54. I had a late. . . .
I had a late supper and killed some time at a movie. After the show got out at eleven, I went home, took a shower, and made a beeline for Lederer’s. I walked up to the counter and plunked my butt on a stool like a customer; Grace brought me a cup of coffee and a happy grin. “Yee ha,” she said. “Hey, mister, I like your looks. What’s your schedule?”
“Yee ha yourself. It’s good to see you,” I said. “How was your Christmas?”
Grace put out her little red tongue, which I did not fail to appreciate. “It sucked, like it always does,” she said. “Christmas is for kids. How was yours?”
“Lonely. Quiet. Dull,” I said. “I got some rest; I guess I needed that.”
“I didn’t get any,” she said. “Rest, that is. You want to meet me in that booth back there? I can come and talk to you for a couple of minutes.”
I turned to look, my neck suddenly hot. The back booth was empty; in the next one closer, shielding it from the door, two overweight young couples were tucking into plates of ham and eggs. Mennonite farmers, maybe, stopping for breakfast on their way home to Milford after a forbidden evening at the movies.
“Sure,” I said. “See you over there.”
Imagining that everyone could notice my stiffening dong, I carried my coffee to the rear booth and took my seat, with my back to one of the Mennonite women. Minus her apron, Grace popped in beside me before I could catch my breath. “Hello, hello,” she growled softly as she grabbed me through my pants. “God damn, I’ve missed you, you bastard.”
“I missed you, too,” I said nervously. I would’ve kissed her, but her eyes warned me against it. She let go of my dick and I heard her shoes drop to the floor; then she hitched herself up, made a quick movement with her arms under the table, and placed her rolled-up panty hose on the Formica beside my cup.
“Top that,” she said.
“Can’t.”
“Guess you lose, then. Gimme.” She took my left hand under the table like a bass taking a plug and placed my fingers between her thighs. Then she continued where she’d left off, unbuttoning my fly. My arm was in a goofy position, shoulder forward and elbow oddly crooked, but I managed to rub her a little. “Mm hmm,” she said; as she took a moment to further position my fingers before seizing my cock, skin to skin this time, I distinctly heard the woman just behind me stop chewing. A shift took place behind us, a weighty sensation, as when a ship engages its propeller and the crew’s sense of the vertical changes by a couple of degrees.
Grace enthusiastically pumped my prod as my left middle finger circled her button, but knowing we had the attention of an audience complicated my responses so that what would’ve been a quick and quirky squirt became elusive. Not that I’d been jacked off in restaurants all my life. Grace pressed her fluffy head against the back of the booth and clamped her thighs over my hand; her eyes went vacant and her nose ran. I increased the vigor of my twiddling, finally pressing her with my whole arm and shaking her as I did so. Her stroking of my cock became fitful and inattentive, though her grip was harsh; now she left off entirely and embraced my arm with her whole body. She seemed to levitate for a moment, silently lifting herself off the bench and giving a little whinny as her hand joined mine and stilled its activity. Her face as she came took on a sorrowing vacancy, as of someone in the extreme of effort or pain.
Finally, shivering, she brought my hand above the table for inspection. “Nice soft fingers,” she said appreciatively. “Whew!”
“No work, no calluses,” I said. “Pencil pushing’s not all bad. You should try a brain job sometime.”
“I know plenty of men who don’t work,” she said. “They’ve got hard hands anyway.” She leaned against my shoulder, peering down at my drooping dick. “What’s the matter,” she said, “are we shy?” I rolled my eyes toward the Mennonites, toward the restaurant and its customers behind us. “Prude,” she said. “That’s what makes it fun.” Almost nonchalantly, Grace dropped her head to my lap and started licking me. Shocked, I fought off an impulse to turn, to see who’d noted her absence from the cafe’s horizon; I made a halfhearted attempt to lift her, but her fine long fingers digging for my testicles weakened my resolve. She licked and nipped and then sucked and squeezed, while I blushed and sweat and watched my coffee slosh onto the table.
My internal semen-factory quickly gave up the fight. Very soon, as if it were happening to someone else, I registered the fountain building within me. White-hot sparks danced in front of my eyes, a hard pain drilled the center of my head. The ecstasy when it came was a searing shock that engulfed my whole body, only starting at the root, quickly followed by intolerable pleasure as Grace licked away my come; I felt sure I had moaned aloud, and was convinced everyone in Lederer’s had heard me. “Stop!” I whispered, nervelessly lifting her head away from me. “Help! Uncle! White flag! I give up!” Grace sat up and gave me a merry smile, my sperm coating her lips, my balls gone numb beneath her hand. “Might as well swallow it,” I said, smiling back. “No public kissing is allowed.”
She glanced past me, her eyes twinkling, then turned to face the rear wall and picked up her panty hose; beads of spilled coffee clung to the nylon. Carefully, I began putting my throbbing parts back where they belonged, beneath two layers of winter clothing. “I used to be one of them, you know,” Grace said softly.
“One of who?” I flicked my glance toward the Mennonites’ table behind us. “Them?”
She nodded, her black eyes shining. “No kidding,” she said; she pulled her panty hose on and cocked a skinny leg up onto the bench to replace a shoe. “It was in another life,” she said, “sort of.”
“You don’t seem like the type,” I said. “Can you come over tomorrow? We’ll do a crossword puzzle or something.”
“I can come for a while in the afternoon,” she said. “I really am hungry to spend some time with you.”
“What about your— You won’t have any problems?” I was referring to The Goon, though I didn’t want to mention him.
“Not for a week or so,” she said. “Though I never can tell, really. Anyway I’ll come by around four. You better be ready for me.” She gave me a farewell pat under the table. Behind us, people were going out and coming in; the waitresses rushed to and fro in their burnt-orange uniforms. I said goodbye, drank the last swallows of my cold coffee, and made my way to the door. As I passed the booth where the young Mennonites had been, I glanced at their plates. They hadn’t finished their breakfasts. I wished them a pleasant tumble once they got home.
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