What Even is "Normal"

"Aren't you just the cutest thing?" The waitress smiles at the woman settling into a seat and winks at you before her gaze drifts back to your companion. You watch the waitress's eyes slip down the woman's front, tracing the line of fabric plunging between full, round breasts.

Your attention follows and gets stuck somewhere in the depths of the surprising rosiness of the pristinely milky skin. When you resurface, head full of unprofessional thoughts, the waitress is watching you.

It's barely a moment, but you know that look. She's wondering if you and your friend are more than friends. She's imagining your hands slipping below the neckline of your friend's dress, cupping a generous breast, pinching the nipple.

Oh yeah, that's definitely what's going through her head. Her bottom lip disappears into her mouth, her tongue darting out for a split second.

Then the professionalism is back, all business. She takes your drink orders, glances down your friend's dress one last time, and walks back into the restaurant.

"You like it?" She flips a sleek blonde pigtail over her shoulder, the movement rippling through her breasts, shifting the neckline of her precarious green dress even lower. She leans forward, and you can see all the way down her dress. Heat builds low in your body as you appreciate the brief glimpse of skin clad in green lace so dark it reminds you of pine needles after a summer rain.

"I don't understand. Are you Bimbo Barbie or something?" She throws her head back, and a full-bodied laugh emanates deep within her, flesh dancing. If her dress opens any more, the little birds hopping at your feet could swoop right in and take up residence.

Of course, she is aware of the state of her dress and its effect on you. Meticulously painted nails, the same color as her lingerie, you notice, trade the contours of her breasts, teasing for a breath before pulling the wraps of the dress tight across her front.

The waitress places a Coke before you, stops, and says something. You think she's flirting, but you're so distracted you barely get out a thank you and throw a smile her way. You chide yourself for being rude, wrench your gaze from your companion, and acknowledge to yourself that the waitress is really cute in a bubbly, wholesome way. You grace her with a warmer smile and remark about the weather and the beauty of the restaurant's outdoor patio before giving her your order. You take in the festive surroundings, hay bales, pumpkins, and strings of fuzzy bats hanging from the street lamps. You force your attention back onto her until she's turned back toward the restaurant.

Your companion chuckles. You know she knows precisely how distracting she is. Her normally tattoo-covered body is inexplicably clear of artwork. Her typically dark dyed hair is back to the naturally light shade you remember from high school. She is wearing fucking pig tails. What did she use to say to you? Pigtails are for face fucking? That does it, you're completely hard now.

Her eyes sparkle as she watches you take in the entirety of her look: cherry red lips and the tiniest bit of blush on her cheeks. The dress is a light green wrap with ruffles on the bottom and at the ends of the bell sleeves. Little pink flowers dot the fabric.

The dress itself wouldn't be scandalous -- it isn't scandalous -- if she doesn't move or breathe and the wind doesn't blow. The fabric is light and she's sitting back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other. The hem of the dress catches the wind and plays with the view of her thighs.

"It's Halloween," she says.

"And that's your costume?" You admit it's kind of brilliant. The lengths she must have gone through to cover all the tattoos, fill the piercings. The hair. The dress. But it's also disconcerting. She looks...normal. Except this is nothernormal. You've known her long enough to understand how restricted she's felt moving through the world. She's found her people; you both have. But you've seen how people look at her: her clothing, her artwork, her rebellion. Your brain hurts momentarily as you try to juxtapose society's ideals of "normal" with the crowds you typically run with.

"You love it. Admit it. Slutty farm girl. You can picture your hands in my pigtails, my lips around your --"

"We're in public," you hiss, cutting her off.

She pouts at you, but refrains from finishing her sentence. She pulls the chair closer to the table, places her napkin over her lap, and leans in.

"Ok, business it is then. Pleasure for later."

She pauses for a moment, and then a contemplativeness comes over her. Her face softens, and her eyes are distant.

"This is a kind of power, too. To walk among people and blend in. To be the girl next door, not that weirdo you saw in the window of the tattoo parlor. Today has been powerful. And uncomfortable. I know who I am."

She puts on an impish grin that soon turns naughty. But you have a lot of work to do, and she's folded her hands in front of her -- time to get down to business.

You nod and take a sip of your Coke, trying to hide the sliver of disappointment you're sure crept across your face. What you really want is to find out how hard you'd need to suck on her neck to mess up her makeup, but for now, you content yourself with discussing the upcoming charity event the two of you are planning.

The waitress brings out your orders, and conversation slows as you eat. You're pretty sure she's teasing you, french fries lingering on her lips, her tongue getting more involved than necessary.

You want her, and she knows it. You've caught her glancing at your cock more than once. She's hungry -- you feel it each time she hugs you, the lingering touches on your arms, the glances over her shoulder as she leaves a room. The two of you have reached a boiling point, but remain restrained so far.

She pats the napkin across her lips and brushes nonexistent crumbs from her breasts and lap. The meal is done, and the waitress has returned your credit cards. There's a strange gleam in her eyes.

"Can I walk you back to your car?" you ask.

