One Night at Oswald’s
“Oswald’s was a cool little bar hidden away in the basement of one of the oldest buildings in the city…
The vaulted stone ceiling, the rich magenta walls covered in a random mix of vintage gig posters and old pictures of the city. The oak booths, aged from years of use, still line the walls with the mini jukeboxes filled with an eclectic range of music from the 50’s and 60’s.”
She’s been sitting there for at least five minutes, elbow on the table, her chin cupped in her hand, staring at him. He knows she doesn’t see him, her drink sits ignored in front of her, her gaze focused inwards. He takes advantage of her inattention to study her. Not young, not old. The bar lighting hides any flaws she may have, softens her skin, makes her beautiful. He guesses late thirties, early forties. The way she sits shows off some of her cleavage, he can just see the lace of her bra peeking out, he wonders if she knows. She wears a simple white shirt, jeans and flat shoes, if she’s wearing make-up it isn’t obvious. He wonders if she is meeting someone, husband, although he can see no ring, a friend, or a clandestine lover, but she seems too relaxed for that. Dark, shoulder length hair hangs in loose waves around her face. He imagines running his fingers through it, twisting his hand in it, pulling her head back and kissing her neck, biting her. He imagines how it would look after he has fucked her, mussed and tousled. He looks again at the hint of lace, imagines unbuttoning her shirt, slipping the bra straps from her shoulders, kissing her there as he flicks a thumb across her nipple, imagines the sounds she would make as he takes it in his mouth and sucks on it, holding her tight against him. He imagines her fumbling at his trousers, undoing his belt, unzipping him and taking out his cock. He imagines forcing her onto her knees, hands in that dark, wavy hair as she holds him in her hand, her tongue licking around the top of his cock, before taking it into her mouth. He wonders how it would feel to slide his cock further into her mouth, to fuck her throat and come in her mouth, on her face. He imagines undoing her jeans, sliding them down over her hips, her arse. He wonders if she is wearing knickers, lacy to match the bra or a thong. He wonders does she wax or shave, or maybe neither. He imagines kneeling before her, drawing the jeans from her legs. He wonders how she would smell, how wet she would be as he runs his tongue over her clit. He imagines her spreading her legs for him, his fingers sliding into her hot, wet cunt, her hands on his head as she grinds herself against his hand, his tongue. He imagines feeling her muscles clenching, tightening on his fingers as she comes, her juices running over his hand, the taste of her in his mouth. He imagines pulling her down to lie beside him, her need matching his own as he kneels between her legs, refusing her his cock, teasing her with his fingers and tongue. He imagines her cries as she comes again, begging him to fuck her. He wonders how her cunt would feel as he finally thrusts his cock inside her, her legs wrapped around him, drawing him deeper into…
‘Can I help you with something?’ Her voice, low, husky, jerks him from his own reverie as he looks up to see her standing in front of him.
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