7 min read

photo: SexArt

Darkness creeps over the Edinburgh skyline and a heavy drizzle falls from angry clouds. The weather reflects my mood. Sombre. Morose. My friend is running late, and so there I am standing alone in the queue for the restaurant. In the drizzle. Nightfall looming. Moisture hangs in the air and my hair is becoming more straw-like by the second. No chance of me pulling tonight then.

A few moments pass and I become instantly aware of the man standing behind me. He is cute. Nice eyes. He too is alone. Our eyes meet momentarily but as the queue nudges forwards, I turn my attention to shuffling ahead, fearful someone may jump the line. Three more bodies stand between me and the entrance to the popular eatery on St Andrews Square in the heart of Scotland’s capital city. I want out of this dismal weather. I need heat. I need a drink. I need some fun.

Once inside, I am handed a buzzer for my table and am told there is a one-hour wait. I head straight for the ladies room to touch up my make up and check my hair. A quick glance in the mirror confirms I don’t look as bad as I thought I might after the speedy walk from the station in the drizzle. My eyes are adorned in charcoals and mauves. Smoky. Heavy on the eyeliner. Dark and seductive. I apply a thick layer of pale pink shimmering lip gloss to hungry pouting lips and smile at my reflection. There is a glint in my eye. Yes. Not bad. Next stop — the bar.

I sashay across the room in my high-heeled knee high boots and a dress a bit on the short side for my strong muscular thighs. I immediately come face to face with the cute chap from outside. My clit seems to react rather urgently at the sight of him and I have to adjust my stride to settle her down. Nipples prickle as I near him. I scan the room for a girlfriend but he appears to be alone.

The bartender asks him what he would like to drink, and he replies, “I think I’ll need to look at the menu.” As she turns to me to take my order, he suddenly booms, “Actually — I do know what I want.”

I glance sideways, then back to the bartender. “He knows what he wants,” I say, flicking my head in his direction. I accompany this with a slight eye roll, to the amusement of the bartender. Cute guy smiles and places the menu assertively on the counter and asks for a mocktail. Interesting choice. I order a large white wine (for my friend), and a G&T, and within seconds it appears that the bartender thinks we are together.

I lean towards him and whisper, “I think she thinks we’re together,” to which he casually replies, “Then let her think that.” My clit erupts once more and a small trickle of moisture escapes from my freshly shaved pussy and settles into my black lace panties. I’m certain he can smell the sex oozing from me. I smile at him once more and he offers to pay for my drinks. I refuse, of course. I can’t possibly let a stranger buy me a drink. I’m a modern girl, capable of buying my own drinks. But he insists. And I feel compelled to acquiesce. He has an enigmatic charm and I feel wooed. There is something about him. Something… different.

A moment later and my phone buzzes in my bag. It’s a message from my friend Lesley. She is running way behind schedule and will be at least another hour. I turn to cute guy and ask him if he would like to join me for a while until my friend arrives, and much to my delight, he says, “I’d love to.”

Within minutes of settling into the cosy, relatively secluded booth, I discover he is a successful entrepreneur. He travels the world and does business in 62 countries. Impressive. He is polite, well spoken and very charming. I find myself studying him closely, eyes connecting regularly, smiles aplenty. We have good rapport. My knickers are becoming stickier by the minute, and I am shifting in my seat at the sensation of juices gathering down below. I long to ease my right hand down in between my thighs and upwards to my most intimate place. To rub her hard through my thick black tights and lace panties. But I resist. I barely know him — and besides, it would be far too obvious.

I am flirting, but in a subtle way. I’m not sure how to read him. Is he gay? Straight? I don’t think he’s married. He’s too busy to be married. Sounds like he’s never in the country! He’s very handsome and has a killer smile. More than anything I am attracted to his warmth. He has a lovely nature. Non threatening. He makes me feel settled and calm. Appreciated. I am slightly concerned that he may not be the kind of man to give me what I need. What I desire. Sexually, I mean. I think he might be too nice. Pity.

A few moments pass. Silence. A comfortable silence. We glance at each other and he waits until I take a sip of my gin to ask me when I last had an orgasm. My eyes widen and I slam the glass down on the table top, trying hard not to choke on the liquid which is trying to make its way down my constricting throat. I swallow hard and compose myself.

“Not for a few weeks,” I reply. He raises his eyebrows and his eyes grow darker.

“Why would a pretty girl like you deny herself a good time for a few weeks?” he asks.

Now I’m blushing and feeling slightly giddy. What do I tell him? That I was recently dumped by the love of my life and I can’t stand the thought of touching myself because it reminds me of him? And that nothing and nobody will ever come close to making my body react like he was able to? So I’d rather go without. Nope. Can’t tell him that. That’s lame. Even if it is the truth. My heart tightens and I am reminded of the man who proclaims to love me but cannot be with me. I am reminded that life is a bastard.

