CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing
She made eye contact with me the moment I entered the pub. It wasn’t fate; it was design. Her text messages had been specific and compelling. I arrived at precisely 10pm, she gestured to a seat at the bar and I waited there while she served her customer. Then I followed her to the door marked ‘Private’ and slipped in behind her.
We stood facing each other for a moment until I remembered her instructions and dropped my gaze. I focused on the toes of her black ballet pumps: they were scuffed and worn from too many busy shifts. I knew we had only a little time now: ten minutes at the most until she was expected to be back, pulling pints and measuring shots.
I watched her feet as she stepped out of her skirt and moved towards an armchair. I sat on the chair, my hands firmly pinned underneath the weight of my thighs. I dared a glance up at her. She wore a suspender belt but no stockings. Instead, the clasps of the belt were attached to a square of latex, held snuggly against her cunt. So, she really did mean ‘no touching’.
She straddled my lap, grinding against my belt buckle and the buttons on my jeans. I breathed in her scent: beer and a heavy floral perfume. I was 16 again. The landlady of my local had taken me under her wing, given the leering men at the bar a stern talking to, and clasped me to her bosom in an expression of maternal comfort. At 16, I was way too young to be able to deal with the men grabbing at my arse, but I was old enough to understand the thrill I got from feeling my face pressed into the older woman’s breasts. At 16, all I could do was allow myself to be held; at 46, I knew my desires and I knew how to get them met.
She moved up from my lap to bring her crotch level with my face. Now the latex smell from the dental dam obscured the beer scent and there was another muskier note added to the mix. I breathed all of it in. The latex was smooth and warm and my tongue slipped easily over its surface. I pressed a little firmer and felt the contours of her cunt: the hidden folds and valleys that lay beneath; the latex square like a dust cloth that had been draped over priceless possessions to protect them while they lay dormant. Her cunt was not dormant though: I could feel it twitch and pulse beneath my tongue. I explored more of her shape, my eyes closed, my hands numbing under my thighs, my senses of taste and smell overloaded with the up-close-and-personal experience of licking her through the dental dam, and my own cunt flooding with the elicit thrill of touching yet not touching.
We had agreed all of this and, now that it was actually happening, I couldn’t imagine it any other way. To touch her with my hands would have seemed uncouth. To touch her directly with my lips and tongue would have overwhelmed me. There was so much of her to take in just as it was: her hard clit on its proud shaft able to take firm and sustained sucking through the mediation of the latex; her labia plump and full, slipping and sliding in her own moisture as my nose and chin pressed against them; our joint knowledge that this was the only way I could make her come – my tongue, her cunt.
I worked my tongue over every inch of the dental dam, noting her sweet spots and returning to them again and again. The temptation to nip at the latex with my teeth was great – I wanted to consume her – but I daren’t risk tearing the material and getting a taste of her. I knew one taste would never be enough, I knew I’d end up ripping the dam away from her, my fingers – blood rushing, skin burning – would be inside her, and I would break every agreement we had so carefully made.
Her breathing was heavy above me and her hips moved quickly against my face. I latched onto her, suctioning my mouth to her and keeping my tongue moving just so – just how she needed it to be. She held onto my shoulders as she rode out her orgasm.
At 1am, my phone beeped: she offered me another arrangement.
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