The Lunchtime Rendezvous
By Minga Mae
Paul sits alone at the long lunch counter at his hometown diner. He picks at his country fried steak and mash potatoes. He hates eating alone, but everyone else is busy, it's Valentine's Day. His coworkers are either making last minute runs to the florists or spending their lunch hour with their better halves.
Paul swallows another bite of the bland meal. The cream gravy has gone cold rendering it inedible. He pushes the white platter away, wiping his mouth on his napkin and reaches for the check, as the bell above the front door chimes and his senses are overpowered by the smell of strawberries. He looks up to see a small brunette approaching the register. She wears a tight black pencil skirt and a white button-up blouse. Her hair is loose and wavy. It's thick and waist length. Paul would give almost anything to feel it between his fingers.
The brunette speaks to the cashier with a bright smile as she exchanges cash for a to go sack. The two women laugh and converse as if they've known each other for years; in this town it's likely the case. He doesn't realize he's staring until the brunette looks over at him, meeting his gaze and smiles. Her smile warms him and the woman further intrigues him. She turns to leave. He watches her go. His eyes flit to the slit at the back of her skirt. It caresses her thighs stopping just shy of her ass.
He's eye-fucking her and from the way she looks back over her shoulder, she knows. His eyes travel back down the opening of her skirt, down her toned legs to the pair of black stilettos she wears. They're every bit of four inches tall. He wipes his mouth again in fear that he's drooling and tosses the napkin into the plate of half eaten food.
He follows the brunette, barely stopping long enough to hand the waitress a twenty, almost double his tab. It's worth not waiting for change at the chance to follow his seductress. Paul knows his behavior is borderline stalker-ish and creepy but that doesn't deter him.
She continues her on foot journey to the little boutique up the block. Every click of her heels on the cement beckons him. She opens the door and he follows behind her less than a minute later.
The little clothing boutique is empty aside from another female behind the counter, she's smaller than the brunette, and she has short spiked hair that's inky black. The ladies are chatting animatedly behind the counter. It's apparent the brunette is covering so the pixie like girl can take a long lunch with her husband.
Paul's trying to look convincingly like a customer, hoping to catch the brunette's attention. He picks up a bottle of perfume and sniffs it. The overly floral smell burns his nostrils; he drops the bottle to the floor in his haste to put the cap on.
Paul looks up embarrassed; the brunette is watching him fumble. She snickers lightly. The pixie bids her friend goodbye and flits out the store, leaving a wake of the same horrible perfume in her wake.
The brunette watches Paul bend to pick up the perfume he dropped. It's the store's signature line and the owner, Alice's favorite. She swears Ali bathes in it. She's never really cared for perfume herself; instead she prefers a strawberry body spray. Her eyes travel over the man in front of her; he is lean, with thick arms. Even in the black slacks and green dress shirt, she can tell he's ripped. A sliver of skin peaks out from his unbuttoned collar, revealing the unmistakable neckline of a white wife-beater tank.
She walks over to him, running her fingertips along his forearm. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up a bit. The muscle twitches under her light touch.
"Is there something I could help you find?" Their eyes meet, his are coal black and hers are melted chocolate, both hold a glimmer of hope in apprehension of what's to come. She's never been happier that the high-end boutique gets so little weekday foot-traffic.
"I'm looking for a gift, for my girl, she's about your size, would you mind trying something on for me? I want to make sure it'll fit." He says with a mischievous smirk. The look in his eyes is enough to dampen her undergarments.
"Why don't you pick out a few things and meet me in the dressing room, I'd be happy to model something." She replies without hesitation. He wasn't expecting that.
He wanders the store, being selective in his choices; he tries to pick out things he'd love to see her wearing. A classic red silk teddy, a simple pink baby doll nighty, both of which are probably more her style, but the black lace corset with the tiny lace thong is what he'd really like to see her wearing. The thought alone leaves him hard. He can almost picture it.
Paul approaches the dressing room; it's a simple room, maybe five feet by seven in the far back corner of the store. There is no door only a thick duck cloth curtain covering the opening. He slides the curtain back and hands the items to the helpful brunette. She eyes his choices with apt curiosity and shoos him out of the dressing room. The brunette slips her clothing off and slides on the little pink number. It fits like a glove, a little snug across the chest, accentuating her ample cleavage. The sheer material left little to the imagination and revealed her flat stomach. She slid the tiny matching panties on and stepped back into her heels before opening the curtain.
His face twisted with uncertainty, "I just don't know if it's her." His tone is playful.
The brunette closed the curtain and slipped into the teddy. Upon the reveal Paul only smirked and said, "Mmm. Maybe."
