Archive for bar

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.

“Great.”

“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.

“Mm-hm.”

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.

Snap!

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.

A Hooker Named Miriam

In 2005, Weyco, a medical benefits company, began its aggressive campaign against smokers by giving employees fifteen months to kick the habit. Employees who failed to quit were fired. When challenged on the topic, management cited health care costs as the driving force behind their decision: smokers, after all, are a walking liability. Companies around the country have followed suit.

Smoking is not merely a factor in employment. Slowly but surely, legislation has criminalized the habit. Some years ago, the editor of Vanity Fair got fined $2,000 just for having an ashtray on his desk. Almost all states have banned smoking in restaurants and bars completely. The “smoking section” is outside—and not in the front, either. You have to go out back, by the dumpsters.

Nevada is the only state you can really smoke anywhere anymore. So we come here every once in a while to let go, unwind, sit back and indulge a host of bad habits, among them smoking.

I light a cigarette and look around, leaning against the bar. A few tables are arranged before me over the ugly carpeting; it’s a nice casino, with a lot of room. There are no windows in casinos, no windows and no clocks. Time ceases to exist here and one is consumed by his most primal urges: conquest and possession.

It’s in the eyes of the men and women playing Texas hold ‘em a few feet away. It’s in the eyes of the men and women circling around the top players waiting for some scraps of some sort. Hunger, need, desire, greed. Sin, sin, sin.

No one knows how Texas hold ‘em came about. Legend has it that it originated in the 1900s in Robstown and that it came to Vegas via a group of gambling Texans, one of them the legendary Doyle Texas Dolly Brunson. In the late sixties, the game was only played at the Golden Nugget. But because the poker room was such a sty, it never took root. Eventually the pros moved over to the Dunes on the Strip, where they milked the wealthy and inexperienced tourists. By the 70s, the no-limit variation of the game had become the main event of the newly-formed World Series of Poker Tournament.

“What can I do for you?” I hear the bartender ask me and I turn around to the stereotype good-looking guy you always read about in novels with a female protagonist, the one you can never find in real life. True to genre, there he is: all electric blue eyes, blonde hair brushed casually over his forehead, and die-for smile on his lips.

“What can you do for me?” I ask scanning the name on his breast, “What can you do for me, Brad? To start: is that really your name?”

“Yes,” he answers, smile widening. He switches my ashtray with an impeccable one without taking his eyes off mine. The motion makes me think of the one-handed bra removal. I suddenly see him, in a dorm room at LVU, charming eager freshman girls with his handful of tried and tested, no-fail tricks.

“Do you play poker, Brad?”

“Sometimes,” he replies, giving the bar a swift wipe. “You?”

“I don’t take to things without a clear history.”

“Martinis have a clear history.”

“Really. And just what is their history?”

“The martini comes from the Martinez, a gin and vermouth drink invented by Jerry Thomas in 1862 in California. According to legend, he had a regular who commuted every morning from San Francisco to Martinez, so he made him this drink to warm him up and named it ‘Martinez’, for the destination. Eventually, when the strength of the alcohol diminished due to government control, less stuff was needed to make it easy to go down, so they got rid of the maraschino cherry syrup and other sweetening ingredients. Eventually, vodka replaced gin. And there you have it, the martini.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Can I offer a martini?”

“Actually, I’ll have a café Americano. Extra sugar. White sugar, none of that sweetener stuff.”

“Coffee and cigarettes, then you must be a writer.”

I laugh and sip my coffee.

“Writers used to live at cafes,” Brad says, “but they banned smoking, so they moved into bars. Then they banned smoking there too, so they moved into casinos. It’s the last safe haven. I’m surprised there aren’t tons of people sitting around with laptops and little notebooks.”

“The last safe haven!” a man next to me interjects. “I used to write.”

“Oh?” I look at Brad, but he’s busied himself with the order.

“Then I realized I couldn’t do it.”

“You couldn’t write a novel?” I ask.

“No, I did write a novel. But I burned it. I can write, see. But I realized then, I shouldn’t.”

Brad puts the coffee in front of me.

“What was it about?” he asks the man.

“I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“Everything is part of The Story, it’s not real, but we tell it and it becomes real, real as this bar.”

I sip my coffee.

