Message-ID: <59461asstr$1255050601@assm.asstr.org>
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cafe (M/g, tease, nosex)
Lines: 291
Date: Thu, 08 Oct 2009 21:10:01 -0400
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<1st attachment, "cafe.txt" begin>

All the usual disclaimers apply. This is fiction, ladies and
gentlemen, please try to remember that. This story may be freely
distributed on the condition that it is reproduced in its
entirety, including my website and e-mail information, and this
disclaimer.

If you like this and want more, please visit www.asstr.org/~zack/

If you would like to get in touch (and I'd love to hear from
you), I can be reached at zackmcnaught@hotmail.com.

Cheers,

Zack Mack




Cafe


Condensation beaded the glass of my gin and tonic. A
sophisticated drink, because this was a sophisticated kind of
place. Even in the heat of the day, it wouldn't do to appear
anything less than cool and composed, not here, not amongst the
beautiful people. I could be one of them if I had to, knew how to
dress, knew the right way to smile, the right things to say. I
lifted the glass to my lips, tilted, and held it there, taking a
long draught. Except, and you'd have to be observant to notice,
the level barely dipped. A private investigator had been paid a
princely sum to teach me how to pull that trick off to
perfection. I'd never failed to do my master proud.

My reason for being on the terrace of this particular
establishment? Perhaps the root cause is better left unspoken.
You'll come, I imagine, to your own conclusions. I wouldn't
insult you by suggesting that you'll almost certainly be wrong,
even if I believe it myself. It should be said that the subject
of this tale is not my reason for being there, though you'd be
forgiven for thinking that I was making excuses. The fact that
this was, to all intents and purposes, a family joint (oh yes,
only the most privileged, but families nonetheless) makes my
motives even more suspicious, when you read what I have to say. I
implore you, though, to consider that coincidences do occur, that
there was a legitimate reason for my attendance that day. I
hadn't gone searching for it. The 'it' will become clear in time,
though I suspect you already have your own ideas.

The first thing I noticed, as I returned the aforementioned glass
to its beautifully printed paper coaster amongst a clink of
rapidly warming ice, was the scent of her. To be precise, there
were in fact two scents, but I had already noticed and discounted
the richer, more pungent of the two as it approached from behind.
Only in passing close to me could I detect the other aroma, more
subtle by far, and ever so much more alluring. I cannot describe
it to you, even having earned a crust for many years as a
professional 'nose'. It can only be defined by its source. It has
been written of so many times in the annals of hack fiction such
as this, and yet not one person has been able to adequately
relate it as anything other than 'girl'.

If you know the scent, you'll know what I mean. Subtle, musky,
slightly sweet, suggestive of youth but with adult overtones. It
emanates from the core of their being, and its range is
restricted to a short, intimate zone close to the body. Only
because she passed me within a couple of feet, and because I was
trained to detect the faintest trace of passing fragrances, did I
detect it. I held it for as long as I could, desperately trying
to prolong the experience, but ultimately unable to make the
moment last longer that a second or two. Oh how I longed to lean
toward her as she passed, to bring myself closer to the source,
to revel in the assault on my senses. But that would not have
been right, not in this place. Someone would have noticed, even
if they had no understanding of the reason for the changes in my
behaviour.

Scent had brought me to this place, and now scent had changed my
day immeasurably for the better. Only when that first
appreciation had passed was I able to once more open my eyes
(closed, dear reader, only long enough that I appeared to blink
slowly), and allow vision to complete the picture. Short, lithe
and with poker straight, shimmering brown hair half way to her
waist, she was surely a figment of my imagination. A dream come
to life, perhaps, or my subconscious taunting me. How much had I
drunk? I didn't dare avert my eyes to check, but I knew that it
couldn't be more than a finger or two. Not a hallucination, then.
But something formed of pure light, moulded into the body of a
goddess, ripe before her time and walking, hips swaying, away
from me across the flags of the terrace.

The mind is a wondrous thing. It can observe so much in so little
time, as long as you understand how to access the information.
Hypnotists can, but they're not alone. Anyone can have perfect
recall should they simply be trained correctly. And I had
(another piece of the puzzle...). Within seconds she was out of
sight, but as I carefully worked a diversion into my routine
(always have olives brought to your table), I was already
beginning to play those brief moments back, examining and
dissecting them, recalling every possible morsel of information.

