Archive for alley

Scheherazade on IM

She’d been chatting with him on and off for a few weeks–or was it months? I suppose it doesn’t mean anything in internet time, where Einstein’s relativity rules (after lolcats, of course).

HIM: which i’d love to hear a story now before i go fuck my lover in her hallway.

HER: Against the wall or on the floor?

HIM: you can pick if you get me off.

HER: You should torture yourself and hold off until you get there.

HIM: i’m a baby, remember? i’m only happy when i come four times a day.

HER: If you insist.

HIM: i do, hottie

HER: The bar is packed, everyone is bumping into everything. The place is a mass of bodies, pulsing against a smoky background and already stale hits off last year’s Top 40 charts…

And so the story began, melting the 437 miles between them.

I’m trying to get the bartender’s attention. It’s open bar before midnight, but the fuckers charge for non-alcoholic drinks and I’m driving.

Before I can get my $15 Red Bull, I feel a hand go up my skirt.

I don’t move. I can see him barely out the corner of my eye, but I don’t turn to look. Imagine he was hideous?

Suddenly, I can’t decide if I want him to be hideous or not. There’s something delightful about the notion of being touched by an ugly man without your permission.

“Ha!” her friend interrupted the story on chat. “Is there?”

She ignored him and went on:

A hideous man. A bulging mass of sweaty, aging flesh. Oh, yes, it’s delightful, especially when you’re a beautiful woman.

I feel another hand on the small of my back. It slides around, gripping me around the waist, then runs up my chest and pulls me so I’m standing straight, just as the bartender hands me my drink.

I hear a voice in my ear, but I can’t make out what’s being said. The stranger pulls me against him–his torso doesn’t feel large or round against my back. Before I can feel disappointed, I feel his fingers hovering over my slit.

I’m wet. A man beside me elbows me. He’s talking animatedly with two other men, all of them with that boring emokid haircut that covers one of their eyes. Or both. Might as well. Sheep. Bahhh, say the sheep, bahh, walking blindly behind Brendon Urie.

A finger slides inside me. He pulls it out and and begins drawing circles in cunt juice around it. I sip my Red Bull and pull out a cigarette. I’m about to light it, when I feel his hand on my back again. He pushes me forward on the bar and leans close to me, “Order me a mojito,” he says and I can hear him clearly now.

A mojito. What a faggy drink. I am thoroughly appalled by the man, I can’t believe a Mojito-sucking pussy is fingering me at my bar.

I thrust my hips against his hands–I bet they’re manicured, too, that little bitch, and that he likes girls to finger his ass while they blow him. Or better yet, likes to borrow their dildos. Little fag, oh my god, yes, I thrust back against him.

He takes my hair in a hand and pulls me to him, “did you hear me? Get me a mojito.”

The fact that I man has me by the hair at the bar gets the bartender’s attention. (Mental note: employ technique later). I order the mojito.

I put it on my tab, what the hell.

Suddenly, the grip on me is released. I sip my drink and wait a few moments. Nothing happens. I’m still holding the unlit cigarette. The bartender slides an ashtray toward me. I keep waiting. Did the stranger leave? The mojito slides before me.

Did the stranger leave me with the fucking mojito?

I’m going to turn around, but I suddenly feel his breath on my neck.

“What would you do if I fucked you, right here?”

I feel something hot and hard against my thigh.

“At the bar?”

“At the bar,” he responds, pushing up my skirt. His cock is hot, pressing against my hole.

I pick up my lighter and light the cigarette I’d dropped on the bar. Inch by inch, his cock slides into me.

Someone bumps into me on the right. I don’t even bother to look. Everyone is so packed together, they don’t notice anything, not who they bump into, and certainly not who’s fucking at the bar.

I exhale. I can’t believe I’m getting fucked at a bar and no one can tell.

I suck on my cigarette, feeling kind of like a goddess even though I haven’t done a damn thing.

Just then, my eyes meet the bartender’s. He can tell. I can just tell that he can tell. Fuck. What’s he going to do?

