Even while we still sit in the bar tonight, when we have only just started on our second drinks, I am almost painfully aware of every detail. Each slow blink, each time you wet your lips, the slightest movement of the muscles in your forearms. I think I can feel the static sparking back and forth between us, and occasionally need to breathe deeply to steady my heartbeat. I’ve abandoned my usual strict self-monitoring, because I can feel your eyes like fingertips along the deep vee of my shirt, over the curve of one pale breast, and then the other. I love it. I shift around every now and then, drawing your eyes back to the shadow between my breasts when I think you’ve looked elsewhere too long. I’m sure the images flashing in my mind are just as frequent a distraction for you, yet we both continue to smile, and chat pleasantly. We both continue to act as if the erotic current flowing across the hi-top isn’t affecting either of us.
When you order the third round, you raise your right arm to get the waitress’ attention. I can see the sinew curving from your bicep to your wrist, and your shirt collar slips aside to show your pulse at the base of your throat. Inhaling sharply through my nose (which only compounds the issue when my lungs fill with your cologne, and your skin, and something else that belongs entirely to you), I excuse myself for a moment.
I lock the bathroom door and lean back against it, trying to catch my breath. I turn my head the the left, examining my reflection in the tarnished mirror above the sink. I am flushed, pupils dilated, lips red and swollen from biting them lightly to keep myself focused — and to call attention to my mouth. I want to keep you thinking about my mouth.
I can see the lace edge of my bra where the neckline of my shirt has slipped, and I lift one hand — intending to fix it. Instead, I stroke my fingers lightly over the top of my breast. Then lower, dipping under the edge of the lace, trailing almost tenderly across each. Impulsively, I tug both shirt and bra aside, exposing my left breast fully in the mirror, and I cannot help but tweak my firming nipple. The sensation is sudden and almost unbelievable, and I slide my other hand into the waistband of my pants, into my underwear, where I press my clit firmly between my first and second fingers.
I am already wetter than I thought possible. Staring into the mirror, into my own eyes, mouth open and breathing rapidly, I begin to stroke the slickness between my thighs. I squeeze my nipple gently, regularly in time with pressing my clit. I thought I could hold out tonight; but, here I am, fingering myself in the bathroom at the bar. The pressure builds, and I throw my head back against the door, my eyes fluttering closed. Small, animal mewling çubuk escort sounds are coming from my throat, and I can’t be bothered to quiet them.
Someone knocks on the door, startling me away from it and my hands away from their wonderful activity. “Just a minute,” I call, and wash my hands and straighten my clothes. My walk back to the table is in a daze, since I’m consumed with how I’m supposed to control myself at this point.
I do, though, and we spend two more drinks dancing with one another in our minds. The lights go up, and you smile at me, telling me to come on outside when I’m ready, that you’ll take care of getting the cab. I gather my things as slowly as I can without looking strange, preparing for the close contact the backseat of the taxi. It doesn’t do much good; nothing prepares me for the close contact I can have with you.
The fifteen minute cab ride is a test of willpower. Mere inches between us on the seat let me feel the warmth of your thigh through your jeans, and you drape an arm lightly over my shoulder. I lean over against you, hyper-aware of your hand against my collarbone. I slide my cheek along your shoulder, inhaling your smell, watching your pulse speed up to a frantic pace. I press open lips to the vein, flicking the tip of my tongue lightly along it. Your response is immediate and gratifying. Sucking air through your teeth, you tighten the hand resting on your leg convulsively, and the hand on my shoulder slides deftly lower to cup my breast. Lightly, rhythmically, you stroke my nipple through my clothes with your thumb. I lick and nip the skin of your neck, and watch with a smile as the front of your jeans rises and tightens. I slip my hand under the edge of your shirt and start to slide your belt free from its buckle.
The cab driver clears his throat loudly, indignant, and all hands in the backseat settle back into proper places. It’s only a few more minutes, but I haven’t done myself any favors by buckling to every impulse all night. I all but vanish from the taxi as it pulls up to the door; I’d rather not look the driver in the eye and I’m sure I look at least half-crazed. It takes hours, days, for you to get to the door behind me and unlock it. The living room is dark, lit only by the glow of the streetlight through the blinds.
Before I can adjust to the darkness, you slam the door and crush me full-length against you, one hand locked on the back of my neck, the other sliding down the back of my jeans to grip my ass. You’re kissing me so hard I moan into your mouth, feeling lips and teeth and wanting more. I suck your tongue into my mouth as hard as I can, pulling at it, lapping with my own tongue, showing you what I plan on doing to your cock if you ever give demetevler escort me the chance. With a ragged gasp, you break the contact, pushing me back into the room a few feet. You reach over one shoulder and strip off your shirt, advancing on me slowly. I lift my arms as you grab the hem of my shirt, tug it over my head and toss it aside, then flick open the clasp on the front of my bra. I let it slide to the floor as you cup both breasts, suckling each nipple in turn, pulling the gasps and moans from me.
