The Quiet One
Tuesday night. Quiet. I am sitting in an overstuffed striped chair by the window, a streetlight spreading a candle like glow over the pages of the book Iâm reading. Hardly anyone here and it is quiet, except for the sound of my stockings scraping against each other when I shift my thighs, which I am doing frequently, given the content of the book I am reading. My face is warm with arousal, Iâm torn between raising the book to hide myself and lowering it to hide the cover, embarrassed at what I am reading, but too absorbed in the stories to put it down. Not that it really matters, because there is no one here to watch me and they probably wouldnât watch me even if they were in here.
No one here except for that little earthquake heading towards me in the form of boots that are clicking against marble floors, until he hits the carpet and becomes hard silence. I raise my eyes and peek over the top of the book at him, and snap back to the text the minute his dark eyes collide with mine. I lift the book higher to cover my face, remember the cover, drop it to my lap, remember to hide myself, and raise it again, blushing harder, breathing harder, my heart pounding as I acknowledge to myself that I have been caught. I can hear him pause on the carpet and turn. From behind the book, I can see he has disappeared into literature, somewhere around Ayn Rand.
Three pages pass, I am wet, hot, unbelievably absorbed, wide and so willing. Iâm working hard not to remember, that unlike the people in these stories, I have no one to seduce but myself. I am definitely avoiding that thought. No matter how much I make love to myself, fuck myself, no matter how many of those toys that should be used by a lover: the ice, oils & lotions, beads, vibes, butt plugs and various other toys I bring out, knowing I will be embarrassed by them in the morning, but have me so very hot right now, no matter how many times I bring myself to the peak and then hold my cum back, before I finally give in and fall, screaming so loud I can=t control it, my nipples hard as I pull at them, vibrator thrumming away against my clit and hood ring, my thighs & stomach shaking, all of this doesnât matter, as my cunt grabs desperately, clutching for a cock , a hot, hard, silky, engorged cock, attached to a warm man.
At those moments, when I lie there in recovery, shaking, already imagining the next orgasm because I have not satisfied anything at all, I can almost feel his mouth on my tits, his cock in my mouth, the taste and smell of him. But, I am not pretty, and men do not want to do these things to me, so I settle for myself.
I don=t even notice that my right hand has slipped across my chest, snaked under the fabric of my blouse, and is teasing my nipple, pulling my nipple ring against my skin, puckering, aching. I shift again, the shiver of wetness, actual drops, trickling down into my pantyhose. I pinch my nipple between my thumb and forefinger, nearly jumping at the pleasure pain. Suddenly there is a large hand on my thigh and I really do jump. I lower the book quickly, smacking the spine against the broad hand spreading out over my leg. The man from the literature section is squatting beside me, touching me so familiarly I should smack him for real, but instead I apologize. "I'm sorry," I say.
He smiles, and I see an unidentifiable flicker in his eyes. "No need to apologize,â he says âI'm sorry I startled you." He is older than I am, too old for me, probably, then the muscles in his thighs push against his jeans when he shifts his weight. "How's the book?" he asks, as I watch the movement of his head, only the slightest motion, his eyes locked against mine, stroking my jaw. I am blushing and stumbling nervous.
"It's um, good," I say weakly, wondering why I can't be normal and read mystery novels like other people do in bookstores. "So I see," he says, smiling as he looks toward at my hand, my fingers still working my nipple. "Oh god," I say, and yank my hand away from my breast. I'm too embarrassed to even say I'm embarrassed. "It's okay," he says, as his hand travels, one long, slow, heavy, circle on my thigh, and when his hand stops, he is further up my leg and his fingers are pointing towards my cunt. We both look at his hand and then he removes it and stands. "Your coffee's cold," he nods towards my mug, which has ceased steaming and has evaporated into pale sludge. "May I buy you another?" "I don't,â Iâm stammering, stuttering, swallowing. He offers me his hand, firm. Don't say no. You can't say no.
Over coffee, I spill the sugar twice and my coffee three times. His name escapes me but I am right, he is too old for me, but I am not exactly overwhelmed with offers. He is an architect, or so he says, and he is reading a novel I have never heard of. I left my book upstairs. He peers at me over his mug, which he holds with both hands wrapped around it, as though he were warming them, but I can still feel his palm print burning against my thigh and I know his hands are not cold. They are large, strong, slightly rough, and I can see the cuticles fraying and imagine the calluses against my skin.
My suit is too tight, and I shift against it uncomfortably as the skirt rides up my thighs. "Don't,â he says, the third time I stop to adjust it, and he slides his hand up the back of my thigh, taking the skirt with it. He removes his hand and studies his work. I inhale, hoping that will eliminate the thigh spread somehow, but he doesnât seem to mind. "What do you do, quiet one?" he asks me, sipping from his mug, his lips thin and broad. "I work in an office," I say, feeling stupid and gawkish, childish even and wishing I could run out. I am incapable of flirting, I know this, and the woman behind the counter knows this, why can't he just think and figure it out and just let me go? He just laughs, though. "Do you always read erotica in public?"
There is something about his wording that is slightly British, but modest, and his voice is deep and warm around me as though I could press my palm against the broadness of his chest and feel the rumble. "No," I say, as I stumble over the words again. "I mean, I just, picked it up." "There's nothing to be ashamed of," he says, and I hear tenderness in his voice, though when I look up, I donât see it in his face. He puts down his mug and lays his hand across mine. I jerk away and spill my coffee again; blushing thinking to myself, make it end, please make this end.
He leans forward and his tone becomes conspiratorial. I can smell the coffee on his breath, nearly taste the cream. "I found watching you as you read very arousing." I am shaking from the tones of his voice and my cunt is calling out to him, and I am absolutely terrified of this man right at this very second, and more terrified because I don=t know if I am more afraid that he will kill me or make love to me. I jerk back again, coffee staining his arm. "I'm sorry," I say, and Iâm almost in tears this time. I grab some napkins and dab at his arm. "I just, I should go," you should have left me alone. He grabs my wrist encircling the bone, with the pudgy fingers and lays his other hand across mine. He laughs, genuine, his grip steel. I jerk away and spill my coffee again; I am blushing again; tears well up in my eyes. Make it end, please make this end.
"Quiet One," he says. He stands, takes the napkins from my hand, kisses me softly on the forehead, the cheek, and pulls back. He is holding me by my shoulders, looking down at me. Is that what you want?" He has a car so we take it, along rain slicked city streets, lamps reflecting in the asphalt, sidewalks quiet with trash and recycling. I am huddled against the door.
At a stoplight, he does not look at me, but his hand finds my thighs and pulls one of my legs towards him, forcing them apart. I can smell my own cunt, my own desire, my own heat, and I am sure he can too. "Would you do something for me?" he asks suddenly. I don't say anything. He looks over at me. "Unbutton your blouse," he tells me softly. It is an order, but it is not a command. I sit for a moment, and then, leaning forward, I slip my suit jacket off and unbutton my blouse. There are holes in the lace of my bra and when he reaches over again, without looking, to run the back of his fingers over my breasts, my nipple pokes through the weave, dark rose against faded white. I inhale sharply, though he has barely touched me. I know now what it will feel like when he does, and I want to scream out that I want this so much. But he pulls his hand away. "Could you take off your bra?" This time it is a question, but I cannot and will not answer no, though I hesitate with the hooks.
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LADIES IN NUDE
Russian Brides
LADIES IN NUDE
Russian Brides
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