I don't know how it was for you the first time! — for many, as far as I know, not great — but for me! — I'm telling you. I'm eighteen, my boy is eighteen, so we're sitting in some cafe downtown, it's raining outside, we got soaked, that's why we came in — to dry off, warm up, drink tea from a spoon from the teapot and nothing more. Ah, no — not a chance. The boy comes to me, left hand around my waist, then (as if by accident) a bit higher, over my chest, right hand between my legs, I'm freezing, he says, teeth chattering. "Fool, what are you doing, stop it, they'll see"! Yeah, right — like he stopped. On the contrary! — his fingers are moving, moving

— as if playing the piano. Well, okay, I think — warm up. But really — what the heck — I admit, I was no less frozen, and he — mine — so gentle, so warm. Further, more. Poetry — classics. Can you imagine? — I had no idea before that he was so well-read, so educated — poetry, you see, for me. In my ear — the right one.

Here you go again: fool, yes fool.

Well, tell me — explain, what's wrong?!

What are you hiding there, won't let me look.

And his hand — right — fingers — getting closer and closer to my little hole.

Oh, look; you'll see, you'll fall asleep.

When you fall asleep, I'll throw open the blanket.

I'll marvel: lovely, just too little.

Oh, these fingers. Up down, up down. They're already, already over my pussy.

If only you'd grown up to the heavens.

I would have wandered into your fairy-tale forest.

And in the forest, I wouldn't just wander.

I'd find a wondrous little hill there.

The hill. Yes, yes, that's it. Hill, hill. More, more.

I would have sledded down the cute little hill.

I'd have slightly opened two moist flaps.

Oh, oh, how embarrassing. Yes, my pussy, my flaps are already, already moist. Could it be, could it be he felt that? Through my panties, through my pants.

And if I suddenly remembered I was naked.

I'd hide inside with my head.

And a little deeper it's quite hot.

Deeper, deeper. Please, please.

But from outside I hear: "More."

You don't want to let me go.

Is it okay, fool, to offend?

And then, oh no, I suddenly discover — oh embarrassing, how embarrassing! — that my left hand is holding my fool's left hand on my boob, my right hand is holding my boy's right hand on my pussy, and even with my legs — squeezed, clamped, just to be sure.

— Sveta, hey Sveta.

Sveta, as you understood, that's me.

— Well, what else?

I relax my legs, push my boy's hands away from me, I'm embarrassed.

— Sveta — here, answer me honestly. Will you answer?

— Well, I don't know — ask.

He looks around, no one nearby, and whispers like that, whispers.

— Do... Do you have a pussy?

— Ugh, foo...! Fool — yes!

— Ooooh.... Yeeees?! Show me — will you show me?

And with his hand, and fingers again, again there, right hand strokes, right hand massages, left hand the belt, left hand unfastens the button on my jeans. Anyway, believe it or not, I find myself not only without jeans! — that would be one thing — but also without panties, in just a little T-shirt, and I didn't wear a bra back then, and my T-shirt is slightly pulled up, and the sofa we were sitting on is leather, and my bare, my wet bottom on that sofa, believe me, was quite slippery. And this! — mind you — in a cafe, practically at rush hour, practically in the city center. No, we were sitting in a nook, and the tablecloth more or less covered everything that the T-shirt didn't, but still — horror. And here's my guy — not letting up.

— So, Svetochka, so. I'm confiscating your jeans, I'm confiscating your panties, your jeans smell so good, your panties smell so good, I won't give them back.

And into his backpack, into his backpack he hides all that from me.

— Give them back!

— Okay-okay — I'll give them back. Here, I'll just look at what you were hiding from me under them and then give them back.

He goes, the sadist, under the table, spreads, the parasite, my legs, looks — or doesn't look. And then! — well, as if he was waiting — a waiter approaches!

— Where is your companion, will you be ordering anything else?

— I .... He .... Just a moment — just a moment.

And he! — I don't know — whether with his fingers, or with his tongue, or .... And the spoon, where? — where is his spoon?! Oh, what, what is that? — a spoon or ...? Tongue, little tongue. Fingers, fi.... One, another one. Yes-yes — right there. And since my butt, my bare, my wet little butt slid off the sofa, off the little sofa, then not only, oooo, not only there!!! Listen — I think I was screaming. And the waiter — and a waitress circling nearby — and some of the patrons kept trying, kept trying to peek under the tablecloth, under our table. So there. I don't know — people — folks — I don't know how it was for you the first time! — and you boys, and you girls — but for me, I'll tell you, I liked it the first time. And so much, so much I liked it the first time! — oh, where are you my innocence — that now besides my fool! — my-my — we got married — no one else is needed anymore. And finally, about the poem. Well, that very one — in my ear — the one that, pardon me, made me all wet. I must — stealing is not good — I must mention the title of that poem. Type, google please "miroslav mir nu durak" — there are many poems like that, and the aforementioned one is the most, most decent of all the poems there.

Stories by this author

And what was he doing there, under the table?