True Sex Stories: Wine On A Saturday Night

His thumb begins circling her clit, her pussy drips. They know the room is watching and they don't care.

He wanted to make me come in public.

I met him at a wine bar in north London. The place was full, but after one glass standing up, we managed to claim a candlelit booth against the wall on the far side. Drink flowed generously as the conversation advanced. Mostly, we talked about the mundane - how I was settling in to life in the UK, what I liked and what I didn't. It felt good to rant about how British engineering hasn't yet figured out how to combine hot and cold water into a single faucet in the sink. For the date, I had worn a light cotton sundress that ended about mid-thigh, blue with abstract white patterns, the usual sundries underneath, and a strappy pair of shoes that I kicked off. Barefoot, I snuck my toes under the bottoms of his trousers and pressed the pads of my feet against the muscles of his leg. I liked the soft cushion of hair that tickled my feet. Once I had initiated contact, he kicked off his own shoes. Sock covered feet stepped along the insides of my calves and my shins, sometimes turning at the knees to touch the shadows of my thigh.

The conversation took a sexual turn. He asked me for stories about what I had done in public spaces. I told him about having once given my boyfriend head under the table at a Thai restaurant. I told him about using the toilet at the Neue Galerie for a quickie. (What can I say? Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele turn me the fuck on.) I told him about the sex clubs I visited when I was trying out the scene. I told him about the porn cinema and a drive-in movie theater in New Hampshire. I told him about fucking in offices and classrooms at the university, the tunnels under campus, various parks, under the stars and in the rain. I told him about bars and dance clubs, swimming pools, the back of a pickup truck on the side of a country road, and blowjobs delivered in cars speeding along highways. I told him about my mile high fantasy. I shared fond memories of a seedy alleyway or four. The risk of discovery, of getting caught in flagrante, of being found out fucking excites me. Danger is a drug - but the thrill of getting away with it intoxicates me even more.

The man I was with was only in his late thirties. He had explained in his e-mails before we met that he could no longer get an erection. But he wanted a sexual escapade: an experience with a woman who was willing, a girl he found attractive, someone who didn't demand payment.

I wanted to oblige him. At this point in a normal date, I would have happily moved on to bed. I can't imagine a life without sex. I admired how he didn't dwell on his physical flaws, how upbeat he was when he spoke of sexuality.

My stories had made me moist between the legs. I excused myself to the ladies room. When I returned, I set my purse on the table and reached for his hand. I had come back with my underwear wadded in my fist. I let go. We sat there, holding hands, my small ones atop his larger ones, our right hands cupping a scrap of cloth, slight and black, which minutes before had covered my pussy from view. Exposed from below, she breathed easy now. Leaning across the table, I kissed him lightly on the lips. The candle radiated heat below me.

"Why don't you sit next to me," I suggested, scrunching toward the wall, making room.

I pressed my thigh against his when he settled himself, and I huddled close, burrowing myself into the crook of his shoulder when he draped his arm around my back. The fabric of the skirt had ridden up when I sat. I brought my legs open in invitation. The skirt lifted more as I straightened my posture. I tugged the hem up my thigh so that the cloth bowed and draped over my pussy, hiding it just.

His right hand sat over the joining of my legs. Fingers on top of the skirt touched my pubis below. They gently tapped at the skin and descended the short distance to my cunt. Fingertips traced the outline of my lips through the thin fabric.

There was a buzz of conversation all around us. Our movements didn't go unnoticed in this. There were other couples present, but we were the only ones making out. There was as well the obvious age difference between us. The people in the bar saw us hunched together, whispering conspiratorially. They saw tongues flicking at earlobes, kisses that trailed down the run of the neck, across the collar, down the shoulder. I didn't care that we were witnessed, and neither did he. He licked the sweat that had beaded over my breasts. His big hand pawed at my tits while we kissed. Eyes closed, our faces turned and repositioned as we prolonged the contact of lips. His tongue spilled into my mouth. My teeth nipped at its tip. I fluttered my tongue against his. He applied pressure to the back of my neck and combed his fingers through my hair. We breathed together.

The lights were dim but the table was glass. Looking down, I saw his hand working me by candlelight. The back of it made a visible bulge under the cloth. He gripped my lips. Fingers softly stroked the slit. The wetness inside me was flowing. It made his hand slick. He smeared the viscous fluids over my pubis, which I keep waxed and bare, like a little girl. The kisses deepened as he insinuated two fingers - the index and middle - into my cunt. I tightened the muscles at the entrance. My thighs gripped his forearm between them. He wiggled his fingers, scissored them inside. He also rotated them within my folds. Gently, he fucked me. The touch pistonned in and out, so, so, so slowly. After a moment, he brought his hand out to examine in the light, then wiped the wetness that coated his skin over my thigh.

I sipped my wine. We laughed together. Then we played. This time, his hand toyed outside me. He undressed my clit. The nails of his fingers brought the hood down. The face of his thumb drew taut circles around the bundle of nerves. I squirmed in my seat. My pussy dripped its heat. After swimming in my arousal a while, he extracted the fingers from my skirt and raised them to his nose to sniff. He complimented me on my taste, and poked my nose with the tip of his wet finger.

Smelling myself in his touch, my hand latched on to his wrist at once. I kissed the heel of his palm. I licked the creases on the surface and jabbed my tongue at the webs of skin where the digits joined. I held the two long fingers that had been in my cunt to my lips and sucked them clean. Closing my eyes, I pictured those fingers as a cock. My tongue slid along the length, spiraling round and round, teasing the edge. I forced saliva between the fingers and bathed them in the warmth and the silkiness of the spittle. Holding the back of his hand, I turned it in my mouth. My tongue curled around the bottoms of his fingers. I used my grip on the wrist and inched the fingers forward and backward. I spun my face. It was my blowjob technique I applied. He let me suck him for what seemed an eternity, but was probably not one minute. Dipping the fingers in the wine, he let me suck them once more.

Before long, his touch reached up my skirt again. Because I wanted to see, I pulled the cloth up and held it bunched at my waist. His body shielded my nudity from voyeurs. The fingers stretched inside me. He had placed them facing up, so that the heel of the hand protruded against my pubis when they were in all the way. Bracing myself on the table, I brought my weight forward and angled my cunt at him. Looking down through the glass, I saw his thumb in movement. He flattened it over my clit and circled as he pushed down. The sensation in the nerves was immense. I swiveled my torso to face him. My tongue flickered between his lips, and I spoke into his mouth. "Fuck me," I whispered. "Fuck me and make me come."

The fingers responded. They stabbed in and out repeatedly. The rhythm was steady, fast, and unforgiving. I heard the sounds my pussy made, the suction noises, the wet slide. The way the digits pressed against my inner walls set my clit to thrumming.

My brow furrowed in concentration and pleasure. I kept my eyes screwed tightly shut. Oxygen came to my lungs in huge and heavy gasps. I bit my bottom lip and willed myself to come silently. My thighs clamped about his hand. I gripped the edge of the table. My eyes flashed open, the pupils rolling back. My toes curled. Stars in the universe exploded. My spine stiffened. I threw my head back and stifled a scream. The muscles in my cunt contracted and released about his fingers. The waters sluiced over his hand.

When I sat back and sunk into the cushions on the bench, the smell of sex overpowered my senses. A few eyes caught mine and turned away. We were noticed. I smiled. I laughed. I gulped down the rest of the wine to rehydrate myself. We poured ourselves new glasses and toasted our encounter.

Republished with permission from Leah Lays London. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.