You let go only to kiss me again, hard and deep, hands wound in my hair just above my neck. You use that leverage to force me to my knees in front of you, and I can’t get your belt and pants unfastened quickly enough to suit me. I pull out your cock, erect and throbbing, and wrap my lips around the head. With your hands clenched in my hair to guide me, I let your dick glide into my mouth, swirling my tongue from base to tip and back again. I clamp my lips around it, sucking hard, the way you like it. You revel in the sensation for a few minutes, then pull me away from your hips, lifting your cock and pulling my face into your balls. I lick over them lightly, letting each rest in my mouth. You’ve loosened your grip a little, and I return to your cock, sucking and licking until your moans give way to a gasp and you jerk away from me.
Breathing hoarsely, you stare down at me, wide-eyed and predatory. In a moment, I read a decision in your face that makes me want to smile. One hand in my hair and one hand gripping my upper arm lets you spin me effortlessly around to face the coffee table, and, before I realize, you’ve bent me over face down on it. The air in the room is not particularly uncomfortable, but the slate top of the table is like ice. My nipples contract almost violently when they make contact, a lightning bolt that rockets straight to my clit. I know that if you were to so much as touch my pussy at that moment, my orgasm could render me unconscious. But you know better than that.
You pin both my arms behind my back with one hand and yank my pants down, so that my ass is exposed to anything you have planned. I hear you kneel behind me, and then you lean down to treat me to the feeling of your tongue between my legs. You kiss my thighs and ass, and lick over my pussy lips. When you press the tip of your tongue to my clit and flick lightly, I moan, “Yesssss, baby, lick my pussy. I’m so wet for you… Oh, I want you to fuck me now.”
You move away, and I hear a foil wrapper tear. If I had known you had a condom in your pocket, I would have been fucking you in the bathroom at the bar, or in the alley next door, or in any number of places I could have found during the evening. You spread ankara escort my thighs with your free hand, and, in one swift, smooth motion, thrust your cock deep into my pussy. I arch my back and cry out, because I can’t imagine anything that feels better than this. You return a hand to the back of my head and shove me back down onto the table, and then you start to move.
I was wrong. The only thing that feels better than your plowing into me with that cock is your fucking me with it. I can’t even try to care that the neighbors might hear the noise I’m making; I love it so much. But judging from the sounds coming from you, you feel the same way. Bent and trapped as I am, I can’t do much talking, but you’re saying the things I like to hear, anyway.
“God, I fucking love your pussy. Take it, you hot bitch.” You force my shoulders back onto the table, making my nipples rub against the smooth slate. “You stay down and you take it. Your pussy’s been hungry for this all night. I know you love getting my cock; I’m going to make you cum so hard, baby, so hard.”
Every bit of my arousal is coalescing as you pound my pussy. Just when I can feel frustration start to build, you slip a hand down over my belly and catch my clit between your thumb and forefinger. When you start to squeeze and rub, squeeze and rub, I descend almost completely into incoherence. In between open mouthed moans I call out to God or Jesus or for you to keep fucking me. It starts as a tingle in my extremities, becoming almost a vibration in my thigh muscles, and then my orgasm cuts off all of my sounds, because I don’t even remember to breathe.
I don’t know how long I stay crouched there, riding the ecstatic spasms, my pussy throbbing and clutching your cock, while you continue to thrust away behind me. When I come to my senses, it’s clear that you’re nearing your own climax, and I pay close attention, since this is yet another of my favorite parts. You’ve already stopped talking, but now your grunts and moans subside to heavy, rasping pants. You turn your attention inward, focusing on your finish, and your hands slide down to my hips. With the added leverage you fuck me harder, faster, driving your cock as deep as you can, until you stop, hands and thighs shaking, and I look back over my shoulder. You cum with a long, loud, breathy moan, eyes shut tightly and lips drawn back over your teeth. I love that desperately out-of-control face, and my tired clit still twitches and jumps in response to it.
You catch yourself on one hand to avoid flattening me against the table. We are both trying to recover our breath like we’ve just run a marathon, panting, trembling all over just slightly. You collapse back onto the carpet, pulling me with you, neither of us willing to break contact just yet. You move your hips against me, pressing your softening cock back inside. I take a shuddering gasp, and let out a soft laugh. You kiss a line lightly across the back of my neck. We need to get to bed eventually, but for now, the floor is good enough for both of us.