He flicks on the cruise control and slips his fingers under the lace of your tiny purple panties, running them gently through your bush. Then his fingers stroke up and down the length of your slit, sliding between the lips. You push your pelvis against his hand, eager for him to keep going. After a couple of moments teasing you, he slips a finger inside and you close your eyes and sigh. Within seconds he has located your clit and rolls one finger around the sensitive spot, while another finger slips in and out of you. You push your feet down hard against the floor of the car and brace yourself as he continues to rub against you. Your breath becomes more and more frantic, and you can’t stop yourself from thrusting your hips upward.
Maybe it’s because you know you’ll probably never see this guy again, or because you’re in a collector’s-edition sports car, or because you can see the stars above, but you feel completely uninhibited. You grab one of your breasts, feeling how hard your nipple is. Then you lift one of your bare feet onto the dashboard in front of you, and he slips one more finger inside you, filling you up, still rubbing slow circles around your clit. The wind rushes through your hair and you can’t help moaning. Then he speeds up his fingers bit by bit, working them inside you faster and faster, and you clutch the sides of your seat with both hands. Then, with the feel of expensive leather and the vibration of the engine beneath you, and his fingers inside you, you cry out as you come, shuddering with your head thrown back against the headrest, your eyes shut tight.
As you slowly come back down to earth, you feel him slip his fingers out of you, but he still holds on to the top of your thigh with his hand, massaging the flesh gently, and you’re sure he can feel the tremble in your legs.
You eventually open your eyes as you feel the car slowing down, and discover that you’re on a quiet, leafy side street. It takes you a moment to recognize that it’s your road. The bodyguard pulls up outside your apartment block and turns off the car engine. Then he leans in and kisses you, your teeth clashing as your tongues entwine. Eventually he leans back, his eyes gleaming.
“What a ride,” you say as you finally manage to catch your breath, feeling bashful and shocked at your own behavior. What on earth got into you? You sit up a little straighter, tug your skirt down, and try to smooth your hair, which is wild and knotted.
He senses the shift in your mood, and leans toward you. “Hey, come here,” he says in his deep growl, lifting you easily out of your seat and pulling you into his lap. He holds you and strokes your hair out of your face, pinning it behind your ears. “Don’t be shy, that was amazing,” he says. “You’re amazing.”
You blush. “I’m not normally so . . . so . . . so . . .”
He smiles and kisses you deeply again, so you no longer have to search for words. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. This time, the kiss is less urgent, and his tongue is soft and gentle. You imagine what it would be like to have that tongue roving all over your body in a space bigger than the seat of this car. A king-size bed, for instance.
You’re about to invite him in, but then you feel something vibrating underneath you. You pull back from the kiss in surprise, and he laughs, holding you more loosely, shifting in his seat to pull out his phone. You put a finger to your lips as he answers it, his mouth so close to your ear you can feel the heat of his breath.
“Hello,” he says. “Yes. Yes. Taken care of. I’ll be there in twenty.” Then he puts the phone away again. “Duty calls. I’m afraid I have to go.”
“Do you really? I’m sorry.”
“Trust me, I’m sorrier.” He takes your face in his hands and kisses you passionately again.
“But I didn’t even get to return the favor.”
He tugs on your chin and smiles. “It’s okay. I kind of like the thought of you owing me one.”
“Hey, you know where I live.”
He opens the car door and somehow manages to stand, still holding you comfortably in his arms, as if you weigh nothing. Then he effortlessly places you, legs still shaky, on the pavement. He leans in through the window to retrieve your shoes and bag. Then he drops to his knees in front of you. You hold on to his muscular shoulder for balance, your pussy pulsing again at the feel of him, as he gently slips first one shoe and then the other onto your bare feet. Then he stands and kisses you again. At last he pulls away, but as he touches the door handle, he turns back to kiss you one last time.
“I’ll watch you in,” he says with a nod toward your front door.
“Ever the bodyguard,” you say as you turn to walk inside.
