Unlikely Blind Date

“What am I even doing here?” I muttered to myself for the umpteenth time.

I don’t do blind dates. Not when I was single and certainly not now that I’m married. But when your husband offers to set you up with someone they’re sure is your type, you kind of go with it. Or at least I do, in a moment of weakness, apparently.

“You say you’re tired of being poly in theory, right? Maybe I can help.”

All kinds of things sound reasonable in a post-orgasmic haze.

Now, here I am, sitting alone, waiting for a blind date to arrive.

“How will I know him?”

“Oh, you’ll definitely recognize him. He’s wanted to get close to you for a while now.”

Sitting at “our” table in “our” coffee shop, I sip the drink hubs usually orders for me and think about who we both know who might want to date me.

Only one person comes to mind, though I shove him out as quickly as he arrives. Well…I try. Images flash through my mind. How he cradles hubby’s neck when they kiss. The wink he shoots me when he promises to bring the hubs home in one piece. He’s a genuinely nice guy, who just happens to be sexy as fuck, down with poly relationships, pansexual, and practically perfect in every way.

I shake myself a bit to clear my head, ignoring the heat between my legs, savoring the taste of my coffee, and pretending not to focus on the door.

“He might run late, so be patient. If something comes up, I’ll let you know.”

I run through all the other men I know and no one jumps out as a likely candidate. They’re either very vanilla, very monogamous, or very not my type. Or they’re a dead-sexy man who already fucks my husband regularly.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about who I wish it could be.

His hand cradles my neck while the other travels slowly to find every sensitive spot. A thumb glides across my nipple. The lovely warmth turning into sharp heat with a quick pinch. Those strong fingers running over my side and stomach, tracing the outlines of soft flesh as he moves further, grazing skin that pebbles up, as if to meet his touch. 

I imagine him steadying me as he continues his southward momentum towards my now hot, throbbing center. My clit pulsing in time with my heartbeat. My thighs parting in anticipation. A light stroke first across my labia, and I nearly come undone. The second stroke parts my lips, seeking entry. The third takes my own juices and slides them across my clit. Each touch is enough to make me crave more. Whatever he wants, I’ll give him if he’ll only put his fingers where I need them most.

I come back to myself with a jolt. My thighs squeeze together in an effort to hold in the pleasure and stop myself from reaching between my legs in the middle of the cafe.

A movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. The sunlight glints off the door as it opens. Shadows make it hard to see the person’s face, but my body begins to hum with anticipation. My mind refuses to believe it until I’m looking up, craning my neck, eyes wide and mouth agape, to catch a very familiar wink.

I hope that’s obviously fiction to everyone, y’all. Though I don’t think I’d mind if John Brownstone set me up (post-plague) with someone of his choosing. I’m a bit rusty at the whole smut writing thing, but I’ve been meaning to get back into it with Obscene Ideas: 31 Days of Erotic Fiction. (Disclaimer: I own and run Obscene Ideas with Molly Moore and we sell prompt books (like 31 Days of Erotic Fiction) to help writers get those juices flowing.) Click the badge above to read other stories or to learn how you can join in on the fun.