Starbucks

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.