I Don't Mean to be Rude

By Landyss

My fingertips brush the pink and blue page marker tabs jutting from the top of my books, which are spread across the table. A book on quantum physics and industry applications suggest a brilliant interaction between it and the collection of revolutionary women’s poetry lounging alongside a compilation of clever feminine essays. An enchanting intellectual distraction is placed aside for a black spiral notebook and pen busily at work, driven, by long gazes out the window at my side, watching the rain ski smoothly down the invisible glass. A foggy sky frames the clear showery view of the garden. The sun is concealed, so it reveals nothing about the time of day, except that it’s not yet evening.

It occurs to me that I arrived at around 7:30am and surely, by now, it is at least three. I can tell this by the fact that the restaurant has cleared out. The morning has been spent discretely inspecting the way men ate as I read and enjoying my own decently past sunrise meal of scrambled eggs with tomato, mushrooms and a croissant. People have drifted in and out through breakfast and lunch, now only the two of us are left sitting in the library section next to the large stone fireplace. The polished toffee colored wood encloses books and antique collectibles displayed on shelves around us. The tables and chairs transport us, regulars, to a French countryside home. Though I pretend to take no notice, I am well aware of the gentleman sitting at the table across from me reading the book on management. There is also a partially complete crossword puzzle sitting in front of him I observe, taking in his regal features. He is not model handsome, but eye-catching fellow patron handsome. The kind of guy one is likely to stumble upon on a good day and indulge in a chat. Interestingly, though I had seen him here several times over the last two years we had never exchanged more than a greeting. I always made a point of making it evident that this is my time and intruders were not welcome. Accomplished by never maintaining eye contact past the nod and silently mouthed greeting. I can feel him watching me now, but I keep my eyes out the window waiting for the next sentence to rise up through me like a hiccup pushing my pen to paper. Predictably it does, and I scribble to keep up with the words in my head.

"Excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you writing?" the gallant dark haired man that had been sitting across from me now stood above me on the other side of the table looking down inquisitively. We had established a cordial, if less than familiar, report during our previous visits to Le Yves de mason. We were both regulars who routinely sat for hours past the usual hectic time, seeming to claim the restaurant as part of our personal space. "As I said, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have seen you here so many times and wondered what you were writing that today I decided to just ask."

I giggle, as much at his approach as my own embarrassment. Did I dare tell this presumptuous, if good-looking, stranger the truth? I cleared my throat as I lowered my gaze to conceal the question that might be betrayed in my gape. Instinctively, I covered the page with one hand as I extended the other in greeting. "Hello, my name is Alreah."

He laughs and replies," Pardon my rudeness. Hello, my name is Walker."

"Would you like to sit down, Walker?" I ask as I reclaim my hand beginning to gather my books into a neat stack on one corner of the table.

"Ahhh, yes, thank you." he stumbles clearly surprised by the invitation. "Let me grab my stuff." I watch as he gracefully lunges toward his table without adjusting his footing. The movement is so fluid that it is a pleasure to witness. I wonder if he intentionally displaying his athleticism.

My eyes easily follow the strong lines of his body, emphasized by his expertly executed extension toward his table and then back to mine. For a moment the image of clutching his shoulders, moving luxuriously down his back, flood my mind. As he lowers into his seat across from me, I drift into a longing to see him sink beneath the table, my leg resting on his shoulder, his hand massaging the outer part of my thigh where it flows into my hip. I quietly recall the way he sucked on his bottom lip when he worked on his puzzle in between bites of his croissant and scrambled eggs, his tongue jutting out slowly and sliding back inside its cavern. Never had I witnessed messy hasty consumption, always he labored opulently over his activities as if each were a part of some undisclosed ritual accidentally put to the fore for public display. As an erotic fog lifts ever so faintly, I look at his face again. It is clear that his patient silence is galvanized by his expectation of my retort. I am reminded of the deliciousness of foreplay as I offer my answer, "Recently I have been writing about the way men receive their sustenance and what it suggest about the manner in which they obtain satisfaction or give it. "

He leans toward me, elbows resting on the table with his hands folded out in front of him, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "And just what does that mean?" he inquires.