“We trap ourselves with our fictions and dreams. They feed the illusion and they keep us asleep. We are imprisoned,” he says, looking directly at me, “we are not aware of what truly is. Our senses are flawed and fiction and stories only add to our inability to perceive.”

“But literature,” says Brad, “doesn’t great literature open your eyes to new experience?”

“Is that experience enlightening? Or is it merely the account of another somnambulist stumbling along his idea of reality?” the man responds. “No, there is no merit in literature, my dear. The Toltecs—the Toltecs believed that you have to live the life your father lived: as a warrior. You have to fight the alien parasites that are The Story. The Story is not really yours, not really you no matter what you tell yourself. The Story was given to you by your parents and mentors and people in your life; it feeds on you and you have to fight it. You have to fight the parasites.”

“How?”

He slams his drink and looks at me, “I don’t know.”

He gets up, slams a twenty on the bar and walks away.

The Story is a parasite. It is inside me right now, pressed against my diaphragm, its yet-unwritten aspects tangling their tendril-like loose-ends with my viscera. A few tables away, my husband and some others are playing Texas hold ‘em. Over here, I am being eaten by the parasites.

“We get odd characters like this occasionally,” says Brad. “They keep things interesting.”

Brad doesn’t understand. Brad’s a Barbie boy in a Barbie world.

“Hey, Brad.” Speaking of Barbie, here’s the life-size version. The place is almost worse than California. Almost because even though the tits are fake, the faces aren’t. They all have something, some imperfection that has been left alone and this imperfection alone, juxtaposed with the impossibility of their dimensions, makes them beautiful.

“Lee, how’s it?” Brad replies, turning around and getting a glass, “usual?”

“Naw, it’s been a shit night, I need somethin’ to slap me awake. Gimme some tequila.”

“Lost some money?” I ask her.

She smiles, “oh, I made money. But it was pullin’ teeth gettin’ it.”

“You be careful, Lee,” Brad warns, and I realize he’s not talking about her night; he’s talking about the conversation.

Lee’s a hooker. I look her over; she’s dressed in a short jean skirt, a tit-popping shirt and cowboy boots. It’s the Jessica Simpson look, safe but still skanky enough to do the trick. Or turn a trick, rather.

See, prostitution is legal in Nevada, but not all Nevada. According to Nevada Revised Statute 244-345, the license board in a county with a population of 400,000 or higher may not license any houses of ill fame or any person for the purpose of engaging in prostitution. Clark County, where Las Vegas is located, is the only county in Nevada at present with a population exceeding the limit imposed by this regulation.

Lee downs the tequila.

“OK,” she says, “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you later maybe.”

She turns to me, “it was nice meetin’ you.”

“She’s really nice,” I say to Brad after she’s gone.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little quiet, “she is.”

“Hey, Brad, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.” The smile is back again.

“I want to be with a girl tonight. Can you help me?”

“I know a lot of great pick-up lines,” he jokes.

“No,” I say, without smiling, “you know what I mean.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. I serve drinks at a casino. That’s all.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Eight years.”

“Then you must know someone who can help me.”

An older man in a hat and aviators comes to the bar and takes a seat a few stools from me. Brad straightens up and walks over to him, “how’s the night going, Don?” he asks the stranger.

“Still young, still young,” Don replies, putting out his cigarette. “Cuba libre.”

“Coming up.”

“How you doin’?” Don asks me, looking over.

“Frustrated.” I reply.

“That’s no way to be. Brad, give the lady another of what she’s having.” Don reaches over, “I’m Don, I play to win, but sometimes I don’t. I don’t get frustrated. I just wait for the next hand.”

“Well, Don,” I say, “I’m Joan. And you’re my next hand.”

“Is that right?” he asks smiling.

“Joan here’s a writer,” interjects Brad.

Where did Brad get that idea? A woman drinks coffee and smokes and suddenly she’s a writer? If I’d known it was that easy, I wouldn’t have gone to college.

I ignore Brad, “Don, I’m going to be with a woman tonight.”

“I fuckin’ love you!” he says laughing.

“In order to do that, I need a woman.”

“What kind of woman you want?”

“A beautiful woman. An interesting woman,” I say, “a real woman.”

Don lights another cigarette, “fake women are no fun.” He chuckles.

“Come on, Don, help me out here.”

