“Now it’s my turn!” you pant, staring into his eyes and grinding your groin into his, the feel of his hardness against you so satisfying that you have to force yourself to stop. You know if you rub against him even a little longer, even though he’s still in his jeans and he’s barely touched you, you’ll come in seconds. But you don’t want to come yet—you have other plans. He lifts his head and tries to kiss you, but you only let him for a second before you pull your head up. You’re in charge now.
Still straddling him, your knees cushioned by the shag of the carpet, you let go of his wrists and tear his T-shirt off over his head. Then you crawl down the length of him, nibbling on his muscled chest, taking each of his nipples between your teeth briefly and hearing him groan with pleasure. Then you pop open the button of his jeans, pull down the zipper, and tug them down and off his legs, releasing the biggest, hardest cock you’ve ever seen. He’s so big you’re a little scared at the thought of having him inside you. He cranes his head up, and a proud smile creeps across his face.
“Lie still!” you purr as you reach for the bottle of tequila and pour a shot into his navel. It overflows, and you watch as tequila runs across his skin in all directions, some down toward his crotch, running in small rivulets through his black pubic hair.
You kneel next to him and hold up the saltshaker. He looks at you expectantly, and you bend down and take his cock in one hand, then lick it slowly from the base all the way up to the tip, cupping and gently squeezing his balls in your other hand. Then you run your tongue back down the length of his cock. He closes his eyes and throws his head back, moaning with pleasure, and now he’s the one struggling not to spill the tequila in his navel.
It’s your turn to have him at your mercy, and you’re loving every second of it. You shove a piece of orange in his mouth, which muffles his groans. Then you pour a small line of salt along the line you licked and slowly tongue the grains off his cock, feeling it pulsing under your tongue. Then you suck the tequila out of his belly button, licking around it to get every last drop. You straddle him again and crawl up the length of him to bite down on the orange gripped between his teeth, relishing the taste of citrus chasing the tequila down your throat.
Unable to hold off any longer, Charlie rolls you off him and on to your back, holding your arms against the shag carpet and grinding his cock against you.
“I want you inside me,” you pant, unable to bear the suspense any longer. You feel him pulling off your purple lace G-string, and you’re momentarily grateful that it’s what you went for instead of the granny panties or the support Lycra. And then you feel the head of his cock up against you.
“Gently,” you whisper, and “carefully,” sitting up a little, suddenly concerned about protection.
He nods at you, understanding, and reaches for a condom in the pocket of his jeans, which are lying in a heap beside you. You lie back, excited, your breath coming fast. Then he raises himself up on one arm and rolls it on to his cock.
“Gently!” you whisper again, throwing your head back and opening your legs wider for him.
Slowly he pushes his cock inside you. You’re so wet that the head of his cock slips into you easily, but then you feel your pussy stretch as you take in more and more of him, and you arch your back as he fills you completely and entirely. It’s insanely pleasurable, especially as his strokes, gentle at first, become harder and faster—he’s bordering on being too big for you, but the sensation is so good you don’t want to stop him.
Just as he’s building up a rhythm, he slips out of you briefly and you take the opportunity to turn over onto your stomach. You kneel and raise your bottom in the air and he groans with desire as he comes at you from behind, entering you again. You can feel the top of his cock pushing against the G-spot deep inside you, and you know that’s what you wanted to feel, and your knees begin to shake as, with every single hard thrust, he takes you closer and closer to a wild orgasm. And soon he’s holding on to your hips and slamming into you and you can’t hold back anymore, so you push back against him, controlling the depth of every thrust just the way you want it, until it takes just one more thrust, just one more, to make you go over the edge and your eyes roll back in your head, and your toes curl and your pussy contracts a million times as you both come at the same time, you with a long guttural moan and him with a shout as he squeezes your hips, and then slaps your bottom with an enormous hand, the delicious sting of the slap extending your orgasm, heightening the intensity of it.
Eventually, just when you think your shaking legs can’t hold you up any longer, he eases himself out of you and you collapse on your side on the carpet, your body slick with sweat. Charlie flops down next to you and pulls you toward him, your back against his stomach. You feel entirely satisfied, your head light with tequila and pleasure, your legs entwined as your body convulses with a series of aftershocks, his arms wrapped around you.
When you finally open your eyes again a hundred years later, you trace the scrawl of the tattoo down the length of his right arm, the one you didn’t lick—yet. It reads: I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring. You smile as you feel him getting hard again, that giant cock beginning to stir against your back.
“You know what we should do?” he says, drumming lightly up the side of your arm with his fingertips.
“What?” What on earth could he want now? you wonder. “How can you possibly be ready to go again?” you ask, astonished by his stamina.
He grins and shrugs, but his eyes flick to a small plastic packet that must have fallen out of his pocket when he pulled out the condom. There are several blue pills inside it. You know exactly what they are; you get spam about them in your email inbox all the time. He clears his throat and pushes his jeans on top of the telltale packet.
You feel a little disappointed: a rock star who has to take Viagra? Hardly the mental picture you had of this guy.
“Do you want to do something a little wild?” he asks.
“Wild?” you ask nervously.
