Picture this
There is a nanobrewery in Ballard called Hilliards with all of the trappings of the Seattle gourmand scene: iPad cash register, a smartly dressed staff of owners and brewers, and a large industrial footprint. No effort has been made to hide the towering fermenters or stacks of steel kegs. The bare concrete floor is matched with cast concrete counters and heavy wood tables.
There is one table in Hilliards, not the largest, centrally located in the public space. It abuts a taller counter, which looms over the shorter table making it somewhat awkward when somebody sits there because the taller stools necessarily expose what is under the table.
I'm really trying not to look, but this cold spring has clad these long, soft legs in thick tights. This is Seattle, after all, and it's not so cold that she wore pants, or even a thick skirt. It may be long, but the diaphanous fabric spills over her seated hips. The hem of the skirt is caught on one folded knee.
Her husband is with her, and I wonder how many times my eye can sweep the room for an inadvertent look at her legs before he notices. She knows I'm agitated. A look at my phone affords me a downward pause that I can just cast to the side for a longer gaze. She must know what I'm doing because she bends her extended leg, and hooks the heel of her shoe on her stool. I take a dry sip of this excellent Pilsner (Pilsners are the new IPA).
A glance at my watch reveals her husband's hand slowly dragging the hem of her skirt up her leg. He pulls the hem just high enough for me to observe the crotch of her tights, which seem too far forward, stretched between her legs mid-thigh. That's when I notice the outline of her rolled tights beneath her skirt; a line like thin chord around the middle of her thigh. It occurs to me that she entered the place with her tights rolled down.
I think that blushing is not a manly trait, but it's involuntary, just like the erection in my pants. I shift in my seat a bit to encourage my cock into a more comfortable position, up in this instance. I worry it might emerge from behind my belt.
The gentleman gets up to fetch drinks. I deftly activate the camera of my phone, and hide it under my arm, upon which is resting my blushing cheek. She lifts the middle of her stretched tights up a bit and I snap a quick picture. I'm suddenly very grateful the flash was turned off. Pardon me, I'll be right back.
I nearly fumble my phone in the toilet stall, but my cold sweaty hands finally manage to open the picture. Much of her pussy is obscured behind her hand, but her gleaming pussy hair is slightly red; the carpet matches the d****s. The folds of her labia are in full bloom, swollen like she's freshly fucked. I contemplate snapping one off right there in the bathroom. I take a breath, email myself the picture, and delete it from my phone. I'll cum to it later.
Her husband has returned. They look happy, like they're having fun. Really, is there anything sexier than a happy couple? I put my phone back on the table.
There is a tipping point, when the endorphins and excitement of an erotic moment overwhelm our cultural sense of propriety. For me, it is this moment. She knows I've seen her pussy and her husband knows she has exposed herself to me. She knows my hard cock is pulsing beneath my too-tight jeans. Did she notice the ridge in my pants? I hope so. I hope everyone else in the bar noticed, too.
She stands up, her skirt falls back into place. There's always a slight disappointment when the moment passes, but I'm still savoring the intimacy. The shared knowledge of their kink. She passes my table and quickly snatches my phone from beside me, circumambulates my table and disappears into the restroom. I smile and nod at her husband, who lifts his glass in toast in a decidedly not-blushing masculine manner. I toast him wordlessly in return.
I've hidden the pictures she took in my private email account. I can't afford my wife finding them, or asking how I got them, even though I could argue that I was just an unfortunate victim in the scenario. It would be indefensible, however, if she caught me pouring olive oil on my cock and pleasuring myself to them, which is what I'm doing at this very moment.
There is one table in Hilliards, not the largest, centrally located in the public space. It abuts a taller counter, which looms over the shorter table making it somewhat awkward when somebody sits there because the taller stools necessarily expose what is under the table.
I'm really trying not to look, but this cold spring has clad these long, soft legs in thick tights. This is Seattle, after all, and it's not so cold that she wore pants, or even a thick skirt. It may be long, but the diaphanous fabric spills over her seated hips. The hem of the skirt is caught on one folded knee.
Her husband is with her, and I wonder how many times my eye can sweep the room for an inadvertent look at her legs before he notices. She knows I'm agitated. A look at my phone affords me a downward pause that I can just cast to the side for a longer gaze. She must know what I'm doing because she bends her extended leg, and hooks the heel of her shoe on her stool. I take a dry sip of this excellent Pilsner (Pilsners are the new IPA).
A glance at my watch reveals her husband's hand slowly dragging the hem of her skirt up her leg. He pulls the hem just high enough for me to observe the crotch of her tights, which seem too far forward, stretched between her legs mid-thigh. That's when I notice the outline of her rolled tights beneath her skirt; a line like thin chord around the middle of her thigh. It occurs to me that she entered the place with her tights rolled down.
I think that blushing is not a manly trait, but it's involuntary, just like the erection in my pants. I shift in my seat a bit to encourage my cock into a more comfortable position, up in this instance. I worry it might emerge from behind my belt.
The gentleman gets up to fetch drinks. I deftly activate the camera of my phone, and hide it under my arm, upon which is resting my blushing cheek. She lifts the middle of her stretched tights up a bit and I snap a quick picture. I'm suddenly very grateful the flash was turned off. Pardon me, I'll be right back.
I nearly fumble my phone in the toilet stall, but my cold sweaty hands finally manage to open the picture. Much of her pussy is obscured behind her hand, but her gleaming pussy hair is slightly red; the carpet matches the d****s. The folds of her labia are in full bloom, swollen like she's freshly fucked. I contemplate snapping one off right there in the bathroom. I take a breath, email myself the picture, and delete it from my phone. I'll cum to it later.
Her husband has returned. They look happy, like they're having fun. Really, is there anything sexier than a happy couple? I put my phone back on the table.
There is a tipping point, when the endorphins and excitement of an erotic moment overwhelm our cultural sense of propriety. For me, it is this moment. She knows I've seen her pussy and her husband knows she has exposed herself to me. She knows my hard cock is pulsing beneath my too-tight jeans. Did she notice the ridge in my pants? I hope so. I hope everyone else in the bar noticed, too.
She stands up, her skirt falls back into place. There's always a slight disappointment when the moment passes, but I'm still savoring the intimacy. The shared knowledge of their kink. She passes my table and quickly snatches my phone from beside me, circumambulates my table and disappears into the restroom. I smile and nod at her husband, who lifts his glass in toast in a decidedly not-blushing masculine manner. I toast him wordlessly in return.
I've hidden the pictures she took in my private email account. I can't afford my wife finding them, or asking how I got them, even though I could argue that I was just an unfortunate victim in the scenario. It would be indefensible, however, if she caught me pouring olive oil on my cock and pleasuring myself to them, which is what I'm doing at this very moment.
11 years ago