| The curry is
particularly good at a certain little Thai restaurant south of Market.
We pilgrimage there on a Friday night, past the shops and shows and leather
crowds on Market Street, to stand in line with the rest of the curry and
satay lovers. We must look quite a pair while we wait. I have planned this
evening minutely, dressed with special care. You have obliged me in wearing
your cotton sateen dress with the long petal skirt that goes so well with
your short sheepskin jacket and cordovan boots. My tight leather pants,
black bomber jacket with chrome chains, and hair in a tight braid are selected
to accentuate your softness this evening. Only you know about the sleeveless
shell of peach silk I'm wearing against my skin.
You know something is up, so I hold myself slightly aloof until we are seated. The restaurant is long, narrow and pleasantly dim. The table is not large and the white tablecloth drapes onto our laps. It's busy tonight; waiters and patrons cruise by in a continuous stream. I keep the conversation on suggestive, but distant, topics: the Eurasian girl with royal features in the expensive jacquard coat; the cunnilingual quality of fresh oysters. By the time we order — me with an affected detachment, you with a little catch in your voice — I know my plan is working. I do nothing until the food arrives. Smiling, we take up our chopsticks. As you deftly lift a bite of curry to your lips, I slip a naked foot — having shed my pumps beneath the table — under the hem of the long skirt and slide it up to your knees. Your eyes flash at me over your chopsticks; the tablecloths aren't that long, you seem to say. I smile innocently, sample a gingered prawn and begin to worm my foot between your thighs. You frown, but as my toes twist and tickle along the buttery flesh, you twitch your thighs apart with a little gasp that is covered by reaching for the tea, and I'm home — bare toes pressing against the thin cloth membrane of your underwear. Unnerved, you clamp my foot — a willing prisoner — but it's too late. My toes are undulating slowly, rubbing shallow furrows in the damp cotton. Your breath comes short. You put down the chopsticks and begin attacking your tea with rapid little sips. Beads of sweat stand out below the dark margins of your lashes and I feel quivering in your tense thighs. Reaching with my big toe, I feel the hardening kernel at the apex of your humid cleft. A tremor runs through your shoulders, making the tea jiggle in your cup. Your legs creep open, then give way altogether as you grasp a pink cloth napkin and sit back, surrendering at last to my insistent motions. I keep rubbing, slow and deliberate, while you press your cotton-clad pussy against the ball of my liberated foot. Removing a morsel of chicken satay from its skewer with my teeth, I smile at you and mouth slowly: Take them off. Your eyes widen. You bite into a spring roll, chopsticks being quite beyond you now, and do nothing. Smiling wider, I repeat the request, in a murmur this time. You seem transfixed, unwilling to comply or unable — which, I can't tell. Undeterred, my toe hooks the underwear's elastic edge and nudges it aside. (Amazing the feats of dexterity one can achieve when the mind is focused.) A moment later my podial messenger sinks into your creamy depths. Your eyes close, your lips open. There is an intake of breath, a tiny gasp just for me. My toe begins to orbit — mouth to kernel and back again — and your thighs and bottom begin to quake. You press the pink napkin to your mouth and I see your teeth clench through the folds as convulsions take your lower body and those sweet, wet muscles grip my burrowing toe. A waiter appears suddenly, all polite concern. "Curry too hot, Miss?" We burst out laughing and shake our heads. No, the curry is wonderful. He nods and retreats, smiling but perplexed. I slide my wet fragrant foot out of paradise and into my shoe while you continue to shudder, head down over a plate of cooling food. And you wondered why I trimmed my toenails so carefully this evening.... |
