiver.

She finished, washed her hands, set a stray hair into behind her ear, smiled, and walked out.

He was coming out of the bathroom too, just opposite the ladies room. They smiled, and she said, so, did you enjoy yourself?

Yes, but not as much as you did.

And they went back to a lunch which had turned into a dinner with a twist and a kink, with a tad of flirt.

the colorful voodoo

He, Alexander the delish, as I will call him from now on, was her third Internet date. She didn’t have her story straight, yet, but she would make it up as she went along, she had her name, Eva, and the rest would just come along as the night evolved.
They had stood each other up, she waited an hour and left, and then he waited for an hour while she decided if she was to come back or not. She did.
Two vodkas and three scotches later he invited her over. She was unsure. She told him her boyfriend was around, an open relationship as open relationships can be. Bisexuality and freedom reigned the day, plus three rules: no sleepovers, no unprotected sex and full disclosure.
She was unsure of going home with him, but as soon as they kissed, chocolate melted in her mouth and she was gone. She did take a pic of two of his credit cards, plus a pic of his face and sent it all with his address to his bi-boyfriend who was on a date that night too.
There has never been such a happy taxi driver as the one they picked that night, he got a huge tip plus a huge view of Eva’s groans and purple underwear.
They got to his place, small, clean. He took her small gray skirt off, he had been dying to do that since he saw her. Alexander was embarrassed and at the same time eager to show her around. This is my sister, and my office, and that’s my yoga mat and she nodded and waited for him to be ready, to feel at ease.
He took her to the other bedroom where he had set both single beds together. They were naked and kissing before anyone could talk more. He tasted like chocolate, such a cliché, but he did. Her white alabaster skin against his blackness was delish. He was delish, so was she.
“I knew you were a fountain…” as he slid two fingers into her and bit her right nipple. Groans, moans and he was so big, she thought he would break her, but it was just the right size, with the right lubrication.
As he got more excited he tasted like mint chocolate.
The first is always the quickest and as they lay there, kissing. When he came he tasted like cherries. Delish.
They chatted away, nakedness as the most normal thing. He was still eager to astound her. She was still making up her story as she went along.
“So, have you ever squirted?” Her eyes sparkled. No, Eva had never squirted, not under that name and not under other names. But it was one of her sexual goals. “It’s one of my fantasies, to make a woman squirt”. Perfect.
They went at it again, doggy style at one point. “Have you ever done anal?” “I have, but not with you darling, you are way too big for me.” And she came again, and again.
And talk. And sex, and kisses and caresses. And more. And more. And more.
He tried, tickling her G-spot or something else. His finger was smooth and long, perfect for the adventure. He kept telling her how much he loved her body, and her moaning, and how sexual she was. How very lucky he felt that night.
She was almost asleep and asked him once more, so, how was he doing it? The squirting stimulation? He showed her, introducing one finger into her still very very wet pussy. “It’s here, you have to touch it here, and then on the outside, I read about it somewhere and became obsessed…” and Alexander the magnificent kept at it for who knows how long. How can you measure time in pleasure?
And suddenly Eva saw white, everything was white and her moans where flashes of yellow on the white. Her body ceased to exist as it is and felt as if it were imploding. His hand was soaking wet. A different kind of texture and smell than the usual foresty she usually exhaled. She had, finally squirted. Annie Sprinkle would be so proud.
They went at it again. She would whisper and groan into his ear what color orgasm she was having: “orange… orange… blue… orange… yellow… red… purple…”
The gate had been opened. The color of her orgasms were back, and his fantasy had been fulfilled.

I spy a spy

I said I was born in the southern hemisphere. I said I had gone to boarding school near Zurich and then off to collage in London. I went alter a Balkan band before I decided to become a music producer.
As the glasses of wine kept coming it was harder to keep track of my fiction. and my seduction.
Of course, he had identified me by the hat I was wearing. The only woman with a hat at a wine bar.
He invited me to his room, I declined and went my way, thankfully without much of a blunder on my accent.
I am sure he will masturbate to my fiction.

