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I’d just come from being fucked half to death, so it’s possible that my perceptions were skewed when I thought I’d spotted Aragorn picking through oranges in the grocery store.
Of course it wasn’t really Aragorn, although if Aragorn had ever wandered into an Upper-Midwestern town on a frigid February night, he probably would have worn a long black coat. Would he also have worn a large cowboy hat that kept his eyes hidden? I’m not sure, but after admiring him from the nose down for several long moments during which I absently handled tangerines, I discovered why he wore such unusual headgear.
He must have felt me staring, because eventually he looked up and trapped me. Clearly the hat was required to hide his eyes from casual consumption.
They were the most extraordinary eyes. He he had the kind of face that’s only acquired through years of work in the sun and wind, or smoking. Or both. His eyes were a shocking blue contrast to the color and texture of his skin.
Shockingly blue eyes and a weather-worn face are not all that unusual, but his eyes had the quality a friend of mine refers to as “luminous.” Have you seen eyes like that? Do you know what I mean? They’re the kind of eyes you see so infrequently; most people drop a curtain of privacy over their eyes, especially in public. Most people won’t let their soul show through their eyes.
But this man did, and I was utterly transfixed. Finally I ripped my gaze away and turned back to the tangerines, blushing with a overwhelming mixture of shame and pleasure at what was running through my mind.
As chance would have it, we both headed toward the checkouts at the same time. I fell into line behind him and his companion, a small orb of a woman whose age and relationship were indeterminate enough that she could have been his sister, his mother, his wife.
I tried not to stare as we waited for the cashier. I tried and failed. And when eventually the round woman turned her attention to her purse, he once again brought his eyes back to me.
I could not have felt any more exposed if I’d been naked in the checkout lane. What did he see, I wondered, unable to turn away from those luminous blue eyes. Did he notice the wild sex hair? The flushed cheeks? The mussed clothes? Could he tell that I’d “forgotten” to put my panties back on?
Was it evident to him, do you think, that less than an hour earlier I was kneeling between my friend’s legs as he jacked his rigid cock and I sucked his balls gently into my mouth? Could he hear the echoes of my friend’s moans, or his gasped warning that he was about to come? Was he forming a mental picture of me sliding a finger into my friend’s ass while trying to catch the head of his cock in my mouth?
Could he imagine me urging my friend to come all over my face? And then opening my lips to taste it, plentiful and hotly sweet on my lips? Did he hear the resulting laughter afterwards as I wiped errant spurts from my hair? And the playful indignation with which I rubbed one last stinging droplet from my eye?
It certainly seemed as though his eyes missed none of those things.
Or was it just a case of my imagination running wild on a cold February night as I shopped for tangerines an hour after getting fucked?
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