I met you at a book signing – petite, brunette, and flirty as hell.
How flirty, you ask?
Well, aside from the obvious interest you tossed in my direction, smiling and winking at every possible opportunity, you had this special way of sitting there, halfway across the room, giving me a perfect view up your skirt. Each time we made eye contact, you blushed a little and shifted your position, crossing and uncrossing your legs at just the right angle to afford me a prolonged peek at your green satin panties.
My cock begins to stiffen beneath the hardwood table. Every once in a while, a fan gets in my way. I sign their books and wait for you to show me more.
After the autograph seekers begin to clear out, you finally make your approach. You seem nervous, yet determined.
You’re unsure of what to say upon reaching the table, though, and so you simply stand there, nibbling your lower lip and sort of half swiveling, half swaying side to side in your little black dress. I lean forward, crossing my arms on the table between us. I make my best attempt to disarm you with my smile.
“So…” I begin, my voice lowered, forcing you to lean in closer.“”Do you always show your panties to strange men like that?”
We stare into each other’s eyes over a stack of books. I’m about to lay one of my best lines on you when…
“Make me cum,” you suddenly blurt out, clamping your hand over your mouth (too late).
I’m transfixed by you.“Come again?” I ask, almost positive that I hadn’t heard you correctly.
“See, that’s just the problem,” you whisper in my ear, leaning in closer still.“I haven’t met a man who could make me cum in quite some time…”
“Well, you’re in luck,” I say, playing it cool as you gingerly finger my necktie.“I just so happen to be writing a book on that very subject.”
“And what subject is that?” you ask, eyes narrowed in mock curiosity.
“Women who can’t cum,” I say, scribbling something down on a piece of paper.“Here’s my address in town – I’d love to interview you sometime.”
You arrive on my doorstep at the appointed date and time. I barely recognize you standing there. You seem so… innocent in your sweater and jean skirt, and you’re wearing a thin, white hairband with low-top sneakers to match. You smell so clean and so sweet, like coconut and berries. Me, I’m shirtless, barefoot, and unshaven. I haven’t showered and I’ve been drinking since about 10am.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” I say, clearing my throat as I sweep some empties into the bin.“Have a seat while I tidy up a bit.”
You sit down the couch, resting your hands on your knees in front of you. I pretend not to notice your legs while I make the place presentable.
Coming back from the kitchen, I sit down on an old recliner across from you, cracking open a fresh beer as I settle in.
You’re still sitting there, smiling expectantly.
I take a long pull from the tall can in my hand. Suddenly I feel like a poor host.
“You want one?” I ask, gesturing to the beer as I make to get up and grab another.
You shake you head slowly, never breaking eye contact as you slowly sink down into the cushions. Pushing your luscious legs forward, knees clamped tight together, your squirm in your seat as your clean white shoes do a little dance upon the filthy carpet. You’re biting your lower lip again, like you did that day at the book signing. It seems apparent that you have yet another surprise in store.
I relax, take another pull. I find it difficult to avert my gaze from the small strip of shadow between your thighs and your skirt.