The Man on the Phone

"Because I like it when it's wet."

The comment brought her to a halt, coming to her from the opposite side of a display of books where a man was having a conversation on his cell phone. She forgot about the cooking section, her destination. More than likely it was a totally innocent comment, something about the weather or sculpting clay. Lots of things are better when they're wet, she thought to herself. But for some reason only one seemed to come to mind at that moment. Her curiosity piqued, she listened, sure the matter would become clear with his next comment.

"Well take them off then." His voice was soft, and his tone almost casual. But it wasn't quite casual….not quite. He was talking the way someone might talk to fool a casual listener into thinking it was a how's-the-weather-fine-thank-you kind of conversation, when it was much more than that. She'd used that tone herself when fighting with her boyfriend at a restaurant just days prior, on the day when he'd dumped her, out of the blue, and for no reason. Surrounded by other diners, she'd used that tone, trying to hide the hurt and pleading in her words, the sense of loss, and of failure. "I'm not sure this is the best place for this conversation," she'd said. "I hear what you're saying but I hope there's room to talk about it."

But there had been no room. It was a final humiliation to top the pile of humiliations that had been their relationship. She'd gotten good at that tone because of him, hiding her fears and embarrassment in public places. She knew it well enough to recognize it.

But this man was hiding..no, wrong word….masking something quite different. There was no loss, no failure, no shame in his words. Just quiet confidence, and a kind of insistence, unspoken yet undeniable, and she felt it thrum through her like music so loud you feel it in your chest. "I know where you are, darling. I know exactly where you are. Now please take off your panties."

She listened, standing stock still, till she realized she wasn't breathing, then forced herself to move. She matched his slow strides, staying close, pretending to browse casually. He was listening, or waiting, strolling slowly up and down the aisle hidden from her, his footfalls soft and unhurried. What was going on, she wondered? To distract herself from wondering, she looked for the first time at the book titles, and groaned inwardly. The books were all to do with gay and lesbian issues and erotic fiction. She hoped none of her friends saw her there.

"Good girl." came the quiet voice, smiling now. "Very good." There was a part of her that wanted to fly into an indignant rage and confront him for that, for calling his girlfriend or wife or whoever she might be a "good girl." Part of her wanted to slap his face and tell him to join the rest of us in the new millennium, to strike a blow for women everywhere….but that feeling was fleeting. There was no arrogance or condescension in his voice, no deprecation. His tone held nothing but that quiet, subtle power. Surprised as she was that her indignance faded as quickly as it had flared, she was shocked to realize something else.

Part of her wished he had been speaking to her, telling her she was his good girl. A tingle came to life between her legs.

Who was he? What was he doing here? Who was he talking to? She felt a strong desire to find out, and decided she had to at least see what he looked like. Putting on her best casual demeanor to hide her speeding heart, she strolled casually around the corner. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him, his back towards her, a hand in his back pocket, the other holding the cell to his ear. Dark hair, medium build, his clothes a bit rumpled. He was nothing remarkable, and she smiled a little. He'd see her shortly, she thought, and she could imagine his flush of embarrassment, his awkward body language. He'd scuttle off someplace more private to finish his little conversation. She'd smile at him, just a little, as he passed, like he was just a blip on her radar screen.

But when he turned, there was no embarrassment in his expression. There was no awkwardness in his body language. In fact, he radiated that same quiet confidence, that insistence, that was the defining characteristic of his voice. His eyes rested on hers for a moment, and then floated down her body, frankly appraising her modest dress, her curves, and then resting again on her face. His expression went from mild curiosity to mild realization, and a subtly lurid smile touched the corners of his mouth.

She felt like a deer in headlights, unable to move. The flush of embarrassment that should have been his rose in her own neck and cheeks. He knew she'd been listening. Somehow he knew everything. "Yes darling. Now I want you to touch." And oh, that voice, and his eyes, and the thought of that woman touching herself for him on the other end of the line, her legs open, gleaming naked and wanton below her hiked up skirt, the folds of her sex open and hungry, his to take and use, ready to do whatever he wanted, to please him. Her blush deepened as she felt that familiar loosening feeling start between her own legs. She wanted to look away from him, but she couldn't. He shifted his stance casually, hip cocked, weight on one leg, his eyes boring into her, peeling back the layers, seeing into her, through her. "Yes, your pussy dear. And just one for now. Just one finger. And slowly….start slowly."

He started to walk slowly towards her, strolling along the book display, a fingertip dragging gently along its length. He walked around behind her slowly, not disguising his gaze like hands on her body. She was at the restaurant again, living that humiliation again, that failure. She was fourteen years old having her first orgasm on her mother's foot massager. She was getting groped by Charlie Rustigan in the back of his appalling yellow Camaro. She was getting her period for the first time during gym class and fleeing for the bathroom, sure she was dying. Her entire life was a library, and he was browsing the index cards, just with his eyes. Behind her, he was telling her yes, use two. She was ready, and it was time for two, his voice coming from all around her, inside her. She shifted on her feet, her pussy shifting just slightly, sending a hungry tingle through her engorged clit. "That's very good," he said. "That's my girl."

He emerged into her line of sight again, but much nearer to her now. His eyes were on hers again. She was aware that her breathing was deep and slightly ragged, and her nipples were so hard they hurt, defying bra and sweater to catch his attention. A random thought floated through her mind…she didn’t even know is name.

And then he was telling her no, no darling. Not yet. You must not. Not yet.

"Beg first." He said. And oh god, that voice.

"Please" she whispered.

He smiled.