I didn't consciously think about it but I just arched my back and switched to fingering myself from behind which felt different and was further liberating as another layer of inhibition peeled away.However, the shift in position had slightly slowed the rush toward orgasm and while I was still totally consumed by this sexual act I also felt like I could take my time to enjoy it.I took the time to smear my whole genital are with the copious amount of fluid I had produced before reinserting my fingers. The sopping wetness was in itself highly erotic.Soon both my hands were wet, my labia, my clitoris and really my whole genital area were slippery and wet and my vagina kept producing more. I took it as a confirmation from my body of the intensity of the pleasure I was feeling. I thought to myself, "Yes this is as good as I thought it was. Look how wet I am getting."My breathing was shallow and quick and I started to quiver and my hips began to relexitively grind against my hands. I was. Absently, her fingers stroked the cigarette pack that lay in front of her, and a feeling, strange but oddly familiar too, bubbled up inside me. I didn’t realize it, but I sighed. The waitress brought my Latte - my Wednesday ritual since I had finished job training and become a full employee, which meant working Saturday mornings and having Wednesday afternoon off - and I sprinkled sugar over it, took the spoon and scooped up a bit of froth. She eyed a pair of Japanese tourists who almost bumped into her because they were so focused on the cameras they were pointing all around. I took another scoop of froth, that yummy little pleasure that, this day, seemed shallow while my eyes rested on her and took in her grace and nonchalance. It was like watching a painting, one of these classics done by a world-renowned artist. Tiny wrinkles spread from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and for a long, intense moment that caught me completely unawares, I felt compelled to just walk over and ask.
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