“At your service,” he says with a smile and a salute. “Night, Ms. Lewis Hamilton.”
“Night, Mr. Bodyguard. And thanks again. That was—wow—‘fun’ is putting it mildly.”
Once you’re safely inside the building, you turn and watch as the 350Z speeds off into the night. He lifts his arm out of the sunroof and waves.
All you want now is to collapse onto your sofa and unwind, maybe with a DVD and a bowl of popcorn.
Click here.
Miles’s box of tricks wasn’t your style, so you got out of there
YOU SETTLE BACK IN the taxi and breathe out. That business with the suitcase full of toys was starting to get a little too kinky for your liking. You’re glad you got out of there. There’s no denying that Miles is sexy as hell, but if you didn’t know it before, you know it now—whips and chains just aren’t your style.
As the driver maneuvers through the streets, you smile to yourself at the crazy night you’ve had so far. There was the weirdo with the chest wig; the crazy, arrogant rock star; his mountainous bodyguard; that gorgeous woman in the ladies’ room at the bar—not forgetting the young barman with a body to make a grown woman weep. And that was just the warm-up—no wonder you’re feeling so turned on.
You consider swinging past your local late-night coffee shop for a hot chocolate on your way home. Although, the idea of your bed is alluring, but not necessarily for sleep. There’s a hungry ache between your legs that needs attending to. It might just be the perfect night to break that Rabbit out of its packaging.
If you want to swing past your local coffee shop on the way home, click here.
If you want to go straight home to your Rabbit, click here.
You’ve decided to go back to the bar for one last drink
YOU HEAD INSIDE A little cautiously, but there’s no sign of the rock stars or their groupies—and, more important, Chest Wig—thank goodness. The bar is still a little busy, but the seat you had much earlier is empty, and you head for it and sit down with a sigh of relief. Your shoes are surprisingly comfortable (so they should be, at that price), but even so, there’s only so long a girl can ramble around in heels this high.
There’s a fairly noisy group of women next to you, having some sort of girls’ night out, drinking highly colored cocktails by the bucketful. You spot the adorable bartender, who has his hands full with them as they heckle and flirt manically.
He catches your eye, and unless you’re completely deluded, his face lights up. He mouths, “Be right there,” and goes back to doling out drinks to a brassy blonde who’s trying to push her business card down the front of his shirt.
It’s too noisy to ring Melissa—the woman on the seat next to you is calling for her drink and waving vigorously at the bartender—so you tap out a message to her as he hastens down the bar with a lurid pink concoction in his hand.
With half an eye, you notice as your neighbor snatches the drink from him and shrieks, “Bottoms up!”
The next second, the contents of her glass rain down on you as she slides off the back of her seat and crashes to the ground, arms windmilling.
Her friends screech and rush to her aid, but although she’s swearing a blue streak, she seems unhurt. You wish you could say the same for your favorite black dress. Most of her drink—can it really only have been one glass? it feels like a gallon—managed to catch you full on your chest, and you can feel it oozing down your cleavage and dripping on
to your lap. There are also splatters all over your face, arms, and neck, as well as your phone and your bag.
You look down at the damage in despair—you look like a contestant in a wet-T-shirt competition, but not in a good way. The drink is clearly sugary, and as it oozes over you, the stickiness feels hideous.
A damp cloth materializes under your nose, held out by the bartender. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I should have refused to serve her—she was completely wasted.”
“It’s not your fault,” you say, noting the total lack of any apology coming your way from the gang of women, now noisily heading for the exit. Your drunken assailant, tottering and still cursing, is being supported by her slightly more sober pals. You hope that tomorrow she wakes up with a hangover like an elephant sitting on her head.
You dab at your chest, but it’s going to take more than one towel to clean up this mess. You’re really annoyed; it’s been a weird night as it is, and you’re very fond of this dress, which is going to need specialist industrial-strength cleaning after this.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” The barman is hovering anxiously, looking almost as upset as you feel.
