How Spicy?
Read on Mainstream Erotica
We sit down amongst a restaurant full of city dwellers to do some catching up on one another’s hectic lives. The hostess hands us our menus, lights the votive candle, and briefly primps the orchid arrangement atop the glass. “Your waitress right with you,” she lightly speaks in a thick foreign accent and with a bow of her head and coy smile scuttles back to the hostess stand. We briefly glance at the colorful top page then look up at one another. “What will…,” I begin, realizing that there is little chance of him hearing me over the music, the various voices attempting to compete with it, and clanking dishware. Moving my setting across the table I then scoot to the space next to him on the booth seat.
“I love my food as spicy as possible,” I explain as the waitress leaves our table and heads towards the swinging kitchen doors.
“So, tell me Amber, what is it that you have been doing with yourself over the past month or so since we’ve last spoken. Are there any potential…suitors?”
“To be quite honest, I have given up looking. Besides, work takes up most of my time and energy and it would be unrealistic for me to take on any other such responsibility,” I explain, fiddling with my fingernails while images of my life’s reality dance through my head—night after night of watching sitcoms and overindulging in dark chocolate.
“That sounds a lot like my story. Do you ever get lonely? You know, do you ever just wish there were a warm body to lie beside?”
“Well, there is always pinky—all 10 pounds of him.” The attempt at humor does not go unnoticed, but he sits and awaits a genuine response. “I am, Mike, but what can I do? I just keep myself busy and try to forget about it.”
“Aside from intimacy, do you have any…physical cravings,” he questions, with a deep, probing glare.
“Let’s just say that one can only have so many rabbit, wand, and bullet sessions before it begins to lose its appeal.” He chuckles, sensing my wish for a change in subject matter and inquires about the happenings at my workplace just as the waitress returns with our wine.
Through the appetizers we sip and chat—the affects of the alcohol increasing and internal temperatures rising. He politely assists with the task of removing my cardigan. With it being the peak time in the bustling establishment, and the kitchen seeming to have a difficult time keeping up, we decide to order a full bottle of wine. His playful, humorous remarks increase. Our cheeks are fully flushed. I mention that getting out of the house and enjoying such delightful company should become a weekly adventure, to which he offers not one word in response. Instead, he tilts his head and rests his chin on one hand and raises the other. As I finish my sip of wine and return my glass to the table I feel his fingertips delicately drifting across my collar bone, then down my arm. I close my eyes, and for a brief moment it seems as if the surrounding commotion disappears. His hand moves to the small of my back then gently massages up my spine. As he moves closer to me I can smell the sweet wine wafting from his mouth—the heat of his breath on the nape of my neck.
“I think that it should be me that has the honor of awaking your ardent desires,” he whispers, moving his hands underneath the thick, vibrant table cloth. He opened his mouth as if to lick the lobe of my ear, stopping—and breathing—before making contact. Inside I beg for the release of his moist muscle.
“Mmmmike…,” I begin, halting once his hand traverses to my inner thigh. Somewhat startled, I open my eyes and scan the room to see if anyone is taking notice the activity. As I am about to close my eyes again I notice one woman purposefully viewing the happenings at our table. She smiles then proceeds to twist noodles onto her fork.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve smelled and wanted to devour you,” he breathes, delivering a gentle kiss to my cheek. Shivers radiate from the point of contact across my entire face. I uncross my legs, to which he promptly responds by lifting my skirt and gently scratching my skin. My eyes fixate across the room again to the female onlooker. From the expression on her face it seems as if she is aware of every movement and vicariously wishes for him to proceed.
Backing away from my face he leans back against the seat then slides one finger along the side seam of my panties—examining the softness of the black satin. He too scans the room and finds that we have a one woman audience and as their eyes meet the same expression surfaces on their faces. His wandering suddenly changes from easeful glides to direct, intent fondling. The panties are moved aside and he wiggles two fingers inside to gather my slippery nectar. I coo as he moves it onto my engorged button—somewhat embarrassed by my peep but already feeling myself so very close to the pinnacle and wanting to reach it. This he senses then slides his fingers back into my warm, wanting cleft. I wish for just one long moment for everyone in the room to disappear…but for our naughty fan, now biting her lip in suspense, to remain and view the finale. I lean back into the chair, splay my legs wide, and lock onto her eyes—not caring if my moans are heard by every patron. Two of the four in her party turn to see what has her so mesmerized at the precise moment our waitress returns to the table.
“I so sorry. Kitchen have many orders. I can get more wine,” she asks. He does not answer nor do his fingers stop.—as if to put me on the spot. So close to erupting and displeased that I cannot I involuntarily stomp one heel onto the tile floor. “Miss…,” she begins, now noticing my reddened cheeks and somewhat gaping mouth. “W…we are…fine, thanks,” I stutter, hoping that she will sense that I wish for her to leave, but she does not. “We will be right back,” I blurt, grabbing his hand from between my legs and standing up. Hastily I guide him by his wrist away from the table and head towards the front door.
Nearly running through the parking lot to seek a safe haven in my car, I see someone fiddling with their broken trunk latch in the space beside mine. “…Figures,” I grunt, stopping to think of an alternate plan. He…just giggles. On the far side of the building I see the entrance to a dimly lit alley and I quickly take his hand and move towards it. Once past the open chain link gate I notice a small dumpster and proceed to the wall beside it—backing myself onto the rough, cold brick and bringing his body close to mine. We kiss feverishly; I direct his hand between my legs and begin investigating his arousal.
“I believe that such a delectable tart should be savored, dear,” he teases, dropping to his knees before me.
“I want you inside me, Mike,” I gasp. He ignores my request, lifts one leg over his shoulders, and pries the saturated fabric from my flesh. I relent, fully lean back into the wall, and close my eyes. Continuing with the same momentum as where we left off in the booth his tongue dives and laps what has yet to surface, then furiously flicks my hardened protrusion. My moans fill the empty alley—the brick poking into my exposed skin going unnoticed. In response to my tightening muscles he repeatedly alters his rhythm and course. I grab him by the crown of his head, pull, and hold him at the precise spot. As he wiggles two fingers inside me I feel the mingling fluids slide down my supporting leg. My convulsing muscles grip onto his fingers as I loudly moan his name…for what seems to be many minutes. After it becomes apparent that I can no longer hold myself up he rises, brings my head to his chest, and firmly embraces my weakened, satiated body.
You have a talent, there, sir,” I mutter into his shirt. Consider it a friendly gift from someone you trust,” he chuckles, cradling my head.
After recuperating for a few minutes we head back to our abandoned table. Once rounding the corner we encounter the female onlooker, leaning against the wall with her after dinner cigarette. “I love the sound of the city,” she says, smirking.
