I saw you on the street. You were the girl with the bounce in your step and the pony tail that swayed left and right. You were the girl with the tight grey sweater and the small rucksack. You were the girl with the tight black yoga pants.
I admit I slowed I down a little so I didn’t pass you too quickly. For a minute or two I enjoyed being behind you and watching the way your muscles flexed in that tight spandex and how the seam had pulled up between your buttocks. It was hard not to catch that brief moment of personal pleasure before you turned left down that street and I carried on.
Now you’ve walked into the coffee shop where I’m working and once again I find myself admiring you. I try to focus on my work. I try not to stare or look up. Only I do. Small, fleeting glances at the outline of your legs made more shapely by the shine of spandex. Each movement seems to draw my eyes up from my screen like a moth drawn to a bright streetlight on a dark evening.
Discomfort starts to gather pace inside me. I know my fetish has started to overwhelm me and I’m caught in the conflict between the need to finish this report and the desire to admire. My concentration is starting to tail away. A fear is growing that you’ll bring your order to the table beside me. Or worse, in front of me.
My glances aren’t so furtive now. They’re longer and I find myself scanning the queue as well. Can anyone see my pain? Can anyone see how I’m spending longer looking up than I should?
The order is made and collected. There’s one last chance to admire you as you walk purposefully out onto the street. My fetish is refuelled with the private memory of you and your leggings and every detail of how you moved and looked. It will last for a day before it fades, or I see you again, or I come across someone else. Then I’ll enjoy another private moment from afar.
Is that so wrong?
Tagged: Fetish Erotica
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