Friday, 15 January 2016

The Bar

We went for drinks with friends. I arrived first and was messing with emails when he got there.

He was second, smiled with delight when he saw me alone, took off his coat, and slid in next to me. I was receptive, explaining about my hard day. Leaning against him. As I think back, probably I was using the tough day as a reason to touch and seek contact and comfort. I wanted to kiss him. Fuck, I can't kiss him in a that bar. It's way too public. But I wanted it.

He was receptive, asking more about my day. Encouraging me to touch. And for the next little while he proceeded to flirt and touch and stroke, eventually telling me to open my legs more to give him better access to touch my inner thighs and stroke across my pussy, through all the layers of pantyhose and panties. And hopefully with some of the action hidden from the rest of the patrons by the flippy little skirt I was wearing.

He didn't really go far, not in the restaurant, but I felt like a total slut. And more, I felt like his obedient little slut. Actually it turns me on now, writing about it.

We talked about who could see from the angles where they were. He said they probably couldn't see, and really I don't think he thought they would be bothered by it at all. I thought they could see from everywhere, and that it didn't help that I was wearing red panties. To me, his hand on me must have been a beacon. So not what I should have been doing. So not what nice girls do. That night, I wasn't a nice girl.

When our friends arrived he took his hands away. Mostly. Did they see? Maybe. Do I care? Ummm. I should care. I don't want to create gossip about him or about myself, and I don't want to hurt anyone. But I can't resist playing with him, wanting him to play with me.

I say he took his hands away. I think from that moment, his hands were mostly not under my skirt, or not as far under my skirt at least, but he continued to touch my legs, and occasionally brush my tits, you know the way guys do. And oh I freaking loved it.

The conversation was giddy and silly and loud. Everyone flirting with everyone else. Enough booze to lubricate. To make me want. Enough to make me stupid with it.

We stayed fairly late, but as the evening was coming to an end, I didn't want it to. I wanted more of him. We had hinted that it might turn into more before the meeting, but we hadn't actually planned anything. Turns out the lack of planning might be the kiss of death, as we all kind of tumbled out of the bar, doing up coats, saying goodbyes, and separating to walk to cars parked in different directions.

He looked confused as we split up, and I probably looked pleading. He looked a question at me. Were we really splitting up and going home? I muttered a response, maybe an invitation to invite. "Make me an offer?" He did.

More to come.

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