I’m a tease. One might say the consummate mature tease. I usually try to control myself at my “usual haunts” because … well … “usual”? Anyway, I’m normally well behaved, and I don’t tease people while I’m there. One of those places is a delicious little coffee shop right along Essex Street in Salem, near the statue of Samantha from Bewitched (don’t get me started). They have outdoor seating when the weather is nice and they are close enough to the Pedestrian Mall for some lovely people watching (I dare you to tell me you don’t do it, too). I’d gone there on the morning in question to have a quiet cup of coffee before going back home and tucking into bed for the day. If only I’d have known what a morsel the universe would deliver to me, I’d have carb-loaded the night before.
I noticed him as he was exiting the cafe doors and seating himself at a table diagonally across from my own on the small courtyard in front of the building. I was seated under the large maple tree with my back to the sun, so I wouldn’t have to worry about shade (What? I’m twelve percent Norwegian according to 23andme). I could tell from the way he carried himself, almost fastidious about placing his coffee at just the right distance to accommodate his tablet and its rollout keyboard without having to reach too far. He was dressed casually for his type with his shirtsleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbow, and he’d forgone a tie. But everything was carefully pressed, his hair was deliberately styled to look like he hadn’t spent twenty minutes fixing it, and he had the slender frame of a runner. I could imagine him running a marathon; he looked the type. All I had to do was wait.
Every great tease begins with the bait; finding what makes your prey tick and manipulating it. He glanced past me at something just beyond my shoulder and, when he was refocusing on the courtyard, divine providence caused him to look down to avoid appearing as though he were staring at me. The pause was almost imperceptible; a slight hitch in his breathing that straightened out before his next heartbeat. But I’d heard it and I couldn’t help but smile to myself. He’d seen my legs and it had caused a momentary ripple across the placid surface of his emotions.
For those of you who are perhaps not well versed, allow me to paint a visual. We’ll start off with the hard facts of life. I stand seventy-three and one-half inches (6’1″ and a half) with the majority of my height coming from my legs. My measurements, as of December 2017, were 36DD-26-33, with a thirty-six and a half inch inseam. I weigh somewhere between “pudge” and Crossfit. And when I go out, I always make sure to look my best, no matter the occasion. On the morning I was there, I’d selected a cherry red summer dress with a square neck and wide straps across my shoulders and I’d forgone stockings in the interest of not wanting to die in the heat.
The Tease Begins
There’s an art to being a tease. You can’t just dive right in and show your entire hand. You want to draw it out, like a fine chocolate (or a good orgasm). I was careful to never let him know that I was onto him; part of the tease for me is in knowing they have no idea I’m doing it on purpose. I remained at my table, right leg crossed over the left, carefully glancing every now and again at his reflection in the windows at the front of the cafe. I waited long enough that’d he glanced over twice and he was feeling bolder in not being confronted.
Check out our social network, Enchantrix Empire.