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All at once I felt two fingers inside my sopping wet pussy. I jumped. You didn’t stop. You slowly fucked me with your fingers, never once letting up on my clit. It built up and built up so much that I could not take it. I leaned forward and grabbed your neck – biting into it so I would not scream. You kept up your slow and steady pace – building up my orgasm. I could not take it. It was right there – I was going to cum and nothing was going to stop me. I crashed over the edge, shaking and moaning and whimpering. It would not stop – you did not stop. You kept up your rhythm, stroking and rubbing. My orgasm was so intense – and you whispered in my ear to look at you. “Look me in the eyes”, you commanded. I did. My orgasm came to its’ peak, and I squirted all over the bar stool and the floor of the bar. I fell limply into your arms, and you stroked my short hair, peppering my head with kisses. I could not speak. I lifted my face and you kissed my nose. My checks. My chin. And once. “Kinda makes you wonder what they were talking about, huh?” She sat close to me speaking a little louder than a whisper. I jumped, not realizing that someone had sat down next to me on a bench in front of this painting. “I don’t think they were talking.” I said as I shifted uncomfortably to see who it was that sat next to me and was bold enough to speak to a stranger at a museum. Staring back at the painting, I said, “I think the café was too crowded and there wasn’t anywhere left to sit. They were staring at each other in greeting. Making sure it was okay to sit down and join the person who was there first.” “How do you explain the smile in her eyes? Or the upward turn to his lips at the corners?” I turned to fully look at this woman who felt that it was so important to share her opinion about this painting with a perfect stranger. I was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and an un-tucked plaid button down oxford. Dirty old sneakers and I hadn’t shaven in two days. My black hair.
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