I see you, sitting at a table in the corner of the room. It's odd; the sounds of laughter- albeit drunken- and merriment surround us both, but you remain on the periphery, your eyes flicking back and forth. You draw the eye, though; if you didn't by your looks alone, you do by your attire.
The theme is Hawaiian, and you are thus attired; string straw skirt, shell bikini. Your dark hair is loose, draped back over your shoulders. You smile, over and over, but as I watch you I notice. You only smile when someone addresses you directly, only look alive when someone's watching.
You noticed me, watching you, earlier. You looked me over, just as I looked you over; when I wasn't watching. I saw you though.
You clearly didn't mind it too much; you kept looking at me. But when I look back, you look away. I know we work together; I know your mum is close to my dad.
I come over to you, my eyes looking directly at yours, waiting for your eyes to flick up and notice me. I'm almost upon you when it happens, and you blush slightly, your mouth suppressing a smile.
I've never really talked to you; had a one on one conversation. But we know random facts about each other; you know I study, and I work nightfill in petrol stations; I know you like to party, and that you're older than me, but you're not sure by how much. The obvious is that you're taller than me, but as that doesn't bother me so it doesn't seem to you. The thing was, I never knew you liked girls.
We continue jumping through our conversational hoops, but we're both reading between the lines here. I don't know why you chose me tonight; maybe it was my looks, or the way you and I both seem eternally on the periphery of things, never the centre. But you did; your hand is on my arm, your hair carelessly tickling my shoulder as you smile at me surreptitiously. You moved my hand onto your thigh underneath the table.
Drunk now. We took a cab back to mine, which was further away than I thought it was. But despite the alcohol, you are still self conscious of me, and I of you; we touch, but only in small, manageable ways; you softly rest your head on my shoulder, almost as if you're afraid of me pulling away; I place my arm around you, but lightly. You sneak glances and smiles at me through your fringe; I look down at you, when I think you're not paying attention.
Tired of waiting. The second we get inside, I took your waist in my arms, pulling you to me. I kiss you softly, the touch questioning; do you really want to go through with this, and damn the consequences? You pull back slightly, and look into my eyes.
Then you kiss me back, your hands moving to the back of my head, your lips tasting of vodka and raspberry. Your hair caresses my cheeks, and you moan into me, pushing yourself closer.
I run my hands over your back, as I feel the shells covering your breasts against my shirt. I remember you telling me how much they hurt, so as I drop to my knees I hold them up, and make sure they don't scratch you as I remove them.
Wow. I cannot look, not really. I close my eyes, and kiss down your body, feeling the softness of your skin on my lips. You arch your back, holding my head as closely as you can.
I delve lower, and curse slightly and quietly; the straw dress is Really annoying. You hear me, and you laugh. Your hands guide mine to your waist, and I pull the string around your waist down, making a mess around your ankles.
The white fabric of a bikini bottom is all the modesty you wear at the moment, but your eyes are blazing at me. I look at you, as I kiss you through the thin material, and your hands drive me in harder.
"Damn it, stop teasing me!" You whisper at me, your nails scratching at my neck. I smile into your thighs.
I pull them down, and breathe lightly on your mound. Beautiful, lovely. I couldn't bear to look at your breasts, but I find myself unable to look away now.
I descend upon you, my mouth covering your mound from top to bottom. I make sure to never lose that contact, and I make love to your pussy with my tongue, pushing it inside you, running around your slippery nub. Sometimes I caress the hood, and you push yourself into me harder. You stifle cries; I'm not sure why. Maybe you're afraid to completely let go.
I look up at you, and I change my technique. Before I was only playing; now I want your pleasure, your taste. My tongue moves deeper- and trust me, if you thought it was long before, you haven't seen anything yet. I strum over your clitoris, as I toy at your opening with the tip; your hips uncontrollably buck at me, as you continue to fight to keep yourself quiet.