He comes over, ignoring people trying to get his attention.

“How’s that mojito?” he asks.

The drink is still sitting in front of me, untouched.


“Need another one?”

I look at him. He’s older, worn, un-manicured hands. The sort of guy you see in dives around this part of town. Interesting.

We don’t verbalize anything more. When you serve people at decibels like these, you learn to guide yourself by other signs. He knows what I’ve in mind as well as he knew I was getting fucked right here.

I reach back and grab Mojito’s cock. I straighten up against his back and, turning so my lips are near his face, say, “we’re going outside.”

He pulls out. I give him a moment, then motion for Bartender to meet me in the alley. I don’t know if Mojito is following me. I don’t give a fuck. I notice the expression on the face of the woman manning the other side of the bar. The place is too full to take breaks. Oops.

I’m out the door. When he steps out, I push him against the garbage–

“Oh, darling,” she paused, making her friend fall out of the story and land back at his computer. “What’s it called?”

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, the dumpster,” she said.


I shove him against the dumpster and unbutton his pants. Inside there’s this big, fat cock. Not very big, but fatter than anything I have ever seen. It’s so fat, I get down on my knees and kiss it. I was gonna suck it, but I can only lick it because it’s so fat.

I’m on my knees licking him and he’s looking down and laughing, watching me lick his cock like that. He picks me up and pushes me against the dumpster, facing it so I can smell the sweet scent of rusting metal mingling with the rotting garbage inside. He rolls up my skirt so my ass is exposed to the cold, wet night.

Finally, I feel his fat cock slide inside me.

As his dick goes in and out, he brings his a hand on my hip, pulling me into him as he pounds me, and places another on my head, flattening the side of my face to the dumpster. From this view, I see the door open again. A shortish guy steps out, probably 5’10”, with reddish brown hair, clean cut, an all-American face. I assume it’s Mojito…

HIM: god gonna comw

The story stopped again and both were spun back into the reality of the pathetic glow of their laptop screens.

HER: Oh! Are you finished?

HIM: yes. wow. head, as always, spinning

HER: I was just about to get fucked in both holes, what a shame!

HIM: apparently this will be a two-volume story

HER: Have fun fucking your girl-thing.

HIM: i will. and i’ll be picturing you.

HER: Getting fucked in both holes by strangers?

HIM: mm, possibly.

He logged off, but you can’t stop a story once you’ve started it. When another IM opened on her screen, she picked up right where she’d left off.

I’m pressed up against a dumpster in the back of a bar, getting fucked by the bartender when the back opens and another man steps out. He walks decisively toward us and instead of stopping, the bartender begins to pound faster.

HIM: the typical thing would be for the other guy to like tag in for the bartender. but that’s boring. i think instead he would come up behind the bartender and put his hands on his hips and nuzzle his neck.

HER: Come on please me, don’t get all homo.

HIM: maybe he has a camera then–not some bullshit amateur camera. this guy is either a serious hobbyist or a pro.

The only light in the alley is a flickering neon 7-Up sign over the bodega on the corner, so the man with the camera moves in a disconnected sequence, as under a strobe. While he films, he unfastens his belt with the other hand.

He removes his belt, a thin leather one, and slips it into a noose around my neck. The bartender lets go of my head as Mojito begins to pull on the belt, directing my body toward him. I bend at the waist and reach for his dick in his unfastened pants.

When I pull it out, I see it’s smaller than the bartender’s. A perfect dick to suck off. I take hold of Mojito’s hips and begin to fuck his dick with my mouth.

Mojito hands the bartender the belt and I feel the direction of the pull change. Suddenly, I begin to feel light-headed as the oxygen supply diminishes. All I can feel are two cocks pounding into my mouth and cunt as the world starts to fade.

As with all stupid erotic asphyxiation n00bs, the bartender doesn’t know how to properly regulate the pull and I faint and fall to the wet asphalt. The cold wetness brings me to in seconds before the bartender is on me, his dick back inside me after half-slipping out during the fall.