a hat, a skip and a Venezuelan

She had told him he would recognize her by the hat. He asked what color. She didn’t respond.
She got there five minutes late, of course. He thought she had stood him up.
Since she had arranged the meeting her plans had changed. While she was deciding what to wear an old lover of hers appeared on her screen. He told her about a dream he had, luscious wetting dream. She laughed it off and told him it was good that he had good memory because it wasn’t going to get a rerun. He asked her if she was single and looking for a lover. Lovers. With an S, plural, she said. One isn’t enough, they get tired.
A friendly proposal, a friend. He looked him up on facebook, yes, he would do, and with an accent, how delish.
So she left to her dinner knowing that most probably it would be a dinner and then she would run to a party where she would cast another to satisfy her that evening.
She got to the restaurant and didn’t quite recognize him as he said hi.
There had been so many responses, so many pictures, of erections, hairy chests, stupid smiles, sunglasses, and whatnot, that she barely remembered what this one looked like. She knew he wasn’t the ugliest, and he was the one that had made her laugh the most.
She was there to have dinner with her first Internet date. Yes, wine, yes snails smeared in butter, yes a chocolate soufflé. No, not her address, no, not her number, no, not her last name.
She knew how to play men, she knew how to seem interested although she was getting bored by his talk. She knew how to turn a bit of information about her, a question, into a whole different subject and to twist it into something concerning him, something he wanted to say. In the end, men want to sell themselves and be listened to.
He paid, she smiled, took the rest of the soufflé and hurried to a party where she knew she could scratch the restlessness between her thighs.
She was definitely turned on by the Internet date, by the fact that she had a lavish dinner and had not even touched the hand of the man in front of him, and by the fact that her ex-lover had introduced her to a new lover.
She got to the party, talked, drank, laughed and kissed the new guy. No need for words. She wasn’t looking for a conversation. Her ex –lover was there with his girlfriend, he stared at the purple lacey bra strap that kept on moving out of her shirt. He smiled, he blushed, he craved her but couldn’t have her.
After a bit and too long, they met by the stairs. She and the Venezuelan. They kissed, headed for his bedroom, and within two minutes she was naked and he was between her thighs. His left thumb stuck up her ass, which was surprising, using the backdoor is always a bit of a tentative issue. His index finger inside her, and his middle one on her clit. Ah, big hands are delicious. His right hand was squeezing her nipple, he was kissing her all over. Yum.
She sucked him only enough to get him up and going. He craved him inside her. Now. Condoms, caresses. And orgasms.
She was quite loud, she didn’t care there was a party going on outside the door. She was there to enjoy herself. And she did.
Three positions and twenty orgasms later she got up, went to the toilet, got dressed and said she was going back to the party. He said he wanted to rest. She smiled. Ah, she was indeed untiring and didn’t want to cuddle, she wanted sex, not intimacy.
She returned to the party as glances passed over her, they knew where she had been the last twenty minutes and what she had been doing. Ah, jealousy is a turn on.
Her ex lover come up to her: damn, I’m really jealous, it was me who wanted to fuck you. Ah, she responded, that you will never do, go fuck your girlfriends brains out, you will never have me again, but your friend was delicious, he just needs to get into shape.
At that she finished a warm beer she had abandoned, and said goodbye, eating leftover soufflé on her way home.

8 year crush

the desire had grown for years, almost ten, but not quite. As she laid in bed, knowing he was breathing next to her, she smiled, unable to sleep. Her professor was there, lying next to her. She had dressed up for him for two semesters. Carefully choosing what would make him more nervous. The literature talk was just an excuse for foreplay.
She couldn’t sleep, she blinked and smiled. They hadn’t even kissed. They had met finally after many years, dinner with just a cup of white wine. Long stories, many heartbreaks and walking on the cobbled streets. He put his arm around her, and they talked.
He had to go back to another city, she told him it was too late. She told him she had a futon.
Eight years after they had met on different sides of the classroom she set up an old futon for him, gave him a tour of her house. She was an adult now.
They washed their teeth together, strange to share that intimate moment.
She told him that the futon was old, it might be uncomfortable, that if it was too horrible he could jump into her bed and spoon her. “But I don’t do the outside part of the spoon…”. So, he said, if I come I should hug you and my chest should be against your back. Exactly.
The futon was used for five minutes.
Their pajamas for fifteen.
A desire that had been boiling up for eight years while each one of them laid on their side of the bed. He hugged her. She felt him growing. He began to kiss her neck, touching her hands, caressing. She sighed.
His hands under her shirt, around her belly button, up her shirt. Her shirt off.
His shirt off.
He smelled of cardamom and smoked firewood. She inhaled him.
He kissed her, longingly.
It was eight years later and it was as if their bodies had been suspended at that moment. The kisses and caresses where part of a history that had been written in a classroom. His fingers went inside her. She saw the memories past.
She sucked him, with such a force that he began to tremble. They smiled. They exploded at the same time, one after another after another.
They fell asleep in each others arms. An ocean of sweat spreading on the bed, mixing their odors, their smells, their consumed pleasure.
He woke up with her touching him, waking all of him up. As he went into her, she felt eight years crumbling around her, inside her. She pressed her muscles, pressing him, making him want her even more. She squeezed him into her, biting his shoulder, he kissed her, their hands together, clinging to the sunrise.
Eight years of desire melted into one night.
Sleeping with a university professor is as pleasing the day he gives you your notes as well as an encounter years later. They had spooned, he on the outside, she on the inside, their skins writing a new story.

