Yeah! There you go again. You bend over to retrieve…what? I didn’t see it drop.
Your black leather skirt compresses around your buttocks, rides up over your thighs.
Your sheer nylon stockings clasp, enfold, caress the firm pink flesh increasingly revealed.
They tease me, mock me. “How much would your hands give to take our place? We might be open to offers. Maybe you’re just a voyeur, a fantasist. A w….r. Shall we tell you how it feels? To encase, enlace, embrace the warm skin enveloping the twitching muscle fibres within. To reach upwards, stretching beyond the sable hem, pausing the questing ascent at two tight base camp welts. The golden triangle extends above, challenging the digital adventurer to aspire to the summit of its ambition. The Holy Grail. Nirvana. The burning bush. Which will part, given the correct input, welcoming the explorer to the moist, grasping sanctuary of the purple pleasure canal. And if the finger be bold, and imaginative, and pleasing in its playful introduction, granting full attention to the guardian excrescence which demands tribute and indulgence, then it may receive the accolade of advance guard, paving the way for a larger, stiffer, more vibrant senior relative to take its place, engorged, thrusting, symphonic in its pursuit of sexual crescendo. But…You just look, and watch, and dream, and seek excuses for your impotent inaction.”
I clasp my hands over my ears. My visual pleasure is arousing. My manhood strains the confines of my clothing. But the mockery shames me. I want to roar, “you are wrong, so wrong.” But I hesitate. Doubt gnaws at the core of my self-confidence like a starving rat.
You look back. A brief glance. Your eyes flash. I’m sure they flashed. Your lips are moist, slightly parted. Aren’t they? What did you pick up? A pink lace handkerchief. That’s a communication, isn’t it? A sign. A come on. You want me. Time for action. Banish indecision. Be a man. Grasp the nettle.
I stride forwards. Approach. Throw my arms round your waist. “You know I think you’re gorgeous, Alice.”
All hell breaks out. You scream, wheel, slap my face. Shout for help. Spray pepper in my eyes.
How could I have got it so wrong?
Two guys jump on me, bear me to the ground.
“Call security,” you yell, the last words I hear before I lose consciousness.