My shirt with the plunging cleavage has opened, leaving my breasts exposed to the dirty, wet asphalt. Every time the bartender thrusts into me, I can feel the dirt grind against my nipples.

Mojito has the belt again, he’s slipped it around my mouth now and is pulling on it while pushing down on my neck with his foot.

The bartender’s cock is throbbing inside me, I can tell he’s about to cum. Sure enough, withing a few seconds, he’s pulled out and, having pushed Mojito away, he rolls me over with his boot and cums all over my face.

“Suck it clean,” he says, his gorgeous cock standing at attention, still dripping cum. I rise slowly and get on my knees to lick him clean. As I do, Mojito comes behind me and pulls me up, pushing me down so I’m bent at the waist again, with my ass in the air.

As I lick the bartender’s dick and balls, I feel the Mojito’s less impressive cock on my slit again, rubbing around it, spreading the juices all over. When he plunges, he doesn’t go into my pussy, he goes right into my ass. My sphincter tightens immediately, but it can’t hold against the power of the thrust.

Meanwhile, the bartender has taken the belt and removed it from around my neck. With Mojito deep inside me, the bartender pushes me so I’m standing up straight. Mojito holds me by the arms as he fucks me, and the bartender runs the leather against my exposed tits, dirty from being on the ground.

He doubles the belt and makes it snap, then brings it down on my left breast. Mojito plunges deeper.


The belt lands on the right nipple. The pain flashes through my body, shooting down my spine and causing my ass muscles to tighten around Mojito’s cock.

Snap! Under my ribcage. Snap! My left nipple. The bartender comes close and reaches for my pussy. I’m dripping again. He brings his hand up and lifts my chin. I can smell my cunt on his fingers. He kisses me.

Mojito pulls out slowly then fills me with his cock again. I moan into the bartender’s mouth.

The bartender is getting hard again. I can feel his big cock pressing against me. And now that I’m upright, I can also feel the blood running out of my nose from where it was bloodied when my face hit the pavement in the fall earlier. In fact, the whole side of my face is throbbing. Oh, fuck, I can just tell it’s gonna be black and blue in the morning. Jesus, everyone is going to think my boyfriend beats the shit out of me. Random women are going to come up to me on the street and give me the phone numbers to battered women’s shelters.

The bartender hands the belt to Mojito, who uses it to tie my elbows together behind my back. Mojito then takes his free hand and grabs my throat and pulls me against him as he pushes his cock up into my ass. I realize that he’s leaning back over the dumpster in order to give the bartender a good angle on my cunt.

The bartender pulls my shirt and the top tie becomes undone, exposing my body completely. Her steps forward and grinds the head of his cock against my pussy, he’s working it against my clit, trying to get it hard enough to put it in again.

He’s stroking himself, just outside my cunt, all the while looking at me. I see him reach into his pocket with his free hand. At first I can’t see what it is–a condom? A little late for that, I’d imagine, I think feeling a sliver of guilt.

The bartender brings his hand to my face and I see the straight razor. He runs the edge of it over my lips and I can taste how sharp it is. He drags it down over my chin and down my frame, pressing it here and there just hard enough to make a little nick.

When I don’t struggle to get away, he gains some confidence and draws a long, shallow cut across my clavicle and abruptly thrusts his cock into me and so I’m suddenly completely filled up, ass and pussy, the two cocks almost touching inside me with just a thin layer of flesh between them.

The bartender puts the blade up against my throat where I can feel it, pushing just hard enough to break the skin a little.

“Cum for me, slut,” he says as he and Mojito pound into me.

A drop of bloody sweat lands on my lip, it stings. My whole face is throbbing. The bartender kisses me as he thrusts again, and my lips become alive with pain.