Her hair was held back behind her ears, only the left of which I
had seen. It looked small, curved over at the top, but with a
shapely lobe at its base and blessedly unencumbered by an
earring, which is a rarity in these times. Pretty, as much as
ears can be said to be. The side of her face was visible only in
part, but showed rounded, slightly flushed cheeks, with a slender
jaw line below. Her face would, I reckoned, be cute rather than
beautiful. He shoulders were mostly bared, their flowing lines
interrupted only by the thin straps of her sun dress. They were
narrow, tanned and glistening very slightly with a thin sheen of
sweat. It was, after all, a very hot afternoon. Her back plunged
gracefully down to hips which, whilst they had not yet started to
grow, still formed an attractive waistline, which swayed slightly
as she walked. And beneath those hips, outlined to perfection in
the thin, plain material of the dress, was the most shapely
behind I had laid my eyes on that day, week, month, possibly that
year. It led to thin legs, visible from mid thigh beneath the hem
of the dress, as tanned as her shoulders and finished with dainty
feet in what amounted to the slightest suggestion of a pair of
flip-flops, no more than a thin rubber sole attached loosely to
her feet with strings of leather.

I revelled in the image of her I was able to conjure in my mind.
I had no need even to close my eyes. As I ran down the list of
attributes from head to toe, my mind latched onto half a thought,
which had remained buried among the overwhelming tide of
reactions to the sight and smell of her. Now it came roaring to
the surface, demanding attention, causing my cover to slip as I
choked momentarily on another half-of-a-half of a sip of my
drink.

The dress had been figure-hugging, in a way which was remarkably
suggestive on a girl that age, though you would have to have a
certain mindset to see it as anything other than innocent aping
of her mother's apparel, which was equally close-fitting. What I
had failed to register, as my eyes scanned her form, was that
where you would expect to see the telltale ridge of her underwear
beneath the surface, there was nothing. Did they make those
special pants for wearing under tight dresses for girls that age?
I didn't think so. She could be wearing a small pair of the adult
kind, but the more I considered it, the more I became certain in
my mind that the material had moved in such a fashion as to
suggest that nothing came between it and her soft skin.

I sat stunned for a moment, unable to think. Another cover
automatically slid into place as I picked up my mobile phone from
its position on the table and began to fiddle with the buttons as
though I were sending a message. In reality, the movement of my
fingers disguised the movements of my mind. If I was correct, a
girl of an age certain to cause significant incarceration should
boundaries be overstepped had walked past in a figure hugging
dress, a pair of barely-there flip-flops and absolutely nothing
else. My waking dreams, my fantasies, were full of girls such as
this, though never did I think it possible that one may in fact
exist. That she would walk past within arm's reach, and allow the
scent of her very body to wash over me was beyond all
plausibility, and yet...

And yet it had happened. And what was more, here she was,
emerging with her mother from the cool, dark interior of the
establishment, slender glass of Coke in hand. She was unaffected
by the need for graceful walking, a feat her mother was unable to
match, and as such moved with more poise, balance and ultimately,
beauty. Her face was more attractive than I had given her credit
for, blessed with a button nose, adorned with a smattering of
freckles which began high on one cheek and traversed the delicate
bridge of her nose to the other. Her eyes, contrary to my
expectations, were deep pools of blue. Not the brilliant,
electric blue of Nordic extraction, but rather a dark, lustrous
colour which seemed to draw you in, and was suggestive of wisdom
beyond her years. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds, but
she was scanning the clientele and moved on as though I made no
impression on her.

The only free table was directly across from me. The mother had
come around to the nearest side, and I thought for one,
horrifying moment that my view of this nymph would be obscured.
It wasn't to be though, as the mother, in search of shade,
shifted clockwise around the table to the next chair on the left
and thus provided me with an unencumbered view of her daughter.

I could see below the table, and that is where, inevitably, my
eyes drifted. Let us be clear - this girl was a beauty, and had I
been afforded no other view of her I would have revelled in the
wonderful lines of her face. But I was given a choice, and under
those circumstances I had very little option but to concede
control of my eyes to my libido. And so my gaze hovered a couple
of inches below the table where, in the shadow of her dress,
those lithe legs disappeared.

