piningshaft

I walked into the bar with her and a few others for the birthday party. We had just the right combination of trust and sexual tension. She sat on a barstool with legs crossed while I stood next to her and ordered us drinks. With one hand she was trying to feel my skin through the buttons in my shirt and it was turning me on. I grabbed the other hand that was under her knee and with my other hand unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock, then put her hand over it and pushed my body up against her legs to close the gap between us so that no one could see.

We continued our conversation as though nothing had changed. It was our little secret. The people surrounding us were totally oblivious to our new intimacy. At first she gently stroked it but then she stopped moving and just held it. Tuned into it. It was a third level of communication: our words, our eyes, her hand holding my cock. We mostly didn't talk about it, but she knew instantly if something she said, or something I saw, turned me on. She felt me slowly growing and shrinking. She felt my heart beating. "It's pulsing!" she said.

We stayed that way for half an hour, talking and drinking our drinks, before I left her to talk with other people. I love playful erotic moments like that. It's not foreplay, that implies it's merely a prelude to some other more important event. A playful erotic moment exists only for itself and implies nothing. I saw her again when the bar was closing and she told me that her pussy was dripping wet and it was all my fault. That made me happy. That always makes me happy.