First Anniversary Part One
I like to think of myself as urbane, and I like to think of Chicago as the ultimate urban city. It really is just the way it looks in movies. Slick. Clean. Great architecture. Lots of live music if you know where to look. But I also like to daydream too much. I was at my favorite Japanese steakhouse, thinking about how good the city looked at night. Fortunately my girlfriend didn't notice. She just sat there on the right side of the secluded booth...nibbling at nigiri sushi.
The last time we were here was a year ago, after we first met. And just like the first time, our booth was very out of the way. A little darker and cozier than the rest, the low cushions lining the side and back walls just a bit more plush. I sat in the center, my attention less focused on my own food than how she enjoyed hers...the chopsticks sliding over her lips, the demure way she dabbed them dry. I never understood why she was so dainty about food or anything else, as Michelle is nearly eight inches taller than me and quite the soft butch. Well, tall or not, she's cute when she's eating.
My food was lukewarm (as opposed to being properly chilly), and I had lost interest in it some time before. I just watched her eating, savoring the rice and sake. And her lips...they've always been very full, and red, even without makeup.
Instead of letting her use the napkin, I leaned in for a kiss, licking the sweet liquor from her lips. She paused, setting down her cup; accepting my lips, and then my tongue, and then returning my interest with her own. Her right hand caressed my face, but her left...there were fingers. Soft ones. And they were up my skirt. Michelle keeps her fingernails manicured and painted silver, but short. For me.
I couldn't even feel her nails inside me, only firm, insistent flesh. And her thumb pressing my clitoris. My panties she had pulled aside, and now she got to the point. She pulled my panties down to just above the hem of my skirt...her right hand still on my face, she stopped kissing me. She looked me straight in the eyes, as a predator might taunt its next meal, and was no longer simply touching. Her fingers began sliding in and out as she unashamedly, unabashedly began to masturbate me.
I stared into her eyes in disbelief. We were in public. And she was so matter-of-fact...she didn't care where we were. Part of me wondered who would walk past the booth, but there had been no traffic in 15 minutes. I let go, kicking my heels off and sinking my head onto her shoulder. For a few moments she kissed my face...and surprised me again. She took her right hand from my face and went back to eating her food and drinking her wine. Her left hand didn't miss a beat. Consistently, laboriously, she began to press against my G-spot.
She kept her thumb on my clitoris, stroking it up and down, massaging my clit with my own sheath. I turned my head, still on her shoulder, to face her. To look at her expression, you'd think she was just enjoying a regular meal. Her face was...not just blank. Smug. Sinister. This diabolical bitch was going to make me spill all over her hand without breaking a sweat. God, yes. I wasn't ashamed. Not at being masturbated in public, not for lubricating all over these fine cushions. If I was a slut, I was her slut. I held onto her shoulder with my right hand, my left around her waist.
I buried my face in her shoulder, finally free and able to simply enjoy her ministrations to my sex. Her smooth, round fingertips sensed me tightening, and pressed upward, the pressure on my G-spot so insistent I thought I might be lifted off my seat. For her part, she remained deadpan, almost clinical. Simultaneously, she intensified her stimulation of my clitoris, and took another sip of wine. I was sobbing, ready to scream, and this was just child's play to her. She looked in my eyes (which had widened to the size of saucers), smiled, and went back to her sushi just as my body started heating up. My pussy was on fire, I was afraid that when I came I would crush her hand.
I quickly forgot that concern. Her hand's every motion startled me with both its gentleness and its strength. Her hand, only a few fingers of it really, had tamed my sex, mastered it. While the other nonchalantly stuffed her face. The heat in my pelvis began to toast the rest of my body, and seemingly the whole room...I managed to relax my muscles, knowing that release was imminent...
And it was. My toes curled and my hand spasmed around her arm as the first shuddering waves of tight hot sweetness came. She inserted more of her fingers' length, more warm flesh for my pussy to hold onto as it lost control. I was soaking wet, spilling more than enough juice onto her fingers to let her slide against my G-spot. She combined this with alternately rubbing the shaft of my clitoris and the exposed tip. I squeezed her forearm between my thighs, gasping, trying not to make a sound as my body betrayed me... As the orgasm finally began to subside, she finally turned from the meal. She looked at me with the amused expression of a cat owner seeing her pussy chase its tail.
"You see what I can do to you? Imagine if I'd had both hands free. Now I think you've been finished with your meal for some time, and I've finished mine. So...I think you should put yourself back together, wipe your juice from your thighs, and I'll take you home so you can see what happens when I'm really imaginative."
I hadn't been to her place in some time, probably a few weeks. She had been telling me off and on about some remodeling she'd done to her apartment. Nothing major, just new furniture and things. Not that her apartment really needed improvements. The Lake Point Towers in downtown Chicago were already pristine. For eight grand a month, hers certainly had better be. But I was still interested in the changes. These thoughts were not absent from my mind as I collected myself. I had no idea silk napkins were so absorbent. Or at least they felt like silk as they cleaned my inner thighs off. She had stepped out of the booth to pay our bill at the maitre'd's desk, while I cleaned my vulva and pulled up my panties. Finally she parted the curtains and stuck her head back in.
"Ready to go?"
I replied in the affirmative, slowly finding the composure to stand and smooth my skirt. As I stepped out of the booth, I felt as if my forehead had "slut" written across it. I held onto Michelle and she held onto me as I half-stumbled to the car. I guess it doesn't take alcohol to get me drunk. Fortunately there were no excessively odd stares from the patrons, although God knows what the waiter found when he got back to our booth.
Finally we got to her sedan, and she set me in the passenger seat. I watched her as she walked around the front to the driver's side. She moved like a predator, like a tigress protecting her cubs, even in something so mundane as taking me home for more desperate fucking. All of the fifteen minutes it took to drive to her place, I was squirming in my seat. Half from the residual heat in my pelvis, and half from what I suspected would be done to me when we arrived at her place. Which after what seemed like ages, we did. I stood close to her in the elevator, nuzzling her arm like I'd never been out in the world before.
More high quality stories at Lesbianstories.com