I can feel both their cocks now, moving out of sync, pummeling in their own way, one fast, the other slow, one hard, the other in gentle strokes. Then as they become aware of one another, it’s like they’re racing. I can’t take it. I realize I’m screaming and my knees buckling. They give, but their two cocks hold me up. With Mojito breathing into my neck and the bartender biting my lip, I cum.

The strength of my sexual response cycle makes my ass tighten around Mojito in a powerful sequence and he shoots into my ass, filling me with his searing cum. He’s followed by the bartender shortly after, who shoots his load into my cunt.

After a moment, the bartender pulls out and buttons up is pants. I step off Mojito and I feel the belt loosen around my elbows.

The familiar noise of zippers and buckles and a lighter as I light a cigarette, wondering how the fuck I’m gonna get my coat from the bar looking like I do.

“I’ll get your coat,” the bartender says. I hand him my ticket and he disappears inside the bar.

A few minutes later, I’m in a cab home, with a cab driver asking me if I want to call the police. People are so nice.

As for the video the guy shot? It got 1,276,430 views on Youtube before they took it down.

Not too bad for a typical Thursday night.

Deja Vu

I can’t wrap my mind around what happened with F______ on that mountain. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was it therapy or a ruse to fuck me? I thought the latter, until I got a statement of services from my insurance provider, listing all sessions with the doctor. So he had billed them.

Billing women for fingering them on a mountain top! A fine job that is. I obviously am in the wrong field! Still, the confidence with which he conducted his affairs, as though there was nothing extraordinary was either brilliant or incredibly arrogant.

Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. All my pain is his, he said. All my pain and all my pleasure.

Again, I walked to my book shelf. This time, I pulled out Story of O, which I hadn’t read since I was in college.

I was briefly involved in a BDSM relationship in college, actually, if you can call it that. I didn’t really know what it entailed. I still don’t, to be perfectly honest. I gave Eric Story of O. He had never read it. Before that he would always call me at night to read me to sleep with his Morrissey voice. It was always The Fountainhead. He used to call me ‘Dominique.’

That’s kind of how it started, actually. I was doing PR for a gallery and had gone to a party at a British ex-pat’s to try to get him to deck his white space in glory. The affair was typical of the venture capitalist set, except for one minor exception: Tyson, our British ex-pat, loved gorgeous, well-sculpted boys and always had a harem of twenty to twenty-five of them wandering his apartment, all of them built like gods, between the ages of 23 and 33.

I’d been on the porch smoking when a light flicked on in a bedroom off the main space where Tyson was entertaining us. Through the window, I saw a giant push Tyson against a wall and kiss him with passion.

Tyson’s expression was one of sheer horror.

I immediately moved closer. I couldn’t make out what he said, but the tall man’s voice came clear as a bell.

“Is that what you want?” his voice was mocking. “I don’t think you can handle what I have to give. You’re playing with fire.”

With that, he stepped out.

I put out my cigarette, picked up my martini, slid open the door, walked in and like another moth to a flame, I joined the giant where he was sitting on a coffee table. I took a sip of my drink and ventured something I can no longer remember.

He turned to me slowly and after a pause that seemed to last an hour, he asked, “do you think you could surprise me?”

“I think you are already surprised.”

“Dominiques are dime a dozen,” he responded arrogantly.

“So are Howard Roarks.”

He couldn’t believe I’d picked up on the Fountainhead reference. Frankly, neither could I. I have a turbulent love affair with Ayn Rand that started when my father gave me her Virtue of Selfishness at the age of fifteen. She delights and enrages me in turns.

Conversation flowed between us after that and when he decided to leave with a group of boy toys, I followed. Like the fly to the flame, I followed him.

Once we were at the club, I took his hand and led him slowly to the dance floor. I watched his body curve and bend, tracing my hands over it. I wanted it, to be a part of it. After a few songs, when he motioned for me to follow, I let him take my hand and lead me off the dance floor to a balcony where he stopped abruptly, turned around and kissed me. To date that, perhaps, is the best kiss I have ever received.

“It’s time to go home,” he said.

