Lots About Me Ch 12 Origin Story

We are at a pub. It's a pub, not a bar, so all wood and dim lighting and noisy, and people get all talky about their beer as they drink it. A place like that.

You're drinking whiskey. Or maybe whisky. I'm not sure if it has an E. I'm not sure because I'm not sure which is which, although you got horribly drunk and tried to explain it to me once, ages ago. You're drinking whiskey or whisky, and I'm going to kiss you later, because even though I can't stand the taste of whichever it is, or even its smell, I really like kissing the taste of it off your mouth. I like it then. So I will.

I'll kiss you later, but for now I'm just sitting there, watching you drink, listening to people.

It's just after work, and the pub is crowded. Our table is crowded, too. It's a booth, so we're all sitting pressed together around a big wooden table, and any time someone wants to get out, everyone else has to get up and move and let them. Which means the people at the end usually have to go and get all the drinks for everyone, and people pass them money so they can, and organising all that is about half of what people are talking about.

Seriously. Like they start getting ready for the next drink when they're halfway through the last. Well, not halfway, and its not half of what they talk about. But its some. More than they need to.

Although they do talk about other things too.

Anyways, we're sitting there, and mostly I just listen. I don't know as many of these people as you do, so I stay quiet.

After a while I feel a hand on my leg. You're looking at me, kind of intensely, so I assume it's you. Instead of jumping and shouting what the fuck, who's that, I just glance down, and make sure.

It's you. Your arms are folded, and you're kind of leaning on your elbows on the table, but the inside elbow is sliding off the table, into your lap, and that arm is the arm of the hand which is on my leg.

If all that makes sense. It's pretty sneaky, anyway.

You stroke my leg. You slide your hand up my leg.

You slide it a long way up my leg, and under my skirt. I can't really shift, to let you touch me more easily, because you're on one side of me and someone else is jammed against me on the other. We're all pressed so close together that I can't even hitch up and slide the hem a little, or even put my legs any further apart. So you can't actually get to me properly, or at all, even though you're trying. You rub at me, though, through my undies, kind of mostly in front and on top, but it's enough to be sexy. Stuff moves. Cloth moves, and bits of me move, and it's all enough I feel things. And we're sitting at a table with lots of other people, and that makes it breathtakingly excitingly sexy, too.

Sexy, and also, it means I don't really know I'd want to be feeling very much more than I am.

I mean sounds and sex smells and me going face-down on the table and having a really public orgasm, um, no, I don't think so, maybe not. And also, the table is sticky with spilled beer, and you've been touching stuff, and also you have a revolting habit of eating peanuts in pubs, so I don't know I actually want your fingers inside me. That too.

So for now, rubbing through clothes is enough.

It's impossibly sexy, though, you doing that here, at a crowded table, while no-one knows. It's impossibly sexy in a way which is much, more than just how you touch me.

I get wet and weak and helpless and want you unbearably. But that's all that happens. And after a bit people move, and you stop.

But.

Later, for a long time later, I keep thinking about that night. Like for days and weeks and maybe even months. Being touched like that, in a crowd, that was really exciting.

Eventually I tell you so. And about how I think about it. Um... yes, like that. Yes, in my special alone time. Right. And now we all get me?

Okay.

So I tell you that I liked it, and still think about it, and how I think about it, and it seems that you like that I think about it like that. You want me to tell you what excites me, and what I'm thinking about as I do. You want me to show you me doing it, and I do that too.

So after that, sometimes, while we have sex, I tell you about how much I liked it. And sometimes, other times, I whisper made-up stories to you about what else, in my imagination, happened that night.

Filthy little smutty stories which we both like, because they're about us.

Stories about how you make me come, loudly, gripping the table and sighing while everyone watches me, surprised. Stores about how you finger me until I can't stand it any more, teasing me until I lean over, and whisper to you I need you now, that we have to slip away, we absolutely have to. And then we go and fuck in a the toilets or an alleyway or a car, or something. Stories about how I say that, and then actually can't wait, and accidentally come at the table, and no-one notices. Or some people do, and smile secretly, watching me, but most people don't.

I tell you those stories, and sometimes other stories, too. Sometimes worse stories, about how you push me down under the table and make me lick everyone there, or pull me up onto it and spank me while everyone watches. Stories like that, although those are more for me than for you. You aren't as much into those ideas as I am.

But we whisper, as we fuck, and it's nice to whisper like that. It's sweet and tender and sexy and nice, and I like to do that with you.

So I keep telling you other stories. I keep making things up.

And that's how all this started.

All of it, like this, here, right now.

Because... um, okay, a weird aside for everyone reading this. And now I'm talking to people reading this, not to the "you" person... if this makes sense.

So this is called origin story because this is pretty much how I started doing this. Like I started telling dirty stories to this particular person while we had sex, just as a thing, and it turned out I was kind of okay at it, or at least, I was amusing enough for whimsy during sex. Which is probably not an especially high standard, to be honest. But I kept doing it sometimes, and I guess got more practice, and that's where all of this, everything I write, comes from. Like, that night in the pub and then me talking dirty is why I started all this writery and books and all the rest. And this is kind of because of that night, and then telling stories afterwards.

So there you go!

Oh, and of course there's no way I can ever admit which pub or where or when. Which would kind of suck for them if I ever win a Nobel Prize or something, because nope, they just can't ever have a special literary booth where the literary near-fingering happened. Sigh for them.