Being Observed

That’s twice now. Twice he’s looked over at me, even though he’s talking to his…..his what? Ahhh…yes, I see the rings now, his wife. His eyes flick from her face to me and remain on me for slightly longer than is ‘proper’. Even the word makes me smile. ‘Proper’…..and just who decides that, I wonder. 

I would say they’re both in their forties - him later than her - the wedding rings look worn - they’ve been there a while. His hand on hers on the table is a nice touch, but yes, he still glances over at me. 

I shift slightly in my seat. I know my dress has ridden up and if I should part my knees even a little, he would find my nakedness underneath. I wonder…..should I? Will I? Or shall I just bask in the heady waters of power that I now feel swirling their eddies and currents around me. 

His eyes lock with mine, dart down to my knees and then dart back. He’s asking! Cheeky! Again, I move in my chair. He thinks I’m going to flash him and indeed, I do move my knees…..but not apart. I merely raise one slightly above the other. Disappointment etches across his brow. 

His wife leans forward and his attention is torn from me. She has been talking to him, but he hasn’t heard a word she said. Oops. She repeats…..something about wallpaper, if I’m not mistaken. He nods, and tries to engage with her, although I suspect he is looking at me peripherally. Very well then. I spread my knees a little….and by ‘a little’ I mean ‘enough’. He daren’t look away from his wife, yet I see the barely perceptible movement of his head, before he consciously quells the moment. He thinks he’s seen something…something which, had he been looking right at me as he was a moment ago, would be in no doubt. A frown crosses his brow now, a frown of frustration tinged with anger, I suspect. “Will she never stop twittering on about bloody wallpaper?” I am certain I hear the thought flicker across his brain. 

There’s a lull in the conversation. She reaches for her cup and in that instant he looks back at me. I reward him. For the entire time it takes her to drain her cup, I let him see up my dress. I don’t look directly at him, of course, my peripheral vision is as good as anyones. I know he is looking……shit….he’s not even blinking! He doesn’t want one microsecond of this view to be lost - not even to a blink or two. 

They’re silent now. Both nibbling at their cake (very third rate! I’d never sell hyper-processed, additive and preservative-heavy shit like this in my coffee shops.) and drinking their coffee. (Not bad, but clearly there’s no water filter in the coffee machine. I can taste the hardness of the water. Pity.) 

I’m only here because this could be coffee shop number 14 in my little empire. He’s still looking. I’d love to know what he’s thinking right now. Is he planning how to get her into bed when they get home, so he can fuck her but think of me? Is he wondering if he can go to the restroom and rub one out quickly? There’s certainly no question of them being swingers, or open to  threesome, or he would have pointed me out to her. 

To me, she looks like…hmmm what’s that line from the song? Ah yes….a “regimented wife”. The sort who plans her week to the last detail. Tuesday. 10:00am do washing. 11:30 dust lounge. 13:00 meet Mary for lunch. 15:00, hoover throughout. 17:00 prep dinner. 19:00 have sex.  That kind. The sort of woman who has forgotten the word ‘spontaneity”. Back in her past, the thrill of forbidden groping, of hurried, wonderful sexual encounters has been filed. What is it Hannibal Lecter said, “How quickly the boys found you! All those sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars….” She is attractive - very attractive, actually, and I can imagine her as a teenager. Very desirable. But, again as Lecter says when referring to Multiple Miggs, “Not anymore.”

I realise I’m wet. Not internally wet of course, I can’t feel that…no woman can….but I do feel a bead of wetness oozing from my vagina down over my perineum to my bum hole. I quickly squeeze my thighs hard together, and simultaneously squeeze my vaginal muscles as hard as I can. This, I know will coat my labia in wetness and make me shine, glisten down there. I want him to know I’m wet. 

His head turns my way and simultaneously, I reach for something in my briefcase. This causes an intentional overbalance and my knees pop wide apart for a second. When I recover and look back at him, he is bright red. Victory, then. He places a napkin (paper, naturally in this place…again to quote Lecter, “It just won’t do.”…..my my….I’m a bit Silence of the Lambs this morning) over his lap. He finished his cake some time ago. This, then, is to mask his erection. An erection I gave him. My  body, my power. 

I take my paper napkin and pick a precise moment. I have to wait and hope it will present itself. I need him to be looking and no-one else. My table and chair sits in a slightly raised platform, theirs is on the floor. Honestly, the line of sight couldn’t be more perfect. I pray they don’t leave beforehand. I’m sitting with a half wall to my back. They are in the corner, and they have to walk past my table to leave. I pack my things away….still undecided about this place. I could turn it around, but whether it will yield the sort of profits the other places are I don’t know. My accountant says having one store that breaks even, or even makes a loss sometimes can be useful for tax purposes. Oh well, we’ll see. 

Damnit…I almost missed the moment talking to you! She is rummaging in her bag, and no-one else is looking. I take my napkin, ram it up under my dress, and make sure I get lots of, well, me  on it, then I leave it next to my plate. And he hasn’t looked away for a second.  I get up and head to the tills. I need a word with the manager. (If I buy this place, I don’t think this woman will survive the change of ownership. She’s lazy, set in her ways and bordering on the rude.) Again, peripherally, I see him leave money on his plate with the bill. With a great display of chivalry, he ushers his wife in front of him, and, as he passes my table, grabs my napkin and pockets it. They walk past me with him having one last look at me and then they disappear through the door. 

Back home, I wonder if he’s ‘done it’ yet? I picture him, trousers round his ankles, cock in hand, masturbating furiously while smelling my essence on the tissue. At the same time, I bring myself to a delicious orgasm of my own. 

I mull over again whether or not I should buy that business. It’s been owned by the same couple for thirty years - and it looks it. Both they and the business look…well….tired. I come to a decision, and decide I will put in a bid. Lower than their asking price - quite a bit lower, actually - but I suspect they just want out, so we’ll see. One of my girls has come on so well, I’m going to make her group manager if she wants the job. I’m still ‘hands on’ but not as much as I’d like to be. 

And finally, I go back to my mystery man. Oddly enough, it’s nearly 19:00….their sex time - or so I imagine. Is he even now deep inside her, with the image of my vulva in his mind? Has he transposed not just my vulva, but me in my entirety onto her? I’m 22, and she is in her 40s. Don’t tell me he wouldn’t like to get his hands onto and his cock into my firm young body…..and I’d like him to. 

Older men. In particular, older, married men. Why? Why on earth would I want that…hell, why on earth have I always found that thought attractive, even when I was much younger? I think it’s a combination of things. For a start, they’ve lost the impulsiveness and lack of control that young guys have. In short, they can last. They have finesse. They’ve learned - or rather some of them have - that time is a ‘thing’ for women. We take much, much longer to get going, and this can be used to really get us horny. Experience is a great teacher. A married man is most unlikely to be carrying anything unpleasant. Very little risk of an STD. Tig tells me that the rate of men 40 and over who are having vasectomies has skyrocketed in recent years. In any event, even if a man of that age hasn’t been ‘snipped’, the last thing he wants is an unplanned pregnancy with someone. He will have the control to pull out. Best of all, a married man isn’t going to tell…unlike your average teenage guy who will tell all his mates. 

Ah well….I enjoyed my silent interaction with this man…

….and I rather think he enjoyed it too!