There was such danger in following. That was why I did it, why I couldn’t resist. This man, this 6’6″ frame could overpower me at any moment. There was nothing I could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted with me.

I couldn’t resist the allure of his body, tall, built. His softly tanned skin. His short pepper hair, his gray eyes. I couldn’t resist the knowledge that I would not come home that night, that people would notice, that something could happen to me. Something terrible, something I could never undo. I needed change. I’d been trapped in a cycle of the same things, the same people. I needed something different.

My god, what else could I do but follow? Perhaps it is true that the control-obsessed just secretly want to lose control. I’ve been in control all my life. At that moment with him, I knew I could lose it. I wanted to lose it.

We drove out over a highway that felt endless. In the silence I watched him without reserve. Something about his presence made me uninhibited. I felt eighteen, almost giddy. I wanted to provoke him more than anything. Provoke him to do some kind of violence to me. But I was curious, too. I wanted to know who he was, what he did. I asked him to tell me his story, to show me himself.

“We are not to know about each other,” he said. “What we already know as things are is already too much.”

I was taken aback by his words. Yes, I have been involved with all sort of men, yes, I have had one night stands, but they were always open, full of strangeness and stories. That’s what made the act ours, the communion of existence. To engage in something with someone without the privilege of that information is to deny yourself a third dimension, a point of contrast.

I don’t want to own those pieces of you, I just want to see you metamorphose. I want to see you go from a school teacher to a tyrant, from a legal shark to a whimpering slave. I just want the full force of the moment, that’s all.

He looked at me, “tell me a story.”

I hesitated, sucking at the cigarette, buying seconds that didn’t serve me.

“Once upon a time,” I finally started, “there was a woman who wanted fulfillment more than anything in the world. She met the perfect man for it, but as it happens, when the unconquerable becomes the conquered, he lost interest, and their bed became cold and empty.”

He didn’t need to know the distance, he didn’t need to know the silence that drove me in every direction other than home. All he needed to know was that I was there and he was there, and my lips were aching to swallow him.

I unfastened my seat belt and leaned across dragging my breath over his neck, looking for his mouth. At the red light, he kissed me, his hands wandering over me. I wanted them all over me. I wanted the smell of him, the taste of him.

He pulled over on a small side street and killed the engine. We sat in silence. And then he reached for my face roughly and pulled me crashing into him. I fell completely. I’d slipped out of my lace corset during the drive. He looked me over, “take off your top.”

I untied the knot at my neck and pulled the black tightness over my head. He looked at me, bare-chested in the street light and took one of my nipples between his fingers. I stared at him intently. He brought his lips to me, and at his breath alone sent my pulse racing.

“Lie down in the backseat,” he said, taking off my pumps in two strokes. I did as he told me, stretching on my back. He unbuttoned my pants and pulled them off, putting my knees over his shoulders and burying his face in my pussy.

I could play coy all I wanted, it made no difference. The body does not lie, and he knew I was starved for his touch.

When he resurfaced, he buried his fingers in me, wet, soaked so the whole car smelled of cunt and cigarette and sweat and perfume.

“Look at you,” he said. “Finger-fucked in an alley like a common whore.”

“Lucky whore. Usually she is the one who has to do all the work.”

I wanted to cross the fine line, to see how far I could push him before I felt all of him, the secrets he locked inside himself, his natural urges to own, to take, to destroy. I wanted to feel them rage on me, explode and break me to a thousand pieces.

It only led him deeper inside me, exploring the ridges on the hot, wet velvet walls of me. I gripped his face over mine with one hand and his shoulder with the other. He alternated motions, hieroglyphs and alphabets on me, until I was oscillating against him, kicking and screaming as my climax ascended my spine.

Then we lay in place, talking, like throwing nets into the ocean, looking for something alive under the stillness of the surface. I asked him inane questions, psychoanalyzing his answers, comparing the sound of his voice to mine, as we rested, coated in satisfaction.

“You are a beautiful woman,” he said drawing a finger over my cheek.

