I've had always had something of an exhibitionistic streak. Not the blatant sort exhibitionism, whereas one typically enacts something of a porn scene for various audiences and usually afterwards engages in various additional sexual activities with said audiences, or even the sort that often compelled one to perform strip teases and such. For lack of a better word, I suppose it was a more...subtle sort of thing. I don't know what it was about.
But this is something about which I've fantasised about a lot.
There was a small diner on the corner of the road that was very quiet. It was a small, discreet establishment. He liked it for the superior coffee that they served. I liked it for the french fries.
He was already seated when I walked in. I smiled, headed towards him and paused, noting that somebody was already seated in the booth opposite him. A friend of his. I slid into the seat beside him, opposite the friend. Introductions were exchanged, and we picked up our menus.
He laid his hand on my thigh.
I glanced at him, vaguely surprised, but he did not appear to notice, and I said nothing.
The men resumed their conversation - it was, inevitably, something about cars, and my thoughts began to drift in the general direction of why it was that men could be so very taken with hunks of metal. I was pulled back into reality first by the sensation of his hand stroking up and down my thigh, moving my skirt up and down my leg, and then the waiter, who had come to take our orders. Temporarily distracted from the wandering hand, I placed my order, at the same time firmly lifting his hand and placing it back in his own lap.
I was, meanwhile, being lured into the conversation with the subject being turned to politics. This was something I could get into, but again his hand was quite warm on my thigh, and I shifted in my seat, hoping he would get the message. There was a small smile on the corner of his lips, and a look from him as I moved to remove his hand again stopped me. I was being told, quite firmly, to sit still.
"What do you think about..."
I could not think. His hand had gone from stroking slowly up and down the length of my thigh, to fingertips slowly tracing over my crotch. I stopped midway through my sentence, straining my mind for the right words while my conversational partner watched, bemused.
"I think," said my antagonist, filling in the lengthening silence, "That was a ridiculous thing to have happenened."
I breathed, in a relief that was short lived, for the conversation did not seem to be distracting his hand from my crotch, and I shifted in my seat once again, clearing my throat meaningfully. He ignored me, and taking advantage of the adjustment of my legs, slid his hand further between my thighs. His fingers were now wedged quite firmly between my legs, rubbing up and down with maddening slowness. Quite involuntarily, I felt my breathing begin to quicken just a notch. As if on cue, so too did his fingers. And now I could feel myself moistening just the tiniest fraction.
"Your order," said the waiter, delivering our food with a pleasant smile. The hand between my legs was swiftly removed. I wondered if the fellow could see what was going on. He left. The friend had excused himself to go to the bathroom. We were alone, briefly.
