October 13, 2008
Tight Spots


We are waiting for breakfast — have been waiting for twenty minutes. The line is out the door and halfway down the block; about right for this place at 1 PM on a Saturday. (Good thing they serve breakfast until 2.) We’re almost inside; the door’s propped half open by my boot. People pack the entrance because the gusting wind is chill. In front of us are two couples with children; we are not partial to children, but these, although fractious, are contained. One has brought her bear to breakfast; you smile your approval.

Behind us is a trio of college students, very happy about something. One is a girl with bright copper hair punked up, hanging on the arm of a guy whose long black braid looks like it was dipped in shoe polish. The third is a girl too short to see clearly. I opine that they’re art students — they look like they all dressed in the same fashionable dumpster this morning. You tell me I’m too judgmental.

The wind crowds the trio into us, and the couples in front contract to give us a little room. We shrink into it. The line moves six inches.

You are wedged into me quite tightly now; arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder. Gusts blowing through the partially open door fan your hair across my eyes. Unexpectedly, your tongue makes a pass at my earlobe, and you whisper, “No escape — I’ve got you now.”

The words seem to miss my brain altogether and head straight for my nipples, waking them up, making them tent out the fabric of my shirt. It’s your tone — reading a shopping list in that tone would make my nipples hard. A little shudder scampers across my shoulders.

“Lynn, what are you doing?”

You ignore the question — plea, actually — and continue telling me all the things you could do to me right here and now, and how, in all this press, no one would notice. You punctuate your suggestions with licks and nibbles at my captive earlobe. Your hands have slipped through the opening of my coat and are undoing my shirt buttons. Fingers insinuate themselves inside, evade the cut-off tee shirt I’m wearing in place of a bra; invade the valley between my breasts. You keep talking; the mingling of your hair and mine gives the pretense of modesty, veiling your tongue that is probing my ear like a small intelligent cock.

The blush on my cheeks is no longer from cold, and I’m starting to squirm as you keep me pressed into the door jamb. The college students are still laughing; the couples are waiting patiently; the little girl is in earnest conversation with her bear. Your fingers are making quite free inside my shirt; my belly muscles are rolling uninhibitedly to their touch. You slide your hand underneath my breasts; they’re hanging loose and heavy now, heated by your caresses, but cruelly — I’ve always known you could be cruel when you wanted to — you stop. Just a desultory swipe of your thumb over my urgent nipple; testing. The whimper that rises in my throat — inaudible to all but you as it breaks past the teeth indenting my lower lip — is your reward.

The couples ahead of us are being seated, the little girl is explaining that the bear wants cocoa, the lines moves again. You move too, your palm gliding down over the curve of my stomach. I suck in a breath, but your fingers are balked by the waistband of my jeans. Biting my neck, you begin to tease the button.

The waitress has just called us — for the second time. I let the trapped breath go. Smiling sheepishly, I nod as your hand slips away. When she turns to show us to our table, you capture my ear again and murmur, “Wear a skirt next time.”


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