Buttered Bagels

2 min read

photo: SexArt

I saw your warm chocolate lips from across the room. The instant I walked into the cafe, it was like my eyes were magnetized to the brown, curved pillows resting on your beautiful, angelic-looking face. I stared at you — longer than is ever appropriate to stare at a stranger, longer than appropriate to stare at an intimate lover — and drank in your features. Our eyes locked and the heat crept up my torso, radiating out through my chest and tingling up my cheeks, the blush deepening as I kept staring. You looked down, I looked away. Peeked back, pretending I was looking at the cashier, at the menu above me. As if I cared about the food.

I ordered two bagels. With butter. Paid and moved closer towards the pickup area, watching as you went to work in the corner, toasting my bagels. I kept staring. Should it be illegal to stare this much? But your melty complexion, bright eyes and soft features kept calling me in. I grabbed a coffee sleeve at the pickup counter and scribbled my name and number. My cheeks again reddening, body heating up, pussy warm. I stared at the rough cardboard sleeve, wondering if the 4 in my number was clear enough, or did it look like a 9? Would you get a wrong number when you tried to call the seductress at the coffee shop?

You motioned to me that the bagels were ready. I marched over, feigning confidence with my body trembling. Grabbed the paper bag from you and slipped my number across the counter in return.

“Thank you,” you said, locking eyes again. I ran out of the shop, knowing that if nothing else, the electricity and heat of that ask was enough.

It’s been a few days, we’ve been texting. You’re sweet, want to know me. You ask if the lips of my pussy match the luscious lips on my face. You can find out in person, I let you know.

You do yoga. Meditate. Love your family in Haiti. Studying programming on the side.

I’m leaving town, I don’t know exactly when I’ll be back.

It’s your lunch break. My bags are half packed. You come over to my apartment and our lips meet. Slow. Deep. I would lose myself in the kiss if I didn’t have a flight to catch.

I finish packing. You move the suitcases off the bed and replace them with my tingling body — ready and open for your touch. It feels slow and sensual, but you know my time constraint and in moments my clothes are off, your fingers inside me and the condom on your cock.

We fuck slowly. Too slowly for me. My system that’s been racing all morning getting ready doesn’t want to slow down, can’t slow down, for this sensual caress. It wants the pounding and ferocity. It wants to touch that spot so deep in my pussy where the floodgates will open and the electricity will crackle and soar. But your frequency is slower — it’s the beachside lazy morning. I surrender to the clock, pushing you deep inside me and squeezing tight for one last moment, before I push you off and extricate myself from your body. Knowing we’ll finish this dance next time I’m in New York, with a little more space, a little more time for our lips to float and melt and devour.

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