Allen Travis

[sir.jaerls]

Allen Travis shoved his meal around on the plate. It wasn’t bad food, but he needed to make it last. Pretending to browse the newspaper in his hand, he scanned the room looking for a likely candidate.

In the corner was a young pretty blonde - early twenties, slender waist, long legs telescoping out of a short skirt, large breasts under a t-shirt that proved she wore no bra. She was reading one of those cheap tawdry little romance books and sipping on a diet something at her table by the window.

Every man in the place was looking at her, and she was adding to the customer base of the little coffee shop bistro, as man after man walked by and most came inside.

She was a window display. Allen knew in his heart that she was well aware of the effect her body and provocative clothing had on customers and the men walking past outside. She was exercising her power over them.

The tables were about to turn.

Allen Travis began to relax, breathing deep as his conscience floated across the room and began to whisper in that delicate ear.
***************
Angelica placed the straw on her tongue and wrapped it in her lips. She allowed the tongue to stay partly in view as she sucked the tip of the straw, suppressing a grin as a young man tripped over his feet walking by the window.

She loved to torment them, watch them fall over themselves just to steal a glimpse of her body. Let them look, she was proud of what she had: large breasts that sat high on her chest, nipples that poked through her shirts, slender waist, long legs. Most was a happenstance of birth, but as long as she had them, she could twist men around her little finger.

The diet tea she was drinking now was one of the few things she’d ever had to pay for since high school. Men were easy.

She drank a bit longer, and fell into the book again. Heaving bosoms and turgid members where a bit silly, but the book was just trashy enough to interest her despite the over used clichés.

She squirmed in her seat; the sun coming through the plate glass was growing hotter and more irritating. It seemed to heat her blouse, turning the white fabric scratchy like burlap. Where the shirt touched the back of the chair was like a line of nettles against her skin.

It had to be the fabric softener - she’d just tried a new one…. hadn’t she? Must be, it was an old cotton shirt she’d chosen especially because it had worn so thin…. why was that important? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t think at all, all she could concentrate on was the cloying, painful itching the shirt gave her in the sunlight.

Her breathing sped up, faster, shallower, an edge of desperation echoed in each breath. Why was it important to be in pain? Why did she need to suffer? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t think, couldn’t…

She set the book down and tore off the t shirt. Instant relief flooded her as her breasts were freed into the air. She felt the coolness of the chair on her spine and took another look at the shirt now in her hands. It was possible she would wear it again by accident. She couldn’t imagine going through that again, didn’t dare take that chance. Taking a steak knife from the table, she shredded the t shirt to be sure it could never be worn again.

She arched in her seat, nipples poking up at the ceiling, legs scissoring as she reveled in the cool relief. There was a crowd outside the window, mostly men that hooted and hollered and tapped on the glass. Every man in the place stared at her too. For a moment, she wondered why, her brow furrowed in concentration, but a smooth voice reassured her - after all isn’t that what she came for?

She smiled again and waved to the crowd outside the window. Men were so easy, really.

Picking up the book, she went back to the story. It seemed better somehow, more erotic, more provocative. She felt herself getting wet from the descriptions of Lord Malamute (or something like that) and the girl Allette he’d taken in.

She felt a pressure, an unrelenting need to find release, to find some sort of outlet. Between the men crowding around her, the book in her hand, it was all too much. The pressure kept on, digging into her subconscious until she stood up in a rush and tore off the skirt and panties she wore and sat back down.

The skirt she threw to the men in the shop, the panties bore the steak knife and joined the shirt in a mingled pile of rags.

She giggled; the freedom to just BE was intoxicating. The book called her back, the descriptions of the whipping, the bondage and all the rest made her drip. She tried to touch herself, to rub herself, but the chair was too close to the wall and the table got in the way.

Again, that little voice came to her aid. It was so simple really. She stood again, and sat on the table. From there she could open her legs fully and get to the wet little pussy. She stroked herself as she read, occasionally turning to the window for better light, sometimes back to the room.

Faster tiny circles around her clit, stroking harder as the imagery of the book sank into her mind. Pressing to the hard little bud, a finger dipped into the wet hole and she began pumping herself. Faster and faster till her hand was a blur and she writhed on the table, book forgotten, crying out in a shriek as her orgasm came closer and closer.

When the wave hit her, she bucked on the table and stayed on it surface by laying backward and stretching out so her legs flopped open on one end and her head dangled off the other. Her body spasmed and roiled, she screamed in release and triumph and agony. When it peaked, she lay there as the last of the aftershocks rolled through her.

Allen Travis closed his eyes as his mind returned to his body. Across the restaurant, amid the applause, Angelica screamed and grabbed her clothing only to find them unwearable. Screaming again she pressed through the crowd of men, hands groping her as she ran and fled out of the door.