Sitting down or sitting up?

There is just so much information one can give over a fist date. There is just so much you can talk about without disclosing too much, without putting into jeopardy a second, more amiable encounter.
They had met randomly, as random as a dating web page can be. They had talked a few times, emailed some more. He was fascinated by her, she was curious about him. He called her ‘babe’, she thought that was funny.
They met at a public place, as it should be.
He took her to dinner, not too fancy, but expensive enough.
She thought about all of this as she gulped down her third whisky, as she asked all the men around if what he had said was in some way, normal.
She thought about how much of a gentleman he had been, she reminisced how she had stared at his soft hands, wondering what they would feel like on her naked body, how many fingers he could cram into her, how he would kiss, if he was loud or not. He ordered some wine and she bit her lower lip. She wasn’t too sure about anything, but she was ready to find things out.
Their first encounter had been a bit of a height misunderstanding. Never ever wear 12 inch heels when meeting someone for the first time, she though as she gazed down on him. They laughed it off, and now he was pouring her some wine.
The usual questions, the usual small talk. Nothing at all.
Sexual tension, she asked him about his sexual preferences. She’d downed half a bottle of wine plus an apple martini, he had twice as much as her, it seemed like the perfect moment to unleash their expectations.
He pushed away her questioning eyes with his thumb, with his laughter. It was not the time nor the place. It seemed like a date was really a date.
He stood up, went to the toilet.
She wondered what was going on, what would happen next, licking her lips with expectation, excited, wandering wonderment.
He took longer than expected and as he came back, sat down and said, ‘well you see, I pee sitting down… always’. Where that information came from or why, she had no idea.
A night later, as she was questioning every male in sight about the normalcy of this confession, she still had no clue why he had told her that.
She gaped at him, didn’t know what to respond, and told him that well, she knew how to not touch the seat, she had traveled a lot, and was rather flexible… so she could pee standing up.
Needles to say, she didn’t see him again, although a friend did say that she would never encounter the ‘toilet seat down’ problem with a guy like that…
She decided she didn’t want to know more, and still today, she asks her male friends if men do really pee sitting down… the only normal situations she has gotten for this seating arrangement to be accepted has been, too much alcohol, too much lack of sleep, or too sick.
No, her curiosity was great, but not as big as to let herself be taken on a second date to find out what other bathroom etiquette he could spring on her. And so the blind date and the bathroom preferences end with two lonely souls going to the w.c. by themselves without sharing their toilet paper exploits.

the park and a bag

Two gin tonics. Three beers. Four whisky shots, Jameson, of course. I think that was it. His conversation? I don’t remember much of it. I am sure he must have said something interesting. It must have been so, if not, why did I stay absorbed with his gaze for so many hours?
Poetry was not a subject, perhaps movies where, the way the screen penetrates your body, letting it caress you with other people’s bodies, with sighs that are not your own. Perhaps between one bar and the next (yes, I do think we did more than one, no, I am sure of it, perhaps three or four). The first bar was kind of ‘wanna be more than we really are’, and we talked about nothing at all, for some reason he kept avoiding my eyes, as if he didn’t want to say too much to them.
The second bar was empty, or too full. One or the other. In retrospect its kind of hard to think, to remember how things were. In the glaze of an alcohol filled night, all is not as it appears.
The walk back, back where? I guess at that point in the wee hours of the morning I did have an intention as of to where I was going. I guess.
The walk back to wherever I was really going went thru a park. I guess we had kissed at that point. I believe we had.
Why did I not lead him to my hotel is beyond me, I guess at that moment when he was sticking his hands down my pants and kissing me the grass looked more enticing, and it was nearer. So I threw him on to the grass and we rolled around.
He bit my neck, my ears, I screamed with pain and pleasure, I licked his lips, his eyelids, his hands up my shirt, my nipples as hard as his cock, his tongue in my ear, his middle finger down my navel and further down, my hand on his ass, grabbing. Me on top, forcing him to lick me, to kiss me, my hands over him, his hands over me.
He’s on top now, we are rolling around in a dewy grass with the smog glazed moon shining on our alcohol filled breaths. His hands pull my hair so that I am forced to stick my breasts out, he bites them, I bite him. We roll around.
Hours go by, breaths intertwine.
Suddenly we get up, as lovely as the grass is, a bed seems like a better place to get naked.
My earings are gone, he bit them off.
My bag is gone too. Rolling around and keeping an eye on a bag don’t go together. Who would exploit sexual concentration on a park to pick pocket a bag?
I guess I learnt my lesson well. Don’t roll around on the grass with too much alcohol. Or, if you do, don’t take a bag with you.