This story developed from the Kink of the Week "Hands" theme and Wicked Wednesday's "Astonish" prompt. It's a slightly different take on what's becoming a favorite theme of mine. For your musical enjoyment, there's a video after the story of Bob Dylan performing "Shelter from the Storm."
Please click on the badges after the story to read all the other Kink of the Week and Wicked Wednesday posts!
Hope you enjoy,
Shelter from the Storm
By Ria Restrepo
Copyright ©2019. All rights reserved.
Not for the first time, I silently berated myself for choosing a university in the frozen tundra that was Central New York. I could have been in New Orleans or Nashville where the winters were much more reasonable. But no, I had to go Ivy League, so I was stuck in a snow storm that was too treacherous for the puddle jumpers that flew in and out of the tiny two-terminal airport.
Kicking the snow off my boots, I bustled into the tavern across the street from the airport. Since there was no sign of the snow letting up any time soon, the airline had chartered a bus to take whoever wanted to go to New York City. Hopefully, I'd be able to get a real plane there back to Miami, but there were no guarantees. The dorms were closed for winter break, so it was my only real option.
I had some time to kill until the bus arrived, so the tavern seemed as good a place as any to wait. The place was probably busier than it normally would have been in that kind of weather, but it seemed other stranded travelers had the same idea I did. I managed to find a table near a makeshift stage and started pulling off my gloves and coat.
"What can I get you, dear?" a harried, matronly server asked me.
"No, just regular coffee. Steaming hot. In the biggest mug you have."
"You got it."
I was fixing the coffee she brought me, adding just the right amount of sweetener and cream, when a guy with a guitar took the stage. He was good-looking, older than me, maybe in his early thirties with shaggy brown hair and a couple days' worth of stubble on his strong jaw—which I hadn't thought I liked until that moment.
To be honest, I wasn't expecting much from someone performing in a little out-of-way bar. But from the first smooth, clear, resonant note he had me enraptured with his astonishing talent. That he chose to open with Dylan's "Shelter from the Storm" made me love him a little.
Utterly transfixed, I found myself watching the way his hands moved on the guitar. I really didn't know anything about playing a guitar, but I recognized skill when I saw it and heard it. His long, agile fingers shifted easily on the neck, expertly transitioning from one chord to another.
I couldn't help imagining what else his dexterous fingers could do. Squirming in my seat, I let my secretly dirty mind savor an illicit fantasy. Every time he changed his fingering, I could almost feel him exploring my moistening sex, teasing my tender nub briefly before sliding lower into my slick, tight sheath.
When I tore my gaze away from his fingers and looked up, I saw him watching me, his eyes heavy-lidded. He looked as aroused as I felt. Could he possibly know what I was thinking? Instead of making me embarrassed or self-conscious like I would have expected, it was thrilling.
He started playing another song I didn't recognize and guessed it was his own. His strumming hand plucked out a delicate, intriguing melody and my mind went off on another erotic tangent. I thought about his fingers plucking my impossibly taut nipples like that, only harder, much harder. He'd pinch them between his thumbs and index fingers until I was whimpering, writhing, begging—just for him.
I could have stayed there all day, watching and listening to him, but I had a bus to catch and my needy cunt was demanding attention. Normally, I never would have risked masturbating in a public place, but the idea of enduring the long ride to New York in the state I was seemed beyond torturous.
Heading for the ladies' room, I'd hoped to get myself off quickly and quietly, but there was a line of women waiting outside the bathroom. I wondered how many of them were just relieving themselves before getting on the bus, and how many were in a similar predicament and had the same naughty idea.
Since I wasn't going to risk the men's room, I kept going down the hall, turned a corner, and found an unmarked door at the end of it. I lightly knocked on it. There was no response so I carefully opened it. The room was dark, but I easily found the light switch. It appeared to be a storage room with tables and chairs haphazardly stacked in the small space.
Shutting the door behind me, I spotted a lone table beside the door. Not wasting any time, I climbed atop it, my back to the wall, one leg braced up on the edge, and unzipped my jeans. I slipped my hand down inside my soaked panties and gasped when I grazed my hypersensitive clit.
Once again, my mind was filled with my mysterious musician as I coated my fingers with my abundant juices and started circling my clit hard and fast. I was already so worked up I knew it wouldn't take long to reach the orgasm I so desperately craved.
Suddenly the door opened and in walked the object of my wild fantasies. He didn't see me at first since I was behind the door. He closed it, walk in a few steps, then put his guitar in the case I failed to noticed earlier.
When he turned around, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "Sorry, I…ah, I'll just…"
I'd been frozen with panic, my hand still in my jeans, but then I did something uncharacteristically bold.
With my free hand, I beckoned him closer. "You made me so fucking horny."
Trance-like, he eliminated the distance between us. "I got so hard looking at you I don't know how I got through that set."
I took his hand and brought it to my mouth. "Your voice could melt a glacier, but watching your hands play is what really got me."
Placing a soft kiss in the center of his palm, I opened my lips slightly and snaked my tongue out to taste his salty skin. He sucked in a breath as I licked up the length of his middle finger, then took it my mouth.
Sucking his finger, I kept my gaze locked with his. I needed to feel his hand on me. I slowly withdrew his finger from my mouth, lightly scraping the callused tip with my teeth.
"Please, I need you to touch me."
His breathing heavy, he nodded.
I pushed my jeans and panties down past my shaved pussy, giving him better access.
Groaning, he didn't hesitate cupping me in his warm hand, easily sliding the finger I'd been sucking on deep inside my cunt. "Fuck, you're drenched."
"Because of you."
I moaned as he pushed another long finger inside me, fucking me as his thumb strummed my swollen clit. Wanting to return the pleasure he was giving me, I yanked open his jeans, freeing his hard cock. I took him in my still slick grip, loving the feel of his big, steely length in my small hand.
Leaning over me, one hand braced on the wall above my head, he expertly played my sex as I jacked him off. Our hot breaths mingled as we pushed each other closer to the edge, the pleasure building to the breaking point.
"You're such a hot little cunt."
I think he meant it literally, but the idea he was calling me a nasty name intensified the sensations overwhelming my body. Muffling my cry in his shoulder, I came all over his hand, my inner muscles tightening around him again and again.
With a few harsh grunts, he shot his thick load all over my fingers as I milked every last drop.
We stayed like that for several minutes as our breathing calmed, then harsh reality finally hit me.
"Damn, I probably missed my bus."
"I'll give you a ride."
His scorching gaze held mine. "Wherever you want to go."
Being snowed in was turning out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.