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Page 11.
 "Getting worked up in public. You know, secretly?"
Now I had the whole cycle of E's arousal down pat. She was a good little sport when it came to plain @ing. She was good at that, make no mistake. But she didn't shout. Now take after we went someplace public and I orgasmic her. Take her home now and @ her. What a different gal. She reared up in an arch, as if her back was made of rubber, and she wailed as I sucked on her clit and made the juice flow.
God, when I got my thick dick inside of her and whacked it back and forth in her fluids, she had orgasm after orgasm. It was the public thing that set it up. She loved being secretly @ed in public, a matter that can land you in jail and certainly will cause the other patrons of restaurants and movie theaters to become irritated.
There is a whole art to this. The French in fact have dubbed a corner of it frottage, the act of rubbing against the other in a public place. But the art of @ing the other publicly, that was E's special skill. That was what turned my little dark-red coppery vixen on.
She had his long dark green olden overcoat. She sewed a slit into the back of it. We measured carefully where this needed to be. Then we would go into a public place, like maybe a crowded trolley. Positioned in the back, with our fronts to the people ahead of us, I could open my fly and push out my rod right through the slit in her coat. What wasn't obvious was that she wore a tiny skirt underneath, which was easy to lift, so that her ass and oyster were accessible.
My cock hungered after her oyster. Given half a chance, my cock would race through a hole in any overcoat to get to her wet little tunnel. She in turn had learned she could lean forward a bit and clamp down some muscles inside to grab that dick and make it sing. So there we were, while the trolley hummed and rumbled along its tracks, and my dick was bursting inside of her slippery oyster tunnel. All the while, she kept a straight face and pretended to be reading the train schedules.
She liked to have sex with this danger all around, this air of imminent discovery. The best part was that when we got back to her place, she was ravenous, throwing her clothes off, tearing mine off, to get my in her mouth...and that didn't last long because she would pull me to the table, bend over it, and pull my dong toward her openings. She liked being @ed from behind, and I enjoyed kneading her pale long buttocks with my hands while sliding in the slush with her moaning, hands splayed on the table as if she were body surfing. As I say, she enjoyed the danger and pushed it to the limit. Once, we were in a restaurant. She had on a pleated tartan skirt. Three middle-aged construction workers with pot bellies, white hair, and red faces sat two tables away over their beers and sandwiches while a juke box played loudly. E pretended to read the menu (we had already ordered) while she massaged my foot on the edge of her chair between spread knees. The men must have noticed a single shoe and sock on the floor under her seat. The fact that it was a man's shoe and pointed to her must have added to the evidence.
I didn't dare glance toward them, but I thought I heard a snicker or two. E pulled my foot toward her under the skirt. I felt the folds of her vagina on my toes. You don't feel it as much on the big toe, but when she gets going, is wet, is loose and open, and your little toes go in, it's like being gummed by a huge frog. It's a uniquely delightful feeling, especially if the woman has those little oyster muscles that open and close on you like a gasping mouth. We were going good. I never actually masturbated in public, but I had a rod on that ached and required my shifting in my seat.
She was just getting good, with her face flushed and her eyes closed. Just as she gasped, they started laughing loudly. They were crude, stupid men. E grabbed her purse, threw a twenty on the table, and ran out the door. I grabbed my sock and shoe and ran after her. The baboons were hooting and making gestures. I saw their red faces and little mouths full of rat teeth and food on their tongues, and wondered if they were of the same human race. My anger subsided when I saw her a block away, bent over a newspaper dispenser, laughing herself silly. I had to start laughing too, and forget the morons—after all, I had more sex in a week than those dumb drunks had in their lives. If they were smart they could have enjoyed the show. Oh well.
Another time we were in the back room of a dark lounge—the kind that advertises itself as a bar & grill. They serve steak dinners to a lunch business crowd but also cater to the beer and sausage crowd a few cuts above the dumb shits mentioned above. So there we were, in the back room, waiting for hamburgers and savoring a mug of beer each. The waitress, herself a tall cute woman in her thirties, with wear heavy in her features but youth still in her eyes and smile, took our orders and flounced away in her flight attendant-like dress. E slid around beside me, kissed me, looked around mischievously, and then vanished under the table. I slid down a few inches to give her space to work. She had my zipper out and my erect dick out. I felt the edges of her little teeth on the head, then the shaft. She worked the tip of her pointy little tongue around the opening on top, catching the first stray leaks and squirts. I must have looked like I just swallowed a mouse as I turned purple and sat pushing at the edge of the table. Just then the waitress came back to say "Your order will be just a few—." She paused, looked at me (I immediately acted nonchalant) and then leaned forward with her head tilted so she could see under the table. I don't know what she saw in the dark, maybe E's pale hands, my pale dick, and the glint on E's glasses from a distant light, but she turned pale herself and said, "Sir, that will be your last beer, and I trust you'll finish up and leave."
"Yes," I said, "make those burgers to go."
She could have done all that Puritan crap people do—call the police, turn us in, fetch the manager, get the local curate, dial E for Exorcism. I commended her silently, within myself, for still being young enough to understand how it is. My dong had gone limp, and I sat up so that it appeared to withdraw of its own volition like an eel pulling back under its rock. I pulled E up from under the table and had her sit meekly beside me. She did, except for one moment when she uttered this huge, sucking sigh and swept her lips up behind my ears and whispered "I'm going to tongue @ you as soon as we get home." Minutes later, burgers in bag and bag in hand, we hustled out the door and I sensed the whole waitress contingent staring after us. I think there were a half dozen of them, all looking dour with longing as they watched E's tight, girlish ass sailing off on bare, fresh legs.
It was exciting, but scary, and I had trouble getting erections in public with her. We tried having me diddle her, and that worked for a while, but she liked having it in her. I sensed that she was starting to see someone else, and we drifted apart. I did see her once, a few months later. She was with this tall, muscular black man. He had short hair, a small head over huge shoulders, a gold earring, and big hands the color of raw coffee. They stood on the marble steps of a public building in plain sight downtown while the leaves twirled through the air and the October sun shone like wildfire. They each had on long coats. I recognized hers—that long dark green olden with the slit in back. She was leaning over the marble banister halfway up the broad steps, pretending to coo at the birds in the grass below. People were walking by, busses came and went, taxis honked, cars sailed in and out of traffic. I watched for a few moments. He stood behind her with his groin pressed tightly against her rear. His long arms and big hands were in her hair, gently combing it with his pink fingernails, a pretense, as my eyes caught the furtive bumping of his hips against hers. I could imagine that sizeable slick cheroot sloshing back and forth in her bubblegum-colored channel. Wistfully, remembering the feel of her, I turned and walked away. I never saw her again, not even on my occasional trips to the library.
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