Eric Hanna

black hair through my fingers and tugging at it. I’m fantasising about him doing the same much later. He arrives and we drink. He drinks more than me, I get incredibly silly with more than a couple of glasses of wine. He strokes my legs, his hand creeping up under my ever-so conservative preppy skirt. I want to kiss him and snuggle into his chest: he wants to fuck me. I’m embarrassed that the men at the bar can see this: a silly girl of a student being fondled by a much older professional man. His hand sliding under my cashmere cardigan, pinching at my nipples making them stand up under the thin, soft wool. I’m trying to act the part I always play: the child. In all truth my body is reacting as an adult, I