"Sure."

She rises from her chair, pulling the wrap dress tightly and adjusting the tie. The wind tugs at it, and you shamelessly let your eyes drink in her thighs.

She's parked in a different garage than you are, but it doesn't bother you. Last time you walked her to her car, you got the kind of lingering hug that promises so much. If only we were single. If only we didn't work together. If only we were alone. Her hand slid down your arm when you broke away from the hug. Slowly, sensuously, intentionally.

You follow her to the elevator, half listening as she reminds you what you need to bring to the charity masked ball tonight. You're distracted by her mouth, fingers twirling her hair, and bobbing ponytails that should be oozing innocence.

The elevator door closes.

"Want to see what I got this weekend?" You're confused for a second, trying to connect the charity ball, Halloween, everything you need to bring with you tonight, and her statement.

"You got something?" You've tilted your head and pursed your lips, and you can see the amusement on her face at your confusion.

She unties the dress and slowly reveals the scandalous lingerie beneath. The glimpse you'd had earlier had revealed the color and snatches of lace, but this is on a whole other level. The effect of the open dress, the dark lace -- nearly see-through with cutouts and eyelets, the knowledge that the elevator is rapidly coming to a stop, all add to the ever more insistent throbbing that's beginning to echo throughout your body.

The elevator dings, and she reties the dress. You follow her out, and somehow your hand is in hers. You think you initiated, but you aren't entirely sure. Your head spins as you realize she's parked in a secluded corner, as far up the parking garage as possible. Her thumb is massaging the top of your hand. You tighten your fingers around hers.

You're at her car and the two of you briefly look out through the open wall of the garage. You're up high, but another parking garage is across the way. There doesn't appear to be anyone in it, and it's far, but you never know who might be looking back at you.

A car drives by, and your heart skips a beat. She turns toward you, and you pull her into your arms. There it is, that hunger. You feel it in the way she holds you, the way her arms wrap around you. The way her nose nuzzles into your neck.

You pull one of her pigtails. Maybe you initially meant it to be playful, but she presses herself against you. Your hand, wrapped around her hair, pulls her head back as your arm tightens against her back.

Your hands are on her ass, cupping her through the dress. And suddenly she's kissing you. Her tongue is probing your mouth; she tastes faintly of mint and cucumber as you kiss your way down her neck. You taste the metallic chalkiness of the makeup obscuring her tattoos, but the heavy stage makeup is a match for your lips. The costume holds.

You begin to suck at that sweet spot where her neck meets her collarbone. You think a breathy moan escapes her, but she pushes you away.

"This makeup needs to last through tonight," she warns.

She unties the dress, half-naked, on the top floor of the parking garage. You know she has an exhibitionist streak, but the reality of public exposure and being caught hasn't sunk in until now. Adrenaline courses through your body, and you want to turn her around and sink into her right there against her car, pounding her from behind, hearing her scream into the wind.

But you've set boundaries, and you're going to keep them. You have to work together tonight, and it can be difficult to mix business and pleasure. That doesn't mean you can't have a little fun, though.

One hand reaches for her breasts, squeezing, kneading. The other wraps around her, feeling her ass in the lacy panties. Her skin, even clad in too much makeup, feels right. She pulls the cups of the bra down, revealing herself to you. Your hands explore her nipples, pinching, twisting. She makes these breathy little moans that are almost musical.

Her hands find their way down your shorts, caressing your ass. She looks up at you as if asking for permission for more. Your fingers graze the front of her panties; she's dripping wet, and there's nearly no fabric between your fingertips and her skin. Her hand is firmly around your cock, pulsing rhythmically, beginning to stroke.

You finger her through the panties, and it's not enough for her; she pushes the panties to the side, and you slip your finger between her lips. You listen to her breathe. There it is -- the big intake of breath that lets you know you've hit a spot she likes.

She clings to you, naked breasts pressed firmly against you, hanging onto you as her knees weaken. Her hand is still around your cock, stroking, stroking. Pre cum is running over her fingers.

Your fingers work back and forth over her clit, circling, pressing. Her body tightens and her breathing becomes erratic. You don't notice the car that drives past as she's soft and electric against you. Her body loosens, and her head lies heavily against your chest as she cums. Your fingers enter her as she pulses around you. Your thumb continues to stroke her clit as you ride the climax with her.

As you're taking your fingers from her cunt, another car passes by. This time, you notice and scramble to pull her dress tightly around her. She seems entirely nonplussed by the close call, relaxed, sated. She's about to continue stroking you when a car pulls into the spot next to hers.

You lean against her car for a moment and ask her how she feels. She leans next to you, and you talk for a few minutes as her breathing evens out and her pulse slows.

"I've got to go," she says. You know she does. You do, too. She has an entire masked ball to set up tonight, and you still need to pick up some supplies in preparation.

She ducks into her car, and you desperately want to stop her. You watch her drive off, but what you want is to haul her up onto the hood of her car and spread her legs. Want to taste her, plunge into her, feel her against you one more time. All the things you've both agreed not to do.

For now.