“Yeah,” he says, giving you a squeeze, “something a little different, a little . . . you know . . . kinky!”
“Depends on what you have in mind.” You’re a bit worried about what kind of depraved monkey sex this guy is planning next. If he thinks that monstrous organ is going anywhere near your other orifices, he’s got another think coming.
“Well, I thought maybe we could take a shower together,” he says. “The shower in this suite is completely insane; it has a killer view of the city.”
If you decide to take a shower with a rock star, click here.
If you’re tired and ready to go home, click here.
You’ve decided to take a shower with a rock star
YOU EXHALE. PHEW, JUST sex in the shower. That’s not all that kinky. Viagra or no Viagra, you can easily do that with a hot rock star, in a luxury hotel bathroom with a breathtaking view. Plus it’s been a long, steamy night, so the thought of cool water sounds tempting. You imagine those big hands lathering soap over your body and you start to get wet all over again.
“That sounds great,” you say, turning your head and kissing the underside of his jawline, and then running your mouth up the side of his neck. He cups one of your breasts and rolls the nipple between two fingers; your body is still sensitive after your enormous orgasm, so it’s delightful agony.
He gets up and reaches for your hand. “Come on, then, let’s go.”
You let him pull you up. Then you follow him to the master suite. The massive picture window looks out over the jewel box of lights that is the city, and there’s a giant circular bed in the middle of the room.
He tugs at your hand and you follow him into the bathroom, which is almost bigger than your entire apartment. The floor is made of huge slabs of marble, and the lights of the cityscape glimmer through another floor-to-ceiling window.
Still holding your hand, Charlie opens the shower door and steps in, leading you behind him. There’s pl
enty of space for both of you, and there’s even a marble ledge in case you want to sit down to admire the view of the city and the night sky.
He turns on the taps and you feel the pressure of the water coming at you from a dozen different jets at various heights and angles, pure heaven on your still-heated body. He pulls you toward him and kisses you deeply as the water rains down on you. Your knees are still slightly shaky from your earlier orgasm, and as you feel him stroking a silky bar of soap up and down your back, you lean in to him. The soap slips between your ass cheeks and then down to your pussy, which is throbbing again in response to his touch.
“Oh my god,” you groan, the pleasure of it making you weak at the knees.
He looks down at you, and you notice that his wet hair is plastered to his forehead, which makes him look a little goofy. You also register that he must have been wearing mascara, and it’s clearly not the waterproof type, because it’s smudged below his eyes. You step back and watch in dismay as the David Bowie quote on his arm starts to bleed and seep, the pen lines dissolving under the assault of the water.
“Baby,” he says, his face earnest.
You nod, not sure you can speak.
“Will you do something for me?” he asks.
A little prickle of worry creeps up your spine.
“There’s something I like—you may think it’s a little strange, but I find it really hot,” he says. “And if you give it a chance, I’m hoping you might like it, too.”
You clear your throat: “Yes?” How bad can it be? you wonder. Even if he wears makeup and needs Viagra, and his tattoos aren’t all real, he’s still the drummer for the Space Cowboys, he’s still pretty damn hot, and the sex earlier was incredible. Whatever he’s about to ask you to do, you’re fairly sure you can do it. At the very least, you’ll consider it with an open mind.
He holds you by the wrists, looks into your eyes almost pleadingly. Then he says: “I really want you to pee on me.”
You suck in your breath, concentrating hard on not pulling a face. Open mind, open mind, open mind, you repeat silently to yourself.
“What?” Maybe, if you’re lucky, you misheard him.
“It would really, seriously, totally turn me on if you would pee on me,” he repeats, looking hopeful.
“Um . . .” you say. “You want me to pee? On your body?” You thought that was something people only did if they’d been stung by jellyfish.
He nods and smiles that sexy smile of his. But he doesn’t look quite so sexy anymore, with raccoon eyes and flat hair that’s revealing a bit of a thinning spot now that the gel has washed out. “Yes,” he says. “It’s really hot. I’ll sit down on the ledge, and we’ll turn off the taps, and then you can just pee on me, wherever you want; go wild.”
“Ummmm.” You hesitate. “Umm, I don’t really have to go right now, but let me drink some water and get us each a glass of champagne, and then I’m sure I’ll be able to deliver. How does that sound? Okay?”
His eyes light up at your reaction. “Awesome!” he shrieks. “Jesus, you’re amazing, this is going to be so hot!”
You smile and kiss him lightly on the lips, then step out of the shower. “You wait here, you sexy beast, I’ll be right back.”
As you tiptoe out of the bathroom, taking care not to slip on the marble floor, you look back to see him playing air guitar in the shower.
You hurry into the sitting room, water still dripping off your naked body. You grab a throw off the couch—it looks expensive, but who cares?—and blot at yourself. You scoop your underwear off the floor, and tug your dress on over your damp skin. Then you grab your shoes and your handbag and tiptoe out the door of the suite, closing it quietly behind you. You bolt to the elevator, laughing hysterically as you picture Charlie turning into a prune in the shower—and his face when he realizes that you’re not coming back.
It’s definitely time to head home to a DVD and a big bowl of popcorn. Or wait: maybe you should drop in on Melissa—she’s never going to believe this!
