He puts down his utensils and sniffs the thumb that probed my ass and licks the finger that went inside my now dripping pussy. "Smells great. Tastes even better" looking me straight in the eyes. My legs tremble as I feel a small orgasm ripple through my body. My nipples strain against the fabric of my blouse as push my chest out. When I turn to walk away I arch my back pushing my butt out at him. I keep walking until I am in the ladies. Standing looking in the mirror I see him come in the door turn and lock it. His intent is clear as he stands behind me his thick long white cock poking out of his unzipped trousers. He lifts the hem of my skirt to my hips. His hands reach round and squeeze my breasts firmly. Painfully. His big dick slides between my legs rubbing against my pussy lips. I spread my legs wider. I look down and see the head of his dick poking out between my legs. That is one fucking huge dick. It slides back splitting my moist pussy lips. The head nestles at the entrance. He’d told me about the river, about trading in previous centuries, about pirates and smuggling and underground tunnels leading down to the quays. Such history seemed somehow incompatible with the modern metropolis, even with the early settlers in their covered wagons fighting their way across mountains from the eastern states. His people weren’t settlers. He’d lived in northern England until his mother returned to the West Coast when he was ten. He liked to think he was Scottish, citing a father from one of the cities, but in the quiet of one early morning he admitted the truth – he’d never known his father and his mother wasn’t saying who caused him to be born. She was French with vague Irish connections, but it helped him to create his own background, to believe he had a bond with the visiting folk singers who trotted backwards and forwards between Scotland and the West Coast. I couldn’t stand out here any longer. It was time to go in. ‘Open mic?’ I asked the bartender, wiping one.
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