I could not stop the chuckle from popping out as I answer, "It means that I write about what I imagine is revealed about the way a man makes love by the way he eats and what he reads."

Walker leans back in his chair, seeming to ponder whether or not there is any truth in this blunt disclosure. He crosses his arms, tilts his head as his eyes hunt to ascertain my sincerity.

"Yes, I am serious." I say to reassure him that indeed I am for real. I want him to say something so that I can inconspicuously admire the flexible muscle hidden in his mouth guarded by luscious, if less than generously endowed, lips and faultless pallid teeth. The depth and focus of his look accentuate the potency of his agreeably angular face. I shift ever so perceptibly in my seat, clinching my thighs to stop the trembling I feel emerging there.

Leaning forward again, mentally preparing his follow up with care, I suspect his reply will be another question because of the slight raising of his dark eyebrows. Without thinking my hand is on the side of his face as if to anchor it in my direction. His grin grows into a full-fledged smile. We look quietly, but directly at each other. Slowly I withdraw my hand to pick up my cup of coffee spiked with Bailey’s and topped with whipped cream. I keep my eyes fixed on his as I lick the cream from my upper lip. "What do you do with your analysis?" he asks.

"Well, Walker, I craft erotic short fiction."

His eyes widen, but the smile doesn’t evaporate, it deepens. "And what do you do with your short fiction?"

"Sell it mostly." I say as I continue sipping my coffee drink and pull out a cigarette. Le Yves de mason is one the few refuges for us smokers. I feel grateful not to have to beg permission or apologize for lighting up. An unexpected patriotic moment, I feel glad to be an American and wonder if anti-smoker nazis realize how un-American there lobbying results actually are. My right to carry a gun is worth respecting, but not smoke a cigarette in a restaurant I patronize? I snap myself out of this internalized debate to notice Walker’s attempt at a poker face. He is clearly surprised by my counter.

"To publishers?" he ask, his tone of voice animating the question marks jumping around looking for a place to land.

"Sometimes, but usually personal clients." I keep searching for the lighter in my skirt pocket. Gently he leans over the table towards me offering the fire to ignite my murky russet clove cigarette. I welcome the gentlemanly gesture.

"Clients?" he asks tenderly as he flicks the lighter closed.

"People, men, who appreciate erotica and the voice I bring to it. Some want manuscripts and others prefer audio recordings of me reading the stories. Several clients request serials that about imaginary tales of an affair with me."

"How do you find these clients?"

"They find me." I offer as I turn my head, without shifting my body, toward the window to exhale a cloud of smoke.

"How?" he asks placing the lighter in the center of the table and moving the ashtray next to it.

"The same way you did."

"Wow." he mutters leaning his head into his hands. He looks up tentatively. " Would you do me the honor of letting me read some of it?"

"No," I pause wondering how much explaining I really want to do, "this is my product and I wouldn’t have a business if I gave it away."

"Oh, hardcore business. I can appreciate that", he says. I think I hear respect and a sense of humor in his acknowledgement.

"But what I will do is give a preview of the service I provide for my clients. I will make up a story about you, here with me. That will tell you what you want to know about what I write. "

"OK. That is very munificent of you, not to mention astute marketing."

"Thanks. Are you ready?" I ask lowering my voice at the end.

I begin to tell a story that starts with the meeting that has just taken place between us. Only when I get to this moment the story has my hand reaching under the table into his lap, leisurely moving from his knee up to his zipper. My hand finds his member ready for the discrete introduction to my capable appendage. I continue smoking with my other hand. The one at his zipper door is gingerly stroking him underneath the table, not taking my eyes from his. As he grows harder my strokes get longer and lighter. Touching him through the fabric of his indigo khakis and underwear, my fingers are knowingly motioning "Come here" as if he were across the room. When he has risen high and hard enough to nearly touch the underside of the table that supports our drinks, my small stack of books, our cigarettes, and shared ashtray, I wrap my hand around his hidden feature. I ash my cigarette into the ashtray at the same time that I notice his un-smoked lit cigarette resting between his finger. His hand resting on the table not noticing the long curved ash hanging limply next to it, the pace of my under the table massage quickens slightly. His spare hand is gripping the edge of the table, the flexed veins and muscles of his hand, arm, and neck show the tell tale signs of a man in excruciating ecstasy. Taking this cue, I increase the tempo briefly and then I resume my leisurely exploratory pace before pausing to free him from his constraining garments.

