I watch him walk past for the umpteenth time, my eyes sliding along the top edge of the book I pretend to be reading. The jeans he’s wearing frame the tight domes of his bubble butt perfectly and I find my imagination is not shy at all in visualizing what he looks like under them.
I want to follow him into the back room of the cafe and pin him against the wall. I want to pull those jeans down while he’s pressing back against me and gasping his consent. I imagine running my palms against the flat panes of his hips and reaching around to cup him. I imagine he thrusts himself against my hand as I press against him from behind.
I want to kick his feet apart and watch as his firm ass opens up for me. His hair is buzzed on the sides with just a little length on top, plenty enough for me to grab and pull his head back. I imagine biting into the base of his neck as my fingers plunge into his warmth. I imagine him saying ‘Yes, please, yes, yessss, yessssss’. I imagine him wanting me as much as I want him.
I imagine swinging him around to face me, running my hands across the firm muscles of his arms and chest, hard planes of flesh and bone. I imagine him leaning up for a kiss, the feeling of his new mustache against mine, the sweet taste of his tongue exploring my mouth. I imagine we growl and grunt against each other like animals in heat, letting go of convention to fall into the clean burn of desire. I imagine this would never happen in the back room of a busy cafe during a busy weekend afternoon, but I don’t let that stop my fantasy. I’m enjoying the wet heat between my legs as I imagine my hands on his body, inside him, the feeling of him squeezing me, holding me, drawing me in even more deeply.
I imagine him whimpering as I withdraw, wanting more, always wanting more, my mouth on his neck, holding him firmly against that sudden emptiness. Helping him into his jeans, cupping him again, stroking and massaging his hardness, and pressing the heel of my palm against him as he comes again, catching him as his knees buckle. I imagine whispering hotly into his ear, “I’ll be back for more, you’ll be ready for me” before giving him a peck on the cheek and returning to my seat.
He walks by again, his gait the perfect amount of swing and swagger. I adjust myself in my seat, I’ve slid down a bit and my pants feel uncomfortably tight. I track his trip back to the kitchen when he turns, looking directly at me, catching me in the act of objectifying his sweet, firm body.
Did he just wink at me, or did I imagine that, too?
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