The date was much-hyped. We hadn’t met. I had seen all of ten pictures of Véronique, none of her face (though one that captured just a bit of her lips). She had not seen anything of me.
I knew she would be wearing a black minidress with tiny white polka dots, black thigh-highs, and black ankle boots (with 2-inch heels, she told me in her text).
She arrived at the bar at the appointed time (or rather, about three minutes late). I was parked outside. I saw her walk in, but couldn’t see much, other than that she strode purposefully.
I texted her, asking her to order for us both.
“Bartenders are swamped. Doing my best.” she texted back.
I walked in. The bar was crowded, though there were some tables in the back that were free. I walked up behind her – the dress revealed a perfect hourglass figure, and her blonde hair was wavy, shoulder-length. I snaked my hand around her hip, under her ass. “Hi,” I whispered in her ear from behind. She turned to look at me. Her face was striking, pretty in an innocent, girl-next-door kind of way. She is young – mid-20s, I’d guess. I went to pull her toward me for a kiss, but she went aggressively for my cheek. I couldn’t tell whether I was getting rejection or simply self-consciousness in a crowded bar. I let her have her preference – no reason to make her uncomfortable, either way.
While we waited for our drinks, I squeezed her ass, slid my hand up under her dress just a little. Her ass is round, firm, tight, but at the same time meaty: perfect.
The drinks came. She paid – she had already given them her credit card. “Thanks for the drink!” I said. Mine (Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks) was filled to the rim, and as I pulled it back from the bar, just a tiny bit spilled on her arm. “Sorry,” I said. “No problem,” she said.
We walked back to the table at which she had dropped her coat. She walked in front of me. I watched her ass in the tiny dress she was wearing – too tiny for the cold weather. I guess she valued looking good more than she did being warm. Her thighs must have been freezing on the walk over, I thought, picturing the gap between the top of her thigh-highs and her panties.
We sat down, and engaged in the preliminaries. “You’re hot!” I said. And she is. We talked – about my blog, about her sexual past, about my sexual past. I squeezed her ass, stroked her thighs under the table, pulled her head toward me and kissed her. She wasn’t (showing that she was) ambivalent. But she was self-conscious. “We’re in public!” she said. “What’s your point?” I asked.
We finished our drinks.
“Another?” I asked. “Yes,” she agreed.
“When I get back, would you hand me your panties?” I asked.
She hesitated for just a second. “Ok,” she said.
I walked to the bar. She stood up to go to the bathroom. “Shit,” I thought. I should have specified that I didn’t want her to go to the bathroom, that I wanted her to accomplish the removal sitting right there. Oh well.
She was out of the bathroom, back at the table, before I was back with the drinks. But when I came back, and sat down, she handed me the black boyshorts under the table. She has read the blog. She knows my tastes. I hadn’t directed her dressing. Well, ok, I had told her to wear thigh-highs, but she had brought them up. I had just gone along.
Anyway, she handed me the panties and I lifted them to my face. I smelled them. (The bar really was dark, and they were bunched up. No one could see what was happening. I think.) The musky, cunt smell was unmistakable. Damn.
“Are you righty or lefty?” I asked.
I took her right hand, and licked the fingers on it. They had the same yummy smell. In spades.
Her self-consciousness, her embarrassment, was palpable.
A little more talking. We established that neither of our places was an option.
I slid my hand under the table, to her thigh. I pressed against her pussy, feeling her pubic hair (yay!). I grazed her clit, pressed the back of my hand against it. Her eyes just slightly rolled back, her head tilted involuntarily. She looked – happy.
I withdrew my hand. “Touch yourself,” I said.
She looked as if she wasn’t sure what I meant.
“Touch yourself,” I repeated.
She put her hand under the table and that same look returned to her face. She gave herself in, just a little, to her own touch. Her whole posture shifted just a little as the pleasure began to spread.
My hand joined her. I felt how wet she was. I stroked her pussy, her clit. Could the people at the table directly across from us see what was going on? Maybe. I’m not sure. Definitely not. If they had, their eyes would have been fixed on us, for sure.
She was drinking too slowly. I wanted to leave.
I picked up her bourbon and swigged it.
“Oh shit,” she said.
[Stay tuned – for Part 2, and for Véronique’s Rashomon account….]