“No, but thanks. Wait—maybe you can call a taxi for me? I’m going to have to go home and scrub down.”
“At this time of night it’ll take at least twenty minutes for a taxi to get here,” he says. “Um . . . you could always go upstairs to our place and use our bathroom.”
“ ‘Our place’? Upstairs?”
“Yes, my cousin lives upstairs: the apartment goes with the job. I’m crashing there, looking after the place while I fill in for him. It’s completely private. Tiny, but you could, um, wipe yourself down or whatever, and wash out your dress, you know, until we can find you a ride home.”
You’re tempted. You really want to get this hideous slushy goo off you—the thought of having to wait until you get home is unendurable.
“Please, it’s really no trouble. I feel awful,” he goes on. “Look, there’s my manager. Things have quieted down a bit. I’m sure he won’t mind if I duck out early. He can manage the bar for the last hour or so, so I can help you out.”
The manager, alerted by the commotion, is already on the scene, arranging for someone to whisk away the broken glass and mop the floor. Now he leans over toward you and apologizes as well: “We’re so sorry about this, ma’am. I’ll personally arrange drinks on the house for you and a friend next time you come in.”
He exchanges a few words with the bartender, who turns to you, smiling. “It’s cool, he’ll handle things down here. C’mon, let’s get you out of that dress.”
A split second later he registers the words he’s just spoken and blushes to the tips of his fingers. You’ve never seen a man go that red before. He’s so mortified that, even in your exasperated state, you can’t help smiling, and you notice the manager is also suppressing a grin.
“Lead on,” you say as cheerfully as you can manage.
YOU FOLLOW HIM THROUGH an exit behind the bar and into a rather bleak corridor with a featureless black door. This leads to a narrow flight of stairs that takes you up to apartments above the bar. On the second floor, you pass a small room with fluorescent lights, and the bartender points to a row of coin-operated washing machines and driers. “See, we can have your clothes washed and dried in no time.”
He leads you into a tiny and rather chaotic apartment. There’s a mountain bike cluttering up the hall, piles of books everywhere, and the world’s smallest galley kitchen on the right.
Your new friend gestures to the bathroom on the left. You look in gingerly, but surprisingly for a bachelor pad, it’s clean, even if the bathtub is several decades old. There’s shaving clutter on the shelves over the sink, and a towel hanging askew off the rack, but you’ve seen much worse, including in your own bathroom back home.
“Here, let me find you a towel . . . You can shower if you like. There’s washing stuff in the cabinet under the sink for your dress, if you need it.”
The bartender presses a towel of about the same vintage as the bath into your arms, but it’s large and spotlessly clean. Then he retreats. “You take your time. I’ll make us something hot to drink in the meantime.”
The second the bathroom door closes, you strip off your dress and view the damage. You’re going to have to rinse out the entire garment: the slushy liquid has soaked right through. But how are you going to get out of here without clothes? You’ll have to borrow a shirt or something.
Your bra is also saturated, and you drag it off as well. Great. Now you’re clad in a G-string, heels, and the remains of a large pink cocktail, in a total stranger’s student-style bathroom, with not a stitch to wear. And you’re still covered in sticky goo.
You strip down completely and step into the bath, where you figure out which nozzles to turn and use the old-fashioned handheld showerhead to rinse the gunk off yourself. You reach for the shower gel, which smells pleasantly of limes. The water is comfortingly hot, and you start to feel marginally better, even though your eye makeup is probably pure panda by now, and your carefully styled hair has gone all fluffy in the steam.
Climbing out, you wash the dress and your bra in the sink, squeeze out as much water as possible, and then blot them with the towel. Now what? You wrap the towel around yourself and knot it firmly above your breasts, then crack open the door cautiously.
“Um, hello? Do you think I can use the drier?” you call. “And do you have a T-shirt or something I can borrow?”
The bartender sticks his head out of the kitchen and does a double take.
