The Art of Sex Ch. 01

Forward — A Poetic Prelude
A fig inspires awe
when eaten slowly. Raw.
Parting softbud flower,
lapping there, posthaste.
Inhaling her musky power,
I am now confident that you would like to be on the evening’s menu even if you would never go through with it.

My left hand is no longer separated from you by a thin fabric barrier, it’s now hotly resting directly on your leg. I remained motionless. We both look straight ahead in somewhat uncomfortable silence. Both wondering: “What to say next?” I ask which dish you are considering. I ramble on about flavor profiles and wine pairings for a bit. You pretend to care. You are glad I am just talking about anything. But your mind is on my hand. It’s hot. You wonder to yourself if I know this is making you wet. Perhaps, you think, “I have made myself too vulnerable already.” Does he know I secretly want him? You want to tell him how you most like being fucked, and share fantasies that you’ve long kept secret. Will you do so? Can you?

Yet, despite the self-doubts, you slip forward very so slightly again as you take a sip from your glass. Thanks for the clear signal. But my left hand does not move in position on your leg. I let it slide forward with you. Then, after a brief pause, I raise the glass in my other hand again very casually to my lips. I drain my glass and return it to the table. Leaning forward as I lower the glass; my left hand now comes away from your right thigh. You can now only feel coolness there — filling a void that was formerly the hot shape of my palm.

You exhale audibly at the loss of contact. This change of position definitely isn’t what you were hoping your signal would achieve. You did not want me to remove my hand. You wanted to communicate that you would allow it to rest slightly higher on your leg if I were inclined to move it there while we chat. Just slightly more inviting. Just slightly içerenköy escort more erotic. But not vulgar. You were matching my spontaneity. You wonder if I took your shift as a signal to remove my hand.

But, as I lift my left hand from your leg, I rotate my body slightly toward you. My left hand comes up from under the table and very careful grasps a wisp of blonde hair from your cheek. This gesture seems over solicitous and almost paternal. I say sincerely, “You look gorgeous tonight.” This action is rather mood-breaking for you. Especially so, when combined with me softly saying, “I noticed there was something in your hair,” just as our eyes meet.

You seem to appreciate of my attentiveness, but have your expression suggests a slight sense of disappointment that I moved my hand to perform such a mundane task. Especially after your own signal for me to move forward with the faux seduction. You have made it clear that sex is not your end game.

With you still focused on the disappointing departure of my warm left hand, its mirrored pair has plans of its own. My move was just distraction; a misdirection made as much for the dining room as for you. I made you self-conscious by my grooming gesture. But, as your attention is drawn to your own hair, my right hand has gone forgotten under the table. As I turn toward you it crosses my body. And while my left hand delicately feigns the removal of some small thing from your brow, I rotate my upper body toward you. This new position allows me to slide my right hand up your skirt, directly between your thighs.

My above-table action — the intentional ruse of my grooming gesture — made repositioning my body seem innocent to both you and anyone else in the restaurant watching or within earshot. No one suspects anything untold was about to happen under that table. Not even you.

While my oh-so-innocent left ikitelli escort hand was resting on the top of your thigh, my right hand has less platonic motives. It slides between your legs and stops. My right palm is now flat against the inside of your right thigh. You flinch at this, but just barely. My hand is just high enough that the tips of my fingers are making slight contact with your warmest of spots. Right there where your legs meet. You blush. I smile at this.

But now you are not just embarrassed, you are actually somewhat frightened. You do not want a scene. This action is far too sexy for you in public. This is more than you agreed to. You are uncomfortable. But you are also frozen. At this point, any reaction, whether good or bad, will attract attention. You struggle at this point to draw in a breath that is not audible. I wonder if you secretly want to close your eyes and push your pelvis forward. I suspect another part of you wants to get up and run out of the bar. This a deciding point. Literally. But, either way, there are people, so a bold reaction will attract the attention of those at a nearby table.

With only the tips of my fingers just barely touching your private warmth, I look behind your lashes directly into those gorgeous blue eyes as I speak, loud enough for people at a nearby table to overhear, “You look wonderful tonight, baby. You’re just as beautiful as the day we met…” said as if we are a happy married couple on a dinner date. You realize I am spinning this bullshit tale to cover my new position in the booth, but you find the sweetness of sentiments about our fictional history oddly complimentary. You are already smitten and we both know it.

As look directly into your eyes, I push my hand inward ever so slightly. The tips of my index and middle fingers are now parting and pushing into your pussy ever so slightly — through ılgaz escort your panties — as I speak to you. I push them inward a little more. I can now actually feel your wetness through your panties. You squirm as you feel yourself getting even wetter.

No one has ever done anything so sexually charged to you in a public place. At least not in plain view. You gasp quietly, but audibly. I lean in further and kiss you. A real kiss. Not just a pleased-to-meet-you peck like I gave you when removing your glasses. You cannot help yourself; you kiss back. I smile at you, my lips now stained from yours. And then I add with intentional sappiness, loud enough for the room, “You really do have the most beautiful eyes.”

You now realize that the current placement of my hand has encouraged your nipples to stand up and salute the world a little. You are aroused and your body is announcing it to me above and below the table. I give you another friendly little kiss on the cheek. You smell wonderful. The action of my lips is not at all matched by the directness of my hand. And with that kiss, I withdraw my hand completely and say, “So, what do YOU want to eat?” and laugh.

You know what I meant by this. You know that I am implying that what I want to eat is — you. And, as direct and vulgar as that may be, you still get a happy feeling between your legs at the thought of it. You want your fig worshipped. And you now know by reading me, I’m probably very good at that. You want me to taste her. You want to relax and selfishly feel the pleasure. You want me to ask for the check. Right now. The time has come. And you want to come too.

Public arousal. Surreptitiously. And clearly premeditated. You shudder at this kind of cerebral naughtiness. This man is trouble. You really don’t know what to make of me. But you do know you want more. I show my passion is patient, measured way. That’s absolutely thrilling.

You wonder now if I fuck as patiently as I write, if I will tease multiple orgasms out of you just as skillfully as I stimulate your mind. You can’t wait to find out.

You are aroused now as you read this. Tell me I’m wrong.

To be continued…