To go straight home, click here.
If you want to swing past Melissa’s place on your way home to tell her about your crazy night, click here.
You’re tired and you just want to go home
YOU YAWN AND STRETCH. You’re tired and sated. Behind you, Charlie’s hardening cock presses into your back. You feel like you’re in some kind of dream, where normal girls fuck hot rock stars on shag rugs in expensive hotel suites overlooking the city. You think if someone were to pinch you right now, you’d probably wake up and everything would all be over.
The perfect ending to the perfect night would be if you could curl up and sleep for hours, but if the truncheon prodding you in the small of your back, and that bag full of Viagra are anything to go by, this guy’s still got a couple of rounds left in him. After all that champagne and tequila, followed by great, pounding sex, you don’t think you’re up for any more. The thought of that enormous cock inside you again is tempting, but too exhausting to contemplate. And anyway, a rock star who needs to take Viagra—isn’t that a bit lame?
“You know what?” you say, turning to face him.
“What?” he says, grinning confidently.
“I’ve had the most incredible evening, but I think I’m going to call it a night.” You kiss him hard on the lips, then jump up and reach for your dress before he can pull you back down again. “Thank you for everything.”
He looks at you in disbelief. “You mean you’re not going to stay?”
You shake your head and he watches, dumbfounded, as you slip into your dress, locate your shoes, and stuff your purple G-string and bra into your handbag.
“Maybe we can do this again sometime?” he asks, his voice almost bordering on pleading.
“Maybe.” You smile mysteriously as you head for the door.
On the way down in the elevator, you almost have to pinch yourself. Definitely time to go home. Or maybe you could go via your local late-night coffee shop and pick up a hot chocolate on the way?
If you go straight home, click here.
If you swing by the coffee shop on the way home, click here.
If you’re not quite ready to go home yet, click here.
You’ve decided you don’t want to drink tequila with a rock star
YOU EYE THE TEQUILA shot in front of you, and the smell makes you queasy. You just don’t think it’s a good idea. Charlie looks at you expectantly, and in that moment a rogue thought runs through your mind: you think of all the women he must have screwed. You’d just be another number, another conquest, and the arrogant ass hasn’t even bothered to ask your name yet—that’s how confident he is. Nah, you think, he’s actually a bit of a tool. Enormous hands or not, there’s nothing less sexy than overconfidence.
“Thank you,” you say, slipping off your bar stool, “but another time, perhaps.”
“You’re going?” he asks, his jaw dropping.
You nod and wonder if this is the first time a woman has ever turned him down; he clearly doesn’t know how to react.
You leave him seated at the bar, and as you reach the door, you look back to see that he’s already chatting up two blonde girls, offering them the remaining tequila shots. You smile, pleased with your decision as you step out of the bar into the cool, clear night.
But now what to do? You wish Mr. Intense hadn’t gone back to his business meeting—there was something magnetic about him. And that intriguing woman in the ladies’ room—it might be fun to have a drink with her. Perhaps you should head to the exhibition and see if she’s there?
Maybe it’s time to call a taxi—the night is still young.
Or you could just head home to entertain yourself. You visualize the box in the drawer next to your bedside table. It was a gift from two girlfriends for your last birthday. In it there’s a vibrator, still nestled neatly in its packaging. It’s called a Bunny—no, wait, a Rabbit. It was supposed to be a joke, but you all knew it wasn’t actually a joke. You’ve been so busy b
uilding your career over the last couple of years that your friends have started worrying a little about the drought you’re in.
You’ve never even used it yet, but maybe tonight is the night. That way at least, you’d be guaranteed a happy ending.
If it’s not time to go home yet, but you’re not in the mood for an art exhibition, click here.
If you want to get to the exhibition before it closes, click here.
If you want to head straight home to your Rabbit, click here.
You’ve decided to call a taxi
YOU LOOK AT YOUR watch again. It’s been fifteen minutes since you called for a taxi, and you’re starting to get annoyed. They said five minutes, but this is beginning to feel like the longest five minutes in history. A couple of giggling women in platform heels exit the bar and totter past you, arm in arm. You reach into your handbag for your phone, and your eye catches the flyer you were given earlier. You fish it out and examine it again: the intriguing name “Immaculata” printed over the shot of the woman with enticing eyes you met in the bathroom. You scan the address. You know where that is; it’s only a couple of blocks from here. You could walk it, even in these heels.
Two guys whistle at you from across the street. “All right, darlin’?” one of them yells, clutching his crotch. “If I could see you naked, I’d die happy.”
After Chest Wig’s unwanted attention earlier this evening, you’re not in the mood to take anymore bullshit. “Yeah?” you call back. “If I could see you naked, I’d die laughing.”
You’re surprised when they duck their heads and scurry away. Your comeback wasn’t that sharp.
“Everything okay?”
You look up to see the tree trunk of a man with the deep voice. The bodyguard for the Space Cowboys. That probably explains why those idiots looked so sheepish.
“Hi,” you say. “I’m just waiting for my taxi. They said five minutes, but taxi companies have a different understanding of time than the rest of us.”
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 3