True Sex Stories: The Luminous Flash

I wondered what he wanted to do. Did he want me lying supine on the wooden coffee table between us? Would he pull my legs apart by the ankles and position himself between them?

I tutor a French Algerian boy once a week. We met through a strictly Platonic ad that he had placed on Craigslist. His family are recent immigrants to the UK. We get together for coffee, and he practices his English on me while occasionally I make a hash of my high school French with him. The boy has a curiosity and a je ne sais quoi recklessness that keeps our conversations engaging despite the differences in our age and experience.

At our most recent meeting, I wore a pleated black skirt that ended mid-thigh and a low-cut white shirt that showed the tops and the sides of my breasts. I had a date later in the evening with a prospective partner who answered this highly non-Platonic Craigslist ad. That date never went anywhere fun: my instincts told me not to trust the man, so I made my excuses and left after the second beer. Anyway, Frank and I had enjoyed a quickie the day before. He visited for half an hour. We fucked through two of his orgasms and cleaned up together in the shower, and then, energized by the sexual interlude, I went back to work. My cunt wasn't pressing to get laid. I would wait for the right man instead of submitting to the wrong one.

At the café, my skirt rode under me when my weight sunk into the plush easy chair and I perched one knee atop the other. Across the coffee table, Ismail's eyes followed the bend of my right leg and trailed along the outside of my thigh nearly to the very top. He gazed into the shadow of the skirt, looked down at the ground, then looked up again. His eyes fixed on mine briefly. A few sentences later, they had dropped to my cleavage. They didn't settle there. No, they descended again. He was evidently a leg man. Ismail stared at my thighs, at the flap of fabric that covered the meeting of my legs, at my calves when I scratched them, glancing away when I caught him looking, stealing back when he thought I didn't notice. I hid my smile as he spoke into his coffee mug, eyes darting downward.

For an hour, his eyes drunk in my freshly moisturized legs, the smooth shaved skin, the tease of the short skirt. Every so often, for the space of half a minute, he studiously avoided regarding my body altogether, as though conscious of doing something wrong, before returning to check me out once more, compelled to do that thing anyway. He ogled, but he didn't leer. The look was admiring and wishful. I was amused. I didn't mind. Resisting the urge to cross my legs the other way, I kept my legs tightly closed and angled my body in the chair to provide him a better view of the upper thigh while I made conversation.

Ismail's pants had tented. He adjusted the way he sat.

I wondered what he wanted to do. Did he want me lying supine on the wooden coffee table between us? Would he pull my legs apart by the ankles and position himself between them? Would his hands caress the contours of my thighs, reaching up to touch what he couldn't see? Would he then lift up my skirt to expose the sheer black panties I had worn, the smooth pubis and the cunt below? I am almost certain he has never had sex. Would he know what to do after that? Does he go down to his knees and tongue my lips and clit through the see through mesh of the front panel? Does he tear off my knickers instead and pull down his jeans and extricate his cock and clamber on top and fuck me? Does he want my legs wrapping his, the soles of my bare feet pressing at the backs of his calves while he cups my breast in his palm and fills my mouth with his tongue? How long would it take for him to come once he is inside my pussy hammering away? Will he go home and masturbate imagining the possibilities: my mouth on his cock, my cunt from behind, my ass?

As I tipped my cappuccino mug upside down to collect the dregs and considered what was bouncing around in Ismail's cranium, I realized that I had become moist between the legs. The notion of taking a boy's virginity, turning him into a man, then training him into a dominant flitted through my skull. Ismail was legal, but far too young. It was a naughty, impossible fantasy.

The air was chill. Goosebumps mustered on my arms. The clock on my phone said that it was time to go. I uncrossed my legs. Pushing off the armrests of the chair, my knees parted an instant as I lifted to my feet. It happened in a flash. It was cute seeing him look while seeming not to.

Republished with permission from Leah Lays London. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.