by Vince Stark
House of Sin
by
Vince Stark
Copyright
House of Sin
Copyright © 2015 Vince Stark
Edited by
Amanda Polito
Cover design by
Hang Le
Kindle License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Everything about this was wrong; it was like a drug, an addiction. It started as a thought, then soon all that mattered was just that feeling. All of the little problems in life evaporated, and I could focus on one thing and one thing only—I needed you for this.
I had my cock tucked under my belt, trying to make things less obvious. We had just met, and though I could smell the muskiness from under your skirt and your body language was submissive, I didn’t want to scare you away. I couldn’t risk that.
I could feel the pre-cum making the head of my cock wet, and it was getting harder to think straight. You had been looking at me for some time now, and it was clearly my turn to talk. I just wanted to put my hand up your skirt and bury it deep in your warm, wet pussy, then jerk myself off for a minute before bending you over.
The moment for charming words had long passed, at least it had for me, but still I didn’t want to scare you. That’s when I noticed your eyes had moved down my body and took in the contours of my hard cock. Your eyes met mine with an expression that surprised me—you looked like you wanted a challenge. Feeling every heartbeat in my cock, I took a step closer and our open mouths met while I put your hand on my groin. You didn’t seem to know what to do with it, and that turned me on even more. It was unusual for me but I hadn’t come for several days, and if I allowed this to continue, I would have just exploded right there and then. But I wanted to bury it deep inside your pussy, just bend you over in this public park.
But you, you had other plans. You slid down my body, your face meeting my cock. I wanted nothing more than to feel your warm mouth, but you just held my hard throbbing dick against the side of your face and licked from my balls all the way to the tip like an ice cream cone. Finally, you fit as much of me as you could in your mouth. I knew you got a mouth full of pre-cum. I was determined to bend you over to finish off, but you clearly wanted my cum and dick in your mouth. Your hand was jerking me off fast, your lips gliding up and down. My toes clenched inside my boots as I held out for as long as I could.
I bent down and grabbed you by the chin. “You want it?”
My thumb was in your mouth, but I understood the word yes in your breath. I grabbed the back of your hair and jerked myself off, loving how you grabbed my ass with both hands and arched your back. I felt my orgasm as the sensations began at my feet and traveled up my body; there’s nothing better than coming standing up.
I watched the hot cum splash on your face. You took over with your mouth, pushing me in close and deep with your hands on my ass. Your eyes looked lifeless for a moment, like you were in a trance. My body spasmed over and over until I had nothing left.
This needed to happen.
Now I can focus.
Chapter One
I loved that time of day in my home. It didn’t last long—the late-afternoon sun had to be at a certain angle—but the rays of golden light transformed the room. You could see the dust motes dancing in the air, and the hardwood floors and even the frame of the house itself seemed to let out a collective sigh and soak in the warm sun.
I walked to the middle of the room, and it was as if I could feel the sunbeams pass through me. It felt good, and I closed my eyes for a second, reveling in it. I was running late already, but I didn’t care. I didn’t live far from the city, and before I got on my motorcycle and raced to the show, I wanted to take the moment in. This transition from day to night, sometimes I felt like a different person entirely.
That was the only moment that I felt at ease, but it didn’t last long. It never did. I was thinking of nothing and feeling nothing. Just the peacefulness of the moment. I could hear her putting her clothes back on in my study. Only moments ago I had her bent over my desk, her skirt hiked up and my cock in as deep as it would go. I came inside her, then everything was right, at least for a moment. I could still smell what happened in that room; my cock was still wet and heavy in my jeans.
But it was fading away. Fuck. She barely had time to get dressed and I could feel that part of me creeping back. Slowly feelings and thoughts returned. I was human again and I hated it. I consider fucking her again, just to get it back, but there were too many people counting on me. No one was impressed when I was late; it was bad enough I didn’t bring my own equipment. I liked to ride my old motorcycle when I could, so I was always traveling light. Even when we played out of town I rode my bike. Today was an easy familiar ride to an old theater we have played many times.
We were carefree, the three of us and been playing together in this band since we were kids. Sometimes fights would happen and we would break up, but life got boring fast without the band and we would always work things out. We called ourselves Bareskinrug. It’s not the greatest name but Gregg came up with it when we were kids and it kind of stuck, like an ugly tattoo you got when you were a teenager. We even tried to change it to an acronym (BSR), but it didn’t seem to take.