I regain my composure and announce, “I am fasting. Starving myself of pleasure. I like to torture myself, you see. Deprive myself of what I like. It makes the end game much more satisfying.”

I look at him and my top lip twitches and twists; this always happens when I’m turned on and acting coy. He straightens his back and asks me to elaborate. Sensing his curiosity, I stall and stare at him intensely. His eyes are seductive yet cold. I think he is holding back. Both of us unable — maybe even unwilling — to talk, my body goes into autopilot and I find myself sliding down off the chair under the table. I see legs and feet. I crawl gingerly over towards him, and slap my hands firmly on his thighs.

I can feel him inhale deeply and the words, “What are you doing, you naughty little girl?” escape his mouth. I do not speak. I quickly unbuckle his brown leather belt. His body is rigid and I can tell he is completely uncomfortable at the predicament. I don’t care. I need a release. This feels good.

Aware that the bar area is very busy and that time is against us, I eagerly undo his button and pull down his zipper. The smell of pre-cum hits me first, and I inhale a long slow sniff. Yum. I can see the outline of a thick hard cock under sage green Armani boxer shorts. A small circle of moisture where he has been leaking. He likes me.

My hand reaches down into the green material and I gently wrap my fingers around his shaft, freeing him from his boxers. His hands push hard down against the seat and he is unable to talk. He is trying to control himself but I know he is unable to. I suspect he is petrified and utterly elated all at once. I wrap my warm wet lips around his leaking helmet. He groans. My mouth sliding up and down the length of his shaft. Slow delicate sucks all the way to the base and all the way back to the tip. I am met with more pre-cum. He is delicious.

His hand suddenly grabs at my hair and he forces my head downwards. His entire cock is now lodged deep down my throat and I can’t breathe. I love it. I love this feeling of being wanted and abused. I am gagging and choking — my eyes are streaming and I know my cheeks will be streaked with black. Just as I start to panic for air, he pulls my head upwards and away from his hard on.

I look up to see him looking down at me. He is smiling a devilish smile. My hair still wrapped in his fist.

“Are you hungry, you pretty little thing?”

“Ravenous,” I reply. And he once again forces my head downwards, my mouth already agape and ready to consume his throbbing cock. My throat is assaulted once more.

I am now working him in a controlled rhythm. Our eyes are staring intently at each other. We are both composed but he occasionally looks away to check for unwanted spectators. He tells me there is a man watching us from the corner and I stop momentarily to glance around at our audience. When my eyes connect with the stranger I smile, mouth full of cock, and give him a little wave. Thanks for watching the show, I think to myself. My pussy gushes and I let out a low pained moan of pleasure.

The eye contact continues and it is not long before I can feel him start to buck. He’s almost there. I haven’t had the pleasure of cum pumping down my throat for weeks and I am ready for it. Oh so ready. Within seconds I feel the first wave of salty gloopy liquid escape his helmet and I hear him whimper. I stop sucking and open my mouth wide, knowing fully he is watching me. His cum hits my tongue and I tip my head backwards so the liquid can run back into my throat. I mustn’t waste a single drop. He looks totally in awe of me. His eyes are glistening and his mouth holds a small smirk. A pained small smirk.

I am under no illusion that I am chancing my luck and if I want to stay here for dinner, without being ejected for sexual deviancy, I need to hurry along and return to my seat opposite him. I swallow down hard and enjoy the taste of his juices as they run down my throat. A nice consistency. A pleasant taste. Yes. His cum is scrumptious. I shimmy backwards and delicately manoeuvre myself upwards into my seat, facing cute guy once more. He has a name. I just don’t want to tell you it.

“You’ve got something on your chin,” he remarks. And we both laugh. He passes me a serviette and I shake my head.

“I don’t need a napkin thank you.” I take my forefinger and wipe at my chin, a smear of cum glistening on my finger. I pop it in my mouth and suck seductively. “Oh yummy,” I say. More smiles.

Just then the buzzer goes off. My table is ready. I stand to leave, using the napkin to remove the streaks of mascara and eye liner that have flooded my cheeks.

“How do I look?” I ask.

“Like you’ve just had my cock down your throat,” he replies. He stands and leans towards me, wrapping his hand round my neck and pulling me close. His hands are soft, warm and strong. He kisses me gently on the lips, his tongue probing my mouth, just enough to taste himself. Our eyes never leave each other.

“You’re a filthy little whore,” he whispers in my ear. I step back and study him. He is a thing of beauty. I feel totally overcome with emotion. Satisfaction. Guilt. Sorrow.

He continues to stare at me intently, as I turn to walk away. My heart is racing. He was right. I am a filthy little whore. Isn’t it funny how a perfect stranger can know you so well.

Even funnier when the stranger is your ex.

Leave a Reply