Don looks at Brad, “call up Miriam, kid. Joanie needs to meet Miriam.”

Brad looks hesitant.

“Call Miriam, goddamnit before I fire you.”

“Are you his boss?” I ask Don.

“It’s an expression, Joanie,” he puffs on the cigarette. “Oh… I think you’ll love Miriam. Shit, I love Miriam. Brad! Get Miriam to come over here! I want Joanie to meet her!”

“Brad, are you being a cock-block?” a sing-song voice asks behind us. “Who’s Johnny?”

“I’m Joan.” I say and spin on the stool until we’re face to face.

Miriam has long, straight auburn hair and bangs. It makes me think a bit of Winnie Cooper off The Wonder Years, only with reddish hair and hazel eyes, a too-short skirt, knee-high stiletto boots and a cropped white top. She has no tits and isn’t wearing a bra, so I can see her nipples through the t-shirt.

She’s looking at me the way women look at each other, with a quarter of admiration and three-fourths envy. She doesn’t know I’m not on her turf. She doesn’t know I am her turf.

“Joanie here is looking for someone like you, Miriam,” Don tells her, puffing on his cigarette. “She’s been asking all night for a girl like you.”

“And what would she do with a girl like me?” Miriam asks him.

“I’d fuck you,” I respond.

“Miriam, do you want a drink?” Brad asks.

“No,” Miriam takes the stool next to me and comes really close and lifts my face with a finger, “is that what you want, Joan?”

I sip my coffee.

“How would you fuck me?”

I’d fuck her hard. I’d hurt her. I’d pinch her nipples until I heard her scream. I’d slap her pretty face until that smug, whore look fell off it.

“Surprise, is it?” she asks, taking away her hand, “or is it you don’t really know? Is this new to you, Joan? Have you ever been with a woman?”

“Joanie’s a writer,” says Don, “a damn good one, aren’t you Joanie?”

“What do you write, Joan?” Miriam asks me.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t write. You only fuck.” Miriam takes one of my cigarettes from the pack on the table. “OK, then. When do you want to fuck me?”

“I don’t,” I say, pulling a ten out of my wallet and setting it in front of Brad, who’s staring at us without moving. I get up and leave.

The room is dark when I walk in and I leave the light off. I undress and get in bed and begin to wonder why Don wanted me to meet Miriam. Of all women, why her? She was nothing like I’d imagined a hooker should be. She was a hooker; there was no doubt about that. But I’d been thinking about someone more like Lee. It wasn’t that Miriam wasn’t sexy; she was sexy, in her way.

She just wasn’t what I was looking for.

So why Miriam?

Because she was real. Miriam wasn’t like Lee; she doesn’t make your fantasy happen. Miriam has it on her terms, whatever it is. What are her terms? How would she do it?

I think about her sitting on that stool in the casino bar, in those cheap-looking boots, that little translucent top. I think about her nipples that I could just barely see through it.

“How would you fuck me, Joan?” she asks me, running her tongue over her lips. They’re coated in strawberry champagne lipgloss, or some other disgusting combination and her breath is smoky, like the bar.

“How would you fuck me?”

I part my legs and my hand trails down over my stomach. How would I fuck you… I wouldn’t fuck you, Miriam. I wouldn’t.

I pull her hair and bring her to her knees, off that barstool, on the tacky carpet that decorates the bar. I push her skirt up until it’s around her waist. She’s wearing nothing underneath.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Miriam?”

She stays on hands and knees on the ground, her head bent and I pull he pony tail again until her head is lifted, until her back is arched.

“You want me, don’t you, Miriam?” I slap her skinny ass. “Don’t you?”

I stroke my pussy thinking about Miriam on her knees, waiting. I run my other hand over my tits. I think about her lips, strawberry champagne, parting as she waits.

I’d make you wait, Miriam. I’d make you wait until you couldn’t wait anymore.

I flip on my belly, my hand still playing lightly on my clit, teasing myself. I get on all fours on the bed, shrug the sheets off.

“Give it to me, Joan,” I imagine her moaning.

I lick my finger and bring it back, this time over my back, so I can thrust it easily into myself.

You like that, don’t you, Miriam? Yes, you like that. You want more. Another finger. And another finger. Beg, Miriam. Beg for me to fuck you.

Fuck me.