It amazed me that we sold out the theater every time we played, and our shows had become an event. We didn’t just play through the same old songs, like a set recording. We let things happen rather than force a rehearsed set list—playing with the same two guys for your whole life had its advantages. We had offers on record contracts but we never felt the need to go that way. All of us were self-employed and enjoyed what we did and didn’t want for anything. Not really. Instead we made contacts over the years, played big festivals and kept it simple. Living in a bus and playing every night isn’t as much fun as it seems.
It was all about keeping things interesting and honest. Not to mention the fact that we all had our addictions. I certainly had mine.
I stood there in the living room with my eyes closed and breathed in through my nose and slowly out of my mouth. I opened my eyes to see dusk had set in—the sun no longer shot beams of light through the ro
om.
The moment was gone. The room darkened and the dust in the air disappeared.
“You’re late again,” she whispered as she walked by me and sat on the bench by the door. I could smell her perfume as she breezed by. Her face was still flushed and her low cut shirt exposed the soft skin of her breasts, rising and falling with every breath. I clenched my jaw and suddenly wanted her again. I was getting hard just thinking about sliding my cock between her tits, but she zipped up her long black boots and led the way out the door. I followed, helmet in hand.
I got on the bike and fired it up. Now about the bike—she’s an old girl. She is not shiny and new but she has been the most consistent thing in my life and I will never replace her. Any old bike, and most old cars have a quality I like. It’s like when you first get into a motel room and you can feel the countless people who have been there before. The Metropolis Theater has a similar quality, but more on that later.
When I was a teenager my girlfriend and I were on a road trip in the country. I saw the bike in front of an old farm house with a for sale sign on it. When I sat on it I felt the old stories it would tell if it could, good stories, these old machines don’t always tell good stories but she did. Far from road worthy it went in the back of the truck, over the next year or so I brought her to life, and we were making stories of our own.
I have to rev the bike up when I first start it, twisting the throttle to give it a throaty scream, and the heavy frame vibrated. She swung her leg around draped herself over the bike. I released the clutch the moment she wrapped her arms around me. My street is canopied with hard wood trees and the fallen leaves flew in the air as we raced down the familiar road. I’d missed sound check but with a few shortcuts we would be at the theater in twenty minutes. Plenty of time.
Bonneville is my home and I know it well, it’s an old city. When one of my idols described Bonneville, he said it’s like the ship is sinking and the ocean is on fire—less then complimentary but I knew what he meant. It can be a dangerous place, during the day the cobblestone streets and heritage buildings seem like a fairy tale, but with night come the deviants, the night people, my people, many of whom will be at the metropolis theater right now.
There was something special about this evening, like the change in air pressure before a storm. My bike was running better than usual, my companion felt great behind me. She playfully wrapped her legs around me, I responded by opening the throttle and picking up speed. This short cut required us to take a dirt road that is owned by the railway. I try not to do it too often because I know the police will be called and it’s not usually worth the hassle, but like I said, my being late for shows is getting on everyone’s nerves and I just want to get there on time.
It’s really too bad the white hats in the rail yard call the cops because I truly love this route. Bonneville was on the horizon to our right and the road climbed and dipped so perfectly that at times I felt weightless at the crest of the hills. The bike, my lovely passenger and I, floated together. There is one minor flaw with this route; as its intended purpose is to service the rail yards, naturally there are trains.
With a lady on the back I wouldn’t usually be so daring, but I felt good this evening, confident, focused. I knew this route well so I was well aware the train tracks we had been riding along side would soon cross our path.
There was a train passing closely on our left, the locomotive spitting air, grinding metal, smoking, and shaking. A weathered looking engineer was waving and yelling at us. I didn’t look directly at him but I could see him from the corner of my eye. In my mirror I saw two problems: first was the length of said train, if it was just a few cars long I could just slow way down, let the angry engineer go on his way and then carry on once he made the crossing. The problem was this train disappeared in the horizon behind me. If I let him go ahead of me we would be stuck, he could even stop the train straddling the crossing and it would be game over.
Problem number two: the police cruiser with the red flashing lights behind us.
So you see, if you are still with me, I had no choice: I had to make that crossing before the train did. I pulled back on the throttle as she squeezed me tight, the head end of the train was a few car lengths ahead now and it took all this old bike had to get to the locomotive again. A few twists and turns kept us neck and neck with the head of the beast and my heart began racing.
We were close now, I could see the crossing. The train blasted its horn, it may have been the loudest thing I have ever heard, our bodies shook, she squeezed tighter still. I could hear the faint siren from the cop that was on my tail but it was quiet compared this ugly beast of a train. The weight difference between a train and a car is the same as a car to a can of Coke, a fact I picked up somewhere.
