I was on my way home from work. I’d stopped to do a bit of Christmas shopping along the way and it was a cold night. I’d managed a book, moderately well suited for my sister, another for myself and a toy tank for my nephew. No one would be home for another couple hours and so I popped into a pub just off the square. The heat blasted me like a desert wind as I entered. It quickly went beyond comfort and relief to overwhelming. I was quite glad to step away from it and into the smoky main dining room. Having shaken the little bit of snow from my coat and hung it, I looked around. The place was fairy full, and for the first time, I realized, fairly noisy as well. It was a pleasant, holiday type of cacophony which I like. I found a spot at a table, sharing it with a middle aged couple.
I ordered a pint of bitter and opened my book. Recent non-fiction by Pinker.
When my pint arrived I chanced to look across to the table opposite me. There she sat. The owner of that mouth. I was immediately transfixed by its movement. My field of vision seemed to close in, as if I’d zoomed in on that mouth with a camera. The sounds around me became muted like when I put my earplugs in at night. And I watched it’s movement.
The corners had a slight upturn. The edges of her lips had a slight sort of blurriness, as if more undefined than ordinarily. And when she smiled, which was often, it was the middle of her upper lip which did most of the rising. The corners turned down a bit. It was angelic. It was sin incarnate.
For the next hour or so I tried to read but mostly just stole covert glances at her from behind my book. I examined her face. It was a pretty face. But again what really fascinated me was the way it moved. Little twitches and quirks. The wrinkle at the bridge of her nose for just a moment before the laughter erupted. The smile line behind her eye which deepened just a bit and made her smile somehow more sincere. The way her tongue came out just that immeasurable fraction more than necessary and made her mouth always wet, supple, wanting…wanted. And then she got up. She moved like a dancer; graceful, flowing , feline. Her hips seemed to guide the rest of her body around the edge of the table and backs of chairs, through the lose crowd round the bar to the lavatory doors. I half expected one of the men she passed to take her hand and spin her. Her breasts were ample but not large and moved wonderfully beneath her dress. Her hips and bottom had that roundness that makes my hands ache, with minds of their own, to grab hold. And I could just make out the cleft down her bottom under her skirt – even as it shifted as she walked. I’m sure I visibly salivated just thinking about the dimples I am still now sure were tucked above each half; dimples I love on any woman but because of the size and apple or peach like shape of this ass, I am sure must be absolutely sublime.
Upon her return I was blessed with a long view of the room as she danced back to her party. She really was beautiful.
And then, to my dismay, the entire party began standing up, putting on their coats and wrapping themselves up in mufflers and shawls. That fantastic, magnetic figure vanished beneath a great, black woolen coat and her head under a fur lined hat. But that mouth, still wet, still wanted, smiled. Not at me for to her I was scenery if anything at all but it smiled nonetheless.
The cold air cleared my head a bit as I strolled about the square looking at the little shops and the lights and lovers in dark corners – young enough to both have the need and to brave the December freeze to kiss and fondle. I felt as if I’d captured a little piece of warmth from the pub and wrapped it under my coat. And I enjoyed vague, undefined visions of that delectable woman rolling through my brain. I made my way to the trolley stop and she swam like a velvet eel through my inner sensorium. On the tram, as it more or sometimes less gently rocked and jolted my visions gained definition. I crossed my legs and realized I was surprised by the sensitivity I noticed between them. I flexed my thighs. I prayed that I looked asleep to the eight or ten other riders in the car. But I couldn’t keep the images from forcing me to pay attention to them nor the effect they had in my crotch. It was times like these which made me utterly and completely thankful to whatever god made us that a woman’s arousal is so much easier to keep to herself than a man’s. As if simply bundling myself up against the chill I snuggled myself deeper into my coat and let my hand rest just where it could do me most good slipped under the waistband of my trousers. But in my mind it caressed Her. It slid down her shoulder. It cupped her breast, ran down her waist and round her glorious hips. It dug gently into her bottom and it cupped her sex. It circled her navel, nipple, her throat. It traced a path round her lips. And despite the heat in the tram I shivered as a finger slid into that sucking, that warm, that wet, that mouth.