“I have a mirror,” I said, “tell me something else.”

“I do not mean only physically, I mean the way you carry yourself, the way you speak. That is beautiful to me.”

I said nothing, I did not know what to say. So I took the compliment and said nothing.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he said suddenly. “I am going to fuck you here in an alley for the slut you are, without a condom, without another word, against your will.”

I lost my breath in my throat, I pushed against him, fighting him as he plunged his fingers inside me again and my struggles died in my desire. I wanted to fight him, more than anything I wanted him to tear into me inch for inch.

He didn’t.

The sun was rising.

“I’m Eric,” he said.

“I’m Zita.”

He slapped me.

“I don’t like your name,” he said. “I’m going to call you Dominique instead.”

I laughed. “As you like.”

The conversation fluctuated. Talk between us was a drunken driver, swerving from one lane to the other, not knowing where to stay or how to stay. We moved from the mundane to the mordant without hesitation.

“Come with me,” he said as we drove back toward the city. “We’ll sleep. We’ll go to the beach, get a chance to enjoy each other.”

“No. I’m tired. I need to go home.”

“I’m taking you home. With me.”

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“I will jump out of this car.”

He looked at me from behind his aviators with amusement.

I opened the car door and looked at the road below. It was going to hurt like hell.

“Holy shit, you’re serious, aren’t you?” he laughed. “You’re a piece of work. I’ll take you home.”

We pulled over beside my apartment building, both of staring up the length of windows reflecting the sunrise.

“Nice digs.”

“Not bad for a common whore, is it?” I asked.

He pulled me to him and kissed me tenderly. I walked out of the car in a state somewhere between awe and disconcert, every step knowing where to go but my mind not registering any of it.

My body led me, I followed. I followed without turning back, though I wanted to. I followed without hesitation though I had no means to contact this man again and I knew I wanted to see him again. I knew I would see him again.

I was right. He called me later that week.

“You are going to meet me,” he said mentioning a popular downtown restaurant. “See you at eight o’clock this Friday.”

I almost missed it. That Friday, I woke up at 8:15PM. I didn’t have time to shower or fix myself up. I flew into a white Von Furstenburg jersey dress, grabbed my purse and disappeared out the door, shoes in hand. I put them on while waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street.

Fortunately, the restaurant was a block from my house.

“I apologize for being late.”

He ignored me. “You will be able to choose what you want to drink all night. But I will tell you what to eat. Tonight you will be having the moi.”

“Why don’t you order for me, then?”

We smoked, talked, ate. The fish was divine. I infuriated me that he had known just what to order for me. Afterward we stood in the street. I was talking about the galleries I frequented. He wanted to see the art, but they were not open. It was getting late.

When we got into his car, I didn’t know where we were going. We ended up at a gay bar in the tourist district. All eyes on us, regarding us strangely. We separated, he went looking for a momentary satisfaction. I sat in place staring at myself in the mirrors that lined the walls. When he came back, he watched me with a smile as he smoked.

“You are full of shit,” he said, “I don’t believe that a person who stares at herself like that doesn’t care for her physical appearance.”

“It is a marvelous thing, the body, isn’t it?”

He laughed and offered me his hand. We walked out and wandered the streets to a strip club on the boulevard.

“I have always secretly wanted to be a stripper,” I told him as we took a seat before the goddess dancing on a pole.

“You should be, Dominique,” he told me. “It’s very fitting for a whore.”

“I want to dance for you like that,” I thought. “I want to submit myself to the ultimate act of vanity and worship before you, I want to release myself knowing you are enjoying me, delighting in everything I am. I want this beauty to be yours.”

“Let’s go,” he said, after a short moment.

I followed him. He stopped me in the street. We stood facing each other. He picked me up like I weighed nothing and threw me up, sandwiching my body between him and the wall of the club. He kissed me like he might die any moment and this was his last kiss.

“Take me home,” I said. “Take me home with you.”

And that’s how it began.