They were ever so slightly parted, her feet unable to reach the
floor, flip-flops discarded below. Even in the strong light,
though, and perhaps because if it, I could see no further than
mid-thigh. I craned my neck here and there, desperate to see if a
better view could be had, but none could. Her sex was
tantalisingly out of reach of my sight, and I wanted nothing more
than to glimpse it, if but briefly. Cover be damned, I was
staring, and I didn't care who caught me. Hormones had beaten
common sense to a pulp, and it was this lack of control which led
to my downfall. I was caught staring. By the girl.

She was looking at me. Waiting for me to make eye contact. When I
did, she frowned at me, telling me off. I coloured instantly, and
grabbed my drink, obscuring her from view, shutting out the
unspoken reprimand. When I lowered the glass once more it was
empty but for the ice and a now rather forlorn-looking slice of
lemon. Not daring to look back at the girl, I caught the waiter's
eye and signalled that another drink was necessary. His
obsequious smile made me cringe - he knew I was drinking slowly.
Didn't know why, but knew in a roundabout way that I wasn't there
just for the drinks. Still, he would bring me my order, and
accept the 20 slipped beneath the coaster on my table.

While I waited, I occupied myself with my phone. This time,
though, there was direction: brining up camera mode (the only
reason I paid so much for the thing), I tried my hardest to
surreptitiously capture a photo of the girl's legs. My efforts
were in vain, however - the vagaries of light and shadow defeated
the damnable thing, and her lower half was shrouded in shadow no
matter what configuration I tried. The returning waiter passed me
my drink and, professional to the last, palmed my pay-off without
the slightest hint of recognition.

I began to glance around the terrace at the other patrons,
letting my eyes stray past the girl but never linger, allowing me
to determine that she was now engaged in animated conversation
with her mother. Carefully, with discretion upmost in my mind, I
allowed my gaze to fall upon her legs beneath the table once
more. Only for a second or two would I allow it to stop there,
before moving on. The girl's legs were moving around as she
spoke, and as I built up a series of images in my mind,
glance-by-glance, I became aware of something both surprising and
exciting in equal measure. Her legs, perhaps of their own accord,
perhaps deliberately, were definitely moving apart.

The next minutes past at glacial pace. Seconds stretched to
minutes, minutes to hours. The thumping of my heartbeat in my
ears drowned out all sound. Slowly, inexorably, the thin, tanned
thighs moved further and further apart. Occasionally they would
draw together once more, dashing my hopes, but those same hopes
were always resurrected as a few seconds later the limbs would
part once more.

Suddenly, so suddenly that it came as a shock after such a wait,
her legs parted that final, fateful few degrees. The rush of
blood to my head almost caused me to black out, and the pounding
in my ears reached jackhammer intensity, for my surmise was
correct. There, open to my view and unrestricted by cloth of any
kind, was the core of the girl's being, her sex. Incredibly
soft-looking lips, pinker at their centre than further around,
like a peach with a deep cleft running down the centre,
interrupted by the protruding nubbin of the part that felt best
of all. I stared, uninhibited, until, perhaps only three or four
seconds later, her thighs snapped shut and stayed that way.

The spell broken, I looked up to see her staring directly at me.
However, there was in this look no sign of reproach. It was a
coy, naughty look, accompanied by a flushing of the cheeks. Her
mother was on the phone to someone, and while she spoke, her
daughter was teasing the old pervert across the way. With one
last half smile, she looked away, and rested her chin on her
hand, elbow on the table.

I sat all but motionless for the next minute, though it could
have been an hour or a day for all the sense of passing time I
experienced. Then they were on the move, the mother leading the
way, back past me and out onto the street. The girl lagged behind
and, as she passed gave me the coy half smile again, raising my
blood pressure even above the peak it had previously attained.
With a long indrawn breath I smelled her again, delighted beyond
words to note that her fragrance was stronger than before, tinged
with spice in a way that it hadn't been. For, as much as I was
excited, she, too, was affected by our encounter. With one,
lingering look I watched her amazing, unrestrained backside sway
excitingly out of my life forever.
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