I can see her watching me. Pretending not to, casting her eyes down to the novel in front of her every time I catch her eye from across the patio of this open-air café. Well, I've been watching her, too—long enough to know that she's been "reading" the same page for the last 45 minutes. I'm used to stares, and I've gotten pretty good at deciphering them. I know the glare of disapproval by those who think my tattoos, piercings, and radically dyed hair are wholly inappropriate for a young lady such as myself. But I much prefer this kind of staring, not of outright lust, but of curiosity and tentative arousal—usually from young, twentysomethings like this luscious little chick who's looking at me now, totally oblivious to the copy of Jane Eyre she's supposed to be reading. I know I look pretty good, too, in this wifebeater tank that shows off the tats on my shoulders and my armbands. When I catch her looking at me again, I hold her eyes for a second and slowly lick the silver bead on the tip of my lipring—a subtle move, indiscernible to most of the other patrons of the café, but one that reads loud and clear to the prey of my seduction, four tables over. She blushes and looks back down at her page, but I can see her trying to keep herself from grinning. It's a weakness of mine, these straight girls. I live in a college town, so there's usually no shortage of nubile innocents who are living away from home for the first time and want to "experiment." Luckily for them, I don't mind being the lab. I put out my cigarette, take a final sip of my espresso, and shut my notebook rather audibly. I make a big show of putting it into my backpack and I get her attention—there it is. That's the look I was going for. She looks at me with mild panic, thinking I'm going to leave and kicking herself for being so timid. I get up and make like I'm going for the gate, then at the last minute swerve over to her table and sit down in the empty chair across from her.
"Hi, I'm Toni," I say, offering my hand, as natural as if we'd just been introduced at a party.
"H-hi!" she replies, her brown doe-eyes wide with surprise at my arrival. She's nervous, but excited—more the latter than the former, I can tell. I hold a beat longer than necessary for a standard handshake, and trace my fingers along her palm as I take my hand out of hers. I see the soft hair on her arms jump up with gooseflesh at the feel of my touch. She's mine.
"Reading Jane Eyre, I see. How do you like it?"
"It's . . . okay, I guess." She looks baffled. It never ceases to amaze me how many people naturally assume I'm illiterate just because I don't wear LL Bean or some shit like that. I read more than most. She recovers quickly.
"I just haven't gotten very far yet, so I'm not sure what I think of it . . . yet." She bites her pouty pink lip ever so slightly, locking those big brown eyes of hers with my heavily-lined hazel ones. Lovers have told me that my eyes turn from their ordinary hazel to a deep emerald when I am in lust, and I am pretty sure that they are sparkling now. I can see the outline of her bra, barely traceable under the baby blue of her tight-fitting T-shirt. They hold her breasts into a most appealing shape. Underneath the table, I slip my foot out of my clog and gently trace my toe along the bare side of her foot, which is left wonderfully naked by the strappy high-heeled sandals she's wearing.
"I have the BBC version of Jane Eyre on DVD, at home," I tell her, moving in for the kill.
"Actually, I live right around the corner from here. You're welcome to come over and borrow it, if you like." I pay extra to have my own studio so close to the college campus and the coffee shops that are frequented by the more studious of the undergrads, but it has been worth every cent of the ridiculous rent I pay. It's always a risk, being as bold as I am right now. I could scare her off, but I really get a sense that she's willing.
"You mean, right now?" she asks, more hopeful than scared.
"Sure!" I reply, giving her a wicked grin. She finishes her coffee in a quick gulp, puts her book into her purse and stands up. We head out the gate as naturally as if we'd come in together, and head for my apartment.
I live on the second story, so when we get there, I gesture at the staircase.
"Ladies first," I tell her, and she giggles at my mock-chivalry. Just the same, she walks up the stairs ahead of me and I get the pleasure of a close-up view of the way her full, round ass fills out the denim miniskirt she's wearing. I take a quick glance around—none of the neighbors are out or watching, so I lift my hand to her bottom and give it a quick squeeze. I want her to know what she's getting into before she comes inside; with this gesture, there's no mistaking my intentions. With my hand still on her ass, she freezes just before the top of the stairs. I walk right up to her and press my tits into her back and place my hand gently on her hip, my fingers stretching delicately toward her.
"Do you still want to come in?" I whisper with my mouth right next to her ear. I flick my tongue against her earlobe and tease the little gold hoop earring she's wearing. She's speechless but she slowly nods, so I guide her with my hand on the small of her back to the front door of my apartment and I let us in.
"Would you like anything to drink? Water, Tea, Wine, Scotch?"
"No thanks," she replies, walking slowly away from me to examine the framed prints on my wall. I do amateur photography, and my apartment is my gallery. The one that draws her attention is a self-portrait of mine, a black and white, very tasteful nude in which I only appear from the neck down. I fix myself a scotch on the rocks and watch her looking at my picture, transfixed by the sight of my ample breasts and pierced nipples.
"Do you like my photographs?" I ask her, striding across the room with the scotch in my hand.
"They're beautiful," she says. "Who is the model?" I point at the tattoos on the picture, then on my arm.
"Me, of course." She giggles.
"I didn't realize, I thought you meant you took these pictures."
"I did," I reply, taking a long sip of the scotch.
"Want me to take your picture?"
"Like these?" She asks, aghast, indicating my nudes. I laugh.
"Nude? Not necessarily. Unless you wanted to." I flop down on the futon and pat on the cushion next to me, inviting her to sit down.
"Look, I'm going to be blunt. Have you ever been with another woman?" She sits down gingerly and looks at me very seriously.
"No, I haven't. But I think I would like to." I set down my scotch and run my fingers through her silky, long brown hair. I pull her face toward me and give her a warm, passionate kiss, letting my tongue slowly and purposefully massage hers. I keep kissing her until her rigid shoulders relax, then I pull back and look her in the eyes.
"You can leave now, if you want." I tell her, indicating the door.
"If you stay, I will fuck you."
A/N- Toni a little bold
Excuse mistakes
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