She raises an eyebrow, "I may need help with the black one, I'm not sure I can reach the ties on the corset. Do you mind?"
He follows her. Her back is turned to him but her front is on display in the full-length mirror on the back wall. She pulls one strap down her, leaving her left shoulder bare. It's one of his favorite spots, on any woman but particularly this one, that little slice of skin between the neck and shoulder. The brunette's sports a small crescent shaped scar, even so he imagines sliding his wet tongue across that very spot.
He moves forward, taking that piece of flesh between his lips as he helps her out of the satiny red confines. She steps out, standing bare except for her high heels. Her skin feels like silk under his thick-callused fingers. He kisses up her neck, her mouth hangs open, and her head falls back against his shoulder. She releases a breathy moan. His rough hand snakes down her body, across her taught abdomen down to her bare center. She's slick with wanton desire.
He slides a finger through her wet folds, her hips buck and her clit brushes the heel of his palm, as a single digit slips into her core. She feels like heaven. She moans again, but is cut off when his mouth covers her own. She lets him take control, his tongue sliding against hers. She turns, trying not to whimper from the loss of his touch.
Her delicate fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt. If it weren't for the fact that he probably has to return to work, she'd pull at the fabric until the pale buttons popped off. Eventually she gets the shirt undone and un-tucked. She pulled it from his body.
The sight of him in a wife beater is almost better than she imagined. His arms are thick with coiled muscles, and his collarbone is begging to be licked and sucked. She pushes up at the cotton undershirt until he takes it over his head and tosses it into the corner of the dressing room. Her body craves his blazing touch.
If the sight of him in an undershirt was orgasmic, then words didn't even begin to describe what he looked like shirtless. She ran her fingers down his abs, down that fine trail of dark hair to the waistband of his dress slacks. She worked his belt loose then flicked the button on his pants. They hung open exposing him. No boxers, no briefs, just him.
She looked up again as he captured her lips in a searing kiss. His lips, leaving a wake of fire across her mouth, chin and back down her neck as he lifted her onto his hardened length. Her legs wrap around his waist crossing at the ankle, the heels of her stilettos dig into his flesh, but the pain only spurs him on.
He pistons into her, pushing her shoulders against the wall of the dressing room. Her perky breasts taunt him; until he leans down to fasten his mouth around one of her pink nipples. He bites at it, knowing he's probably leaving a bruise, a purple reminder of their lunchtime rendezvous. The sensation proves too much as her tight cavern clenches around him. Paul knows he won't last; even reciting every play from the 1999 Super Bowl can't prolong him. She feels too good wrapped around his cock.
She pulls his face down to hers and kisses him again, this time it's her dominating the kiss. His hips buck erratically as they fall over the precipice together. Their foreheads are pressed against each other as they catch their breath. The get dressed, he leans in to kiss her just one more time. The chime above the boutique's front door alerts them to a customer's presence. The spell appears to be broken; she looks almost embarrassed for the first time since he'd laid eyes on her in the diner.
He stands back as she slips from the dressing room. She goes without a second glance back. Paul checks his appearance in the dressing room mirror, not too disheveled, though he does look like he's been thoroughly fucked. His raven hair is sticking up and there appears to be sheen of sweat across his exposed skin.
He waits a few minutes before leaving the dressing room. She's busy helping an older lady look for a dress for her granddaughter's wedding. He tries to wave, offer her a smile, some form of goodbye but she doesn't acknowledge him.
He exits the store quietly, goes back to his office, but his mind keeps replaying his lunch break. He manages to finish his day and heads home.
He pulls into his drive, climbs out of his truck and walks to the door. He already hears noise from with in. His twin girls are bickering, while their older brother cranks the volume of the TV up so he doesn't miss the opening song of Johnny Test. The door swings freely. His girls greet him with smiles and thank yous for the balloons he sent them to school. His wife is in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove. The bouquet of white gerbera daisies and red roses sit in the middle of the kitchen table where he tosses his keys.
"Hey babe, how was your day?" she greets him, but doesn't take her eyes off the spaghetti sauce she's making.
He slides his hands around her middle, despite the baby with in, her stomach is perfectly flat, but it's still early on. Her long brunette hair is up in a messy bun, leaving her shoulder almost exposed, he pulls her white button-up blouse aside and kisses his mark. He's always loved that spot.
She's changed from the tight pencil skirt and stilettos she wore earlier into yoga pants and white cotton socks.
"There's a prize for you on our bed. I never got to try that black outfit on, but maybe later you can help me lace it up." She turns to him with a smile. Paul lets out a laugh and leans down to kiss his wife.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Baby."