Friday afternoons are my obligatory time at the Starbucks. It's a little one sitting quietly down that strip mall 5 minutes from my house. I like to drive home a little early on Fridays, because things are often slow at the office. I get to the Starbucks and order a tall vanilla soy mocha and take out my laptop and check my E-mail and read the newspaper and occasionally write my blog. This is one of those days.
The Starbucks isn't very full. It's mostly suits--men like me who are working diligently in a city that just recently expanded because of the arrival of a couple of coastal financial houses. They live here, often with a couple of young children, just like me, with their smart phones that have the family photo as the screensaver. Occasionally there are a few attractive women there, though they aren't usually very young. People from my parts are still attached to the old school values, and more than a handful of men have their wives stay at home and care for the children.
One of those ladies today was sitting at a corner table with her son, a beautiful toddler with blonde curls and blue eyes. I myself have always been a little jealous of blondes, that whimsical eastern European blood in me boiling with a frequent and physical inferiority complex. I watch the slightly plump woman tending to her son and wondered what it would be like if I did something violent to her. I occasionally have these violent thoughts, which sometimes disturb me, but my old therapist told me that intrusive thoughts are normal things as long as I realize that all of us have them and none of us, save a few, would act on them.
I imagine myself tying her up in long leather belts. She's naked. She's lying on a large soft pillow top bed--itself wrapped up in a plastic cover. Her hands were grasping at things involuntarily. Her wrists were tied up to the bed frames--a bit rusty. It was a dark, damp, dusty basement in a suburban house. My house, maybe, where all my old furnitures are stored. Her mouth was stuffed with my socks. My dirty, sweaty, smelly socks that I just took off. She is struggling a bit now and making muffled noises, but her red lips are still as titillating as ever. I climb into the bed, slowly unbutton her translucent skirt, and a couple of smooth round sweet things jump out at me, and I squeeze them really hard. I bite down on them. She squirms a little. Her feet are kicking. I slap her hard, and her lips start to bleed and she stops kicking. I slowly slip her panties down. It was black and silky. I lick her slowly, deliberately, listening to her failing miserably in holding her moans. I put my finger into it, feeling that moist warmth inside. I am still in my office gear, and I decide to take her right then. I unbutton my pants, pull off my underwear and direct myself straight at the depth of her and push onward. I roll up my sleeves and grabbed her ankles so she can't struggle. I hold her legs up high so I can penetrate her as deeply as possible. I feel the tightness and the squeezing motion. I curse a few dirty words at her. I can already feel the tide of pleasure coming up higher and higher--I know I wasn't going to last very long and suddenly through that flood gate I give into that fall, into an abyss, and I wake up.
My imagination makes me erect for a few minutes, and my underwear is stained with a few drops of clear liquid. I see her smiling at me and saying hi to me. I reciprocate the courtesy. I wonder how much she knows and how much she would want to know.