My wrist had the throttle all the way back, the engine was screaming. There is point of no return when a jet is taking off, at this point the plane must take off, at a certain speed on runway the pilot and co-pilot say velocity one and that’s it, even if the plane is on fire you have to fly or die. My heart could not go faster, I was losing focus. My vision was tunneling, the engineer must have applied the emergency breaks because the sound of metal grinding on metal was deafening.
My god we were not going to make it.
The locomotive laid on the horn and kept it going, she squeezed me harder again, I squeezed the bike with my legs, the three of us were molded together. The sirens behind us, screaming metal beside us, blasting horns shaking our bones—it all stopped for a moment. We were there, at the crossing. I held my breath and the bikes wheels left the ground from the lip of the rails. We flew across the tracks and touched down on the other side.
The terrible sounds of the locomotive faded away and my passenger let out a delayed scream. She was yelling something but when I turned to look at her she stopped, and we both smiled, our eyes were wide and we were alive, more alive than ever before. I slowed down a little and we made our way through the industrial landscape.
The Mercier Bridge was condemned many years ago, but the other bridges into Bonneville were always slow and backed up. You couldn’t get through the barricades with a car but it was easy with a bike. There were a few spots where you needed negotiate around construction junk, not a big deal. Without question the best view of Bonneville is from the Mercier bridge at night. Dusk had turned to night and the glow of the city lit the sky.
Sometimes I wondered how I could love a place so damaged. Bonneville is a city run by thieves, a case of survival of the fittest. I didn’t know what the murder rate was but it wasn’t good. There was desperation here, everyone was hustling for something. The police became something of a paid service—they could be very effective for a price. They didn’t choose sides, the highest bidder always wins. Nothing is illegal if you can afford it. Sex, it’s everywhere, that might be a part of the problem for me.
It has been a problem for as long as I can remember. I’ve gained some control over the years, I know what I am, when I feel it creeping in I have my ways of dealing with things. I won’t use the term sex addict, looking back I can see I was.
What is right and what is wrong? Sometimes it’s clear, other times the line is less obvious. Take for example the women I have come on to over the years. In an elevator, corner of a library, public park, the train—these are all places I have come on to women who were complete strangers. Almost every time it works. These were not party girls or prostitutes, these are normal girls on their way home from work, or from the gym, maybe mid-day on their lunch break. In almost every case I would bet these women had never done anything like that before and would never do it again. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not hiding in the bushes, or lurking in alleys. Like these women, I’m a fairly normal guy, I know what’s right and what is wrong. I just let things happen.
Think of all those times you had a brief moment with a stranger, then self-awareness takes over and the both of you break the moment and dart away in different directions. On a train, at a red light,
on the beach, it happens all the time. What if you didn’t break the moment, simply let thing happen? You would be surprised. We are just animals after all. I admit that in my younger years there was a learning curve, it took me time to find that line.
When the moment comes, you have to commit. I would rarely say anything. Maybe just a soft kiss—it can feel like lightning when it’s from a stranger in an elevator. Let it happen. Recently in a park a women was walking my way and I toward her on a narrow path. Both of us were trying to avoid one another. We briefly made eye contact and did the classic dance, she went left and so did I. Eventually we found ourselves within that personal bubble that was desperately being avoided. Then it happened, It felt good, I exhaled, relaxed my face and just said “Hi” when I leant in to kiss her she met me half way, just let it happen. Look I know it helps that I’m a good looking guy, I know women find me attractive but there is more to it than that. If I can make them feel safe, they get the message that this is the chance to do that thing they have always thought about. No one will ever know. You can be a dirty little slut, you can buckle to your knees with hand in your wet pussy and shove a stranger’s cock in your mouth. This is the time in your life you’re going to do this kind of thing.
I’m the guy that’s going to do it with you.
Most people will have an experience like this once in their life, my problem is I need it to happen often. I have methods to keep this under control, there is an establishment I like to go to where we can all be who we need to be, my favorite little house of sin . . . I’m only 30 but I know who I am, I probably want to fuck you.
It’s not out of the way, so I didn’t mind dropping her off, but still I hated to see her go. I pulled over next to the entrance of the cigar lounge where she worked, where I met her last night. She was off the bike and standing next to me. The motor hummed along and she slowly came in for a kiss, she had her hand under my button up shirt, her touch felt good. I didn’t move, with my hands on my hips I sat on my bike and pretended I wasn’t painfully late for the show. Her lips touched mine for a brief moment then she pulled away and strutted to the door, before she could turn around I opened the throttle and let out the clutch. The bike screamed, I was only a few blocks away. I wasn’t sure if I would see her again, it didn’t matter, she made me feel good, tonight felt good.