Skin to skin contact produces an involuntary shiver from his delighted solider saluting in the privacy offered by the table and isolated seating arrangement. The sound he lets out hints of impending satiation. At first I deny full advantage of my hand using only one expert finger at a time to call him to maintain full attention. Then one by one fingers are added on either side as the rhythm builds up to an expecting crescendo, transitioning from a vague beckoning to a bursting invitation. I take the last drag of my cigarette preparing to extinguish it when I feel his hand on mine. Sensing my question, Walker offers, " I hope you don’t mind, but I'm an old fashioned kind of guy. Ladies first." He exudes a brilliant smile as the words ladies first float into the air toward me. More than willing to accept his suggestion, I remove my hand and allow him to reposition himself and his clothing. "Are you wearing underwear?" he asks not hiding his suspicion. "I don’t think you are," he whispers leaning toward me beaming with anticipation.

"You are correct." My eyes intently focus on his. He scans the area promptly to verify that no one has taken a seat in our section of the eatery. Then he slides underneath the slab of elegant wood. I feel the softness of my skirt shifting as it is lifted and then the heat of his breath and hand moving up my leg, and then parting them. The contact of skin with fabric is preceded by breeze like kisses and juice producing caresses.

Thank God he didn’t just dive into my crotch I think as I relax into the knowledge that I might really enjoy this. His tongue is marking his path now, punctuated by tasting kisses. Impulsively my hand wants to cuddle the side of his head ----- caught between stroking hair and tracing jaw line. My pelvic region rocks back forth, lifting from my chair to give the full benefits of this instinctive circular motion. Like a spreading spark this alarm alerts me that my breasts need tactile attention. I want nothing more right now than to offer them to his willful mouth. Suddenly both my hands are cradling Walkers head and guiding him underneath my blouse. A few buttons at the bottom fly off and hit the window loudly. Once in the vicinity Walker notices my breast erection immediately and needs no further instruction from me. He lavishes his attention upon my breasts as if they were starving children and his mouth their only hope of nourishment. One leg wraps around his back just under his arm and the other drapes over his shoulder as waves of rapture instigate my persistent undulations. I surrender to the knowing that I cannot limit the stirring, my whole body is answering his call to order. I find peace in this acceptance of unadulterated elation. Without deciding to do so, I explore the way his chest can be employed to generate the needed friction in this intimate leg embrace.

Just when I am certain my breasts are going to gush into his mouth, Walker again immerses himself beneath the liberal crinkled material of my skirt. A low moan escapes him, a signal of his satisfaction as his tongue languidly laps the secret milk flowing like an offering to him. His tongue is steamy as it traces the perimeter of my inner lips, unhurriedly seeking the enchanted button. One hand is now adding another dimension to his oral treat while the other is reaching around to hold me from behind.

"So what do you think?" I ask stopping the story abruptly. From his face I can tell he is still paying attention. My smile combines with the propensity of my body to say " I know I got you hard."

Another muffled "Wow," escapes his lips as he nods as if to say, "yeah, you’re good." Instead he says," So how does this work? What is required to get the rest of that story?" He looks down a little self-conscious and humbled, then back up at me waiting.

"Just ask for what you want and I will tell you what it will cost."

"I want to hear you telling me that story only next time I want the whole thing. Did you really just make that up?"

"Indeed. I have seen you here before and I find you quite inspiring."

"Do you have a package deal?" Walker inquires as he shakes his head mumbling," I can’t believe I am saying this."

"Walker, I don’t mind if you don’t. This is what I do and I love it. And yes, I do have a package rate." Grinning I light another cigarette as I add," Now I don’t mean to be rude, but my work doesn’t come cheap."

Source: www.sauce*box.com