I’m at a gallery opening, a warm evening, an elegant crowd. I have only a slight acquaintance with the artist, but I promised her I’d be here. I don’t see her anywhere, and I don’t know any of the people milling around the large abstract paintings. But the wine is decent, and I had nothing better to do, so I’m not unhappy.
I’m wearing a chic little dress, my makeup is fine, and I think I look good. Or at least interesting. People always tell me I look interesting. Am I pretty? Yes, I suppose I am, but sometimes I think I look too serious.
After awhile, I notice a woman staring at me. She’s about forty, a tall and slender brunette in a knockout black dress. a gorgeous face, all of her just my type, and my heart is suddenly pounding.
Can she tell? Yes, I think so. From the way she looks at me, stares at me, it’s obvious to me that she can read me like an open book. Some women can do that, they can read me easily, and she’s evidently one of them. She knows what I am, and I want her, and my hunger is impossible to deny. Does she want me?
She’s with a small group, and at intervals she turns to look at me, maybe to see if I’m still there. Finally, she leaves the group and she walks toward me. My heart is pounding again, and as our eyes meet, I feel myself trembling. She walks right up to me and she extends her hand. “Hello, I’m Margot. And you? She continues to hold my hand.
I’m still trembling. “Susan.”
She smiles. “Hello, Susan. You’re pretty.”
Her eyes are locked with mine, a fixed stare. Is she reading everything in my mind? I blush again and look away.
Finally, she says: “I’m going to the washroom. Why don’t you come with me?”
It’s not really a suggestion, it’s more like a statement of fact. She’s going to the washroom, and she wants me to come with her, and of course I’ll do that. My doing that was already obvious to her the first time our eyes met.
She leads the way through the crowd, which gives me the opportunity to take her in from the back, her long legs, her narrow hips, her firm-looking ass so evident under her flimsy knockout dress. Now I’m more hungry than ever. And afraid. I know nothing about her, and I have no idea how cruel she might be.
The washroom is a small room designed for one person at a time, but no one is in the corridor, and we slip into the room together and she immediately locks the door.
She smiles at me, but she says nothing. She looks at herself in the mirror, pats her hair, then she walks to the commode and she puts the cover down. The commode is near the wall, and she leans against the wall and she carefully lifts the hem of her dress until her black lace panties are exposed, her panties and her sheer black thigh-highs, the stockings with wide lace tops. While holding the dress at her waist, she raises one leg and plants her high heeled shoe on the top of the commode as she leans against the wall to maintain her balance. “Hurry, I need to get back,” she says.
It’s all very matter-of-fact. She knows all about me, knew all about me from the beginning, knew I’d be willing, hungry for it, knew that the first time she looked at me.
I don’t say anything. I don’t ask any questions. I’m afraid if I ask a question she’ll be annoyed. I know what she wants anyway. Or at least most of it. I move forward and squat before her, get my face between her spread thighs and start nuzzling and licking the crotch of her panties. She’s damp and ripe and I can smell her, the scent of an aroused cunt increasing my hunger. She suddenly tells me to stop, and I pull my face away. She removes her foot from the commode, stands on two legs, and she quickly peels her panties down, drops them to her ankles and steps out of them.
She’s in a hurry. She leaves her panties on the floor and she puts her foot on the commode again. “Come on,” she says.
I move in again, no time to have a good look at her cunt, her trimmed dark bush, the full lips, she wants my mouth immediately, and in a moment my face is once again buried between her thighs, this time my mouth filled with her soft wetness, her flesh, her thick lips and the trimmed hair.
I devour her. I adore her. Her nectar is both tangy and sweet, delicious and plentiful. I lick and suck and rub my nose and mouth over her lips and clitoris, rub and suck hard until she moans and comes against my face. She holds my head with one hand as she humps against my sucking mouth.
My mouth still on her cunt, I look up at her. When our eyes meet, she says: “I need to pee.”
I remain where I am, and she chuckles as she realizes what it means. “Oh, you’re very naughty,” she says. “Hold still and keep your mouth open.”
Is she surprised? Maybe not. I press my mouth against her cunt, my mouth open and waiting. An instant later she groans and streams into my open mouth, a hot and delicate brine. I manage to get all of it, not a drop escapes my mouth. When she’s finally finished, she gives a last groan and she pushes my face away.
“You’re delicious,” she says.
I retrieve her panties, and when I rise, I hand them to her. “And you too.”
“I want your phone number.”
Will she call? I don’t know. When we’re ready to leave the washroom, she unlocks the door and we walk out. There’s a man in the corridor, but he gives us only a cursory glance as he enters the men’s washroom. When I rejoin the crowd in the gallery, my friend, the artist, is there, and she comes to me with a smile and we start talking about her paintings.