“What?” you ask defensively.
“Nothing, you just look younger,” he blurts. “Wait, I’ll get you a shirt. Hang on . . .”
He dives through another door and emerges again with a vast T-shirt. “Give me your clothes. I’ll bring them down to the laundry room.” You hand over your wet dress and your bra, and this time you both blush.
He recovers first. “Back in a second. There’s chai tea in the kitchen whenever you’re ready.”
You retreat to the bathroom and investigate your new outfit. The slogan across the front reads:
God is dead. —Nietzsche
Nietzsche is dead. —God
Could this evening get any more bizarre? you wonder. You’ve gone from being a confident, grown-up woman on a night out to a walking debating-society ad—and missing half your underwear. You wriggle back into your G-string and heels, don the T-shirt, and wipe the worst of the mascara-smudge from under your eyes. It’s a fairly weird look—the bartender is right. You do look younger with your scrubbed face and slumber-party-queen shirt. The hooker heels cancel out the innocence, though, but you’re not sure you want to pad around a strange place in bare feet.
Time to head back to the kitchen. On the fridge, you spot a calendar of shifts for the bar downstairs, and you’re intrigued to see the single initial X written into many of the spaces. It reminds you of treasure maps, where X marks the spot.
On cue, the bartender bounces back into the kitchen. “So, your clothes should be dry in about forty-five minutes. I really am so sorry about this. I feel terrible—”
“What does the X stand for here?” you ask, as much to cut off another round of apologies as out of curiosity.
“Oh!” He looks slightly sheepish. “That’s me. My name’s Xavier—I know, I know, it sounds like a porn star’s name, so my family and friends call me X. At least, that’s how my cousin marks up the shift rotation. Honey in your chai?”
Honey in your chai? You suppress a giggle. What sort of student is he?
“Um, I think so,” you say. He pours a fragrant caramel-colored liquid into two mugs and arranges them on a tray with honey and spoons. “Follow me,” he says, picking up the tray and heading down the short hallway, pushing a door open with his shoulder.
It’s clearly his bedroom, and you hesitate in the doorway, but he’s already apologizing: “I’m so sorry, we don’t have a living room—my cousin
turned it into his crash pad. We could hang out in the kitchen . . . ?”
“No, this is cool,” you say. In fact, you’re fascinated. You were expecting smelly sneakers and game consoles, but it’s a cross between a monk’s cell and some mysterious Eastern grotto. The three-quarter bed has a plain white cover, and there’s a Japanese print on the wall. There are candles everywhere and incense burning on the window ledge. There’s also a little bronze Buddha on the bedside table, a rolled-up yoga mat in the corner, and books everywhere—piled up next to the bed, in the towers of wine crates he’s using as shelves, and on the old-fashioned desk, where a silver laptop has pride of place.
You love it when there are books in a room—it makes it much easier to start a conversation, plus you can tell so much about somebody by looking at their books. You wander over to browse and immediately spot the kind of things you’d expect for someone interested in Eastern religions—masses of titles about Hinduism, tai chi, Persian poetry, and all that sort of thing, but also a lot of speculative fiction. You don’t know much about it, but you recognize the good stuff—David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, plenty of Ursula K. Le Guin and Philip Pullman.
“I loved this,” you say, tugging at Cloud Atlas. “Have you seen the movie?” You pull a little harder to release the book, and the one next to it comes loose and tumbles to the floor. “Oops, sorry,” you say, bending to retrieve it. It isn’t until you straighten and catch sight of Xavier’s face, which is crimson again, his mouth hanging slightly open, that you remember that you’re wearing a T-shirt that falls as far as your thighs and is doing a fair job of keeping you decent—as long as you don’t bend over.
You sit down hastily on the bed, tugging the shirt down as far as it will go. To break the charged moment, you sip your drink, which smells peppery and perfumed at the same time—and almost choke.
“Do you like it?” Xavier asks eagerly. “Or did I put in too much chili?”
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 13