I can’t hear you.

“Fuck me!” I scream.

The lights come on; I look over my shoulder and see Thomas standing at the threshold, leaning against the wall, his cock pushing against his pants. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

I raise my eyes to his, “so?” I ask, “are you going to fuck me?”

He walks into the room, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants and his shirt. With a move of my head, I throw my hair over my back and look at his reflection on the glass of the painting over the bed.

He runs a hand over my ass and then slaps it hard. I think I feel his cock on my thigh for a moment, but then the heat diminishes and there’s nothing. I try to look over my shoulder, but he takes my hair in his hand and pulls my head back so my eyes are on the wall.

I feel his grasp release my hair and then my eyes are forced shut by the force of something being tied around my head.

I see black and the little streaks of light that filter in around the blindfold. There’s no sound.

I feel his fingers on my clit. Fingers or lips, I can’t tell and I don’t care. It feels good. Then his tongue, slightly circling my cunt. I want him to thrust it inside me, so I can feel it wiggle against the folds of my pussy, a real tease. I reach back and touch his head, as to insinuate; he pushes my hand away.

He stops. I turn to look, moving my head up so maybe I can see through the slit between my nose and cheek but he takes my hair and straightens my head so I’m looking forward again. He takes one of my hands and then the other; I fall against the bed. He pulls my hands over my head and I feel him tie something around them.

He’s over me. I feel his weight on my back, my thighs struggle under me. His breath is on my neck. As I pull yourself up, I feel my pores open with the shallow gusts of breath against my back. The pressure on my legs releases as he pulls himself up and off me.

I feel his hands on my ass; they run up my sides and slide under me until they’re cupping my tits. He flips me over easily and I stretch my legs.

I feel his breath on my thighs, closer and closer to my pussy until his tongue is on my clit again. I moan, one ounce of pleasure and two-thirds of frustration.

“I want your cock.”

His tongue digs deeper, teasing me, slipping over me without rhythm or focus until I can no longer register the pleasure; I’m desensitized to the motions.

“Fuck me!”

I bring my hands down to reach him, but I can’t. He pushes them up and slaps my tits. The sting echoes over my body.

“You want my cock?”

“Yes,” I say to him, “YES!”

And I feel it rush into me hard and deep. He pulls out, so the head of his dick is nestled in the folds of my cunt. I moan, frustrated, and draw my legs around him. I want to force him in, to make him fuck me.

Not yet, Joan.

I’m powerless. One inch. Two inches. Out. One inch. Three inches. Out. I thrust against him.

And then all the way again. He starts fucking me like I want it: hard, without stopping. He puts one of my legs over his shoulder and pounds into me hard and deep. It hurts; it hurts good. He puts my other leg over his shoulder and pounds. I can hear my body slap against his with every stroke.
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. And then faster, slap-slap-slap-slap-slap. His balls are slapping against my ass.

I feel his hand over my mouth; I didn’t realize I’d been screaming.

He rolls us over the bed, so I’m on top, facing away from him. I put my feet down on the bed and lift myself into a crouch so I can maneuver myself on his cock. I start to bounce on it. His hands grip my hips and he thrusts up to meet me, with his cock deep inside me.

I slow down and stop so I’m hovering over him, he takes my hair with one hand and pulls, to bring me down but I resist. I slip out of the tie he’s used around my wrists and then remove the scarf from my face.

I look over my shoulder at him and then sink so his cock is inside me and then I begin to move up and down, faster and faster. I watch his cock go in and out of my cunt; it glistens with how wet I am. I love watching myself get fucked like this. Seeing his cock inside me makes me go faster, until my thighs can’t handle it anymore and I fall to my knees like I’m riding him. I imagine him as a horse, then, as I bounce on him. I lean forward so he can get a view of my pussy and ass; I feel his cock against my g-spot.

Moans—mine or his. Mine and his. I’m riding him hard. The sight turns him on and I feel his cock throbbing inside me. M vagina contracts around his dick. I contract, he expands; then I feel his cock contract and I know he’s close before he whispers, “I’m close.”

I’m close, too, but he comes first. It’s the feeling of his hot cum shooting into me that sends me reeling and I come hard after, my whole body still except for my cunt that shakes with my orgasm long after it’s gone.

I fall back on the bed, wet with sweat.