A Girl Walks into a Bar

by Helena S. Paige

  You’re also becoming aware that it’s not just his hands that are nudging your bottom—as he straddles you, you become aware of the hot, hard pressure of his unfurling and rising cock against you, and the pulse between your legs becomes urgent once more.

  “Xavier,” you murmur, “I think you’ve missed a spot.” He gets the message right away, clambering off you and helping you roll onto your back, which feels brand-new.

  You stretch and press your chest upward, and he gets the hint, trailing a hand over your breasts. You wriggle, tucking your arms behind your head to give him free access. He moves his head down and you gasp as his mouth closes around the tip of one breast, drawing in skin, areola, and nipple, tongue fluttering.

  God, the guy is a natural at this; you’d never have thought he was a novice. His hair trails across your breasts as he alternates between sucking and licking, and starting to nip very gently as he gets bolder. The feel of his teeth against your rock-hard nipples has your hips lifting off the bed. Jeez, you’ve heard of women coming just from having their breasts caressed, and you’re beginning to understand that it’s a real possibility.

  You’re growing frantic, and you capture his hand, drawing it down between your thighs. You hook one leg across him, so that his fingers have full access, and guide his index finger to your clit. Seconds later, you cry out as he presses down on the supersensitive little pearl of flesh, and then his eager fingers slide down, exploring further.

  “You’re so wet,” he murmurs, “I feel like I’ve found the source of the Nile,” and even though you’re practically writhing with pleasure, you laugh. And then moan out loud as one cool, long finger slides in and up, slowly, all the way.

  “How does that feel?” he whispers, pressing first one finger, then two, into your soaking pussy. “It feels fantastic to me.”

  “Delirious,” you mutter, thrashing now, eager to come. You can feel his penis pressing hard against your hip, and your good intentions to get on top of him and make the sex last as long as possible are swept aside.

  You seize his cock again, and it’s satisfyingly hard and hot. “I want you to come inside me,” you say.

  His eyes and his teeth gleam at that, and then he flails at the box next to the bed and scoops up a whole handful of condoms. Even though you’re both ferociously aroused, you giggle like teenagers.

  “I think you only need one of those at a time,” you say.

  As it’s his first time, you deal with the condom, getting it out of the packet, pinching it at the top and carefully unrolling it down the length of his shaft. Then you tug him over on top of you, open your legs wider, and pull up your knees, settling him between your legs.

  You can feel his cock nudging eagerly at you, and you’re equally keen for him to come inside you, but you need to get this right.

  You reach your head up and kiss him, sweeping your hands down his back, all the way to his tight buttocks. Then you tilt your groin up against his at the same time as tugging gently at his bottom and, to your enormous relief, he slides his cock into you easily, naturally, the angle perfect, the sensation an overwhelming rush of pleasure.

  You both groan deeply at the feel of him stretching the wet, warm, tender skin of your cunt, and you give him a tiny squeeze. He groans again.

  Then he smiles down at you. “I cannot tell you how good this feels. It was so worth the wait. Are you okay?”

  “More than okay,” you sigh. “Please just fuck me now. Nice and slow. And hard.”

  And he does, each stroke a burn of pleasure that goes deeper and deeper. It doesn’t take long—you can feel your orgasm building, and you pray he holds on long enough, and then it blasts through your body, the relief of it so strong it brings tears to your eyes. You’re dimly aware of screaming softly as you arch over and over again, grabbing on to his shoulders like a raft as the world spins around, and then it’s his turn, and he shudders rackingly, pouring his orgasm into you, shouting in triumph.

  Then the only sound is your ragged breathing as you lie limp and glued together, your heart banging against your rib cage, his head buried in your neck. Your limbs are boneless, but you’re just able to stroke the back of Xavier’s neck and shoulders, feeling the fine mist of sweat that’s sprung out all over his body.

  You can feel his cock slowly shrinking inside you, the afterglow intense as you clasp him in your still-swollen pussy. He slips out, holding the condom in place, and you both sigh. It takes an aeon before you return to anything like normal consciousness. At last he begins to feel heavy, and you gently press at his shoulders.

  Xavier gets the hint immediately and slides off you, clasping you loosely in his arms as you cuddle for the second time. His voice is full of sleepy pride: “Wow. That was . . . just wow.” And then a sudden anxious note: “You did enjoy that, didn’t you? I thought you did, it certainly sounded like it. And it felt incredible when you came like that—I mean, I assumed, you did come, didn’t you?”

  “No, you idiot, I was having an unexpected epileptic fit crossed with the hiccups. Of course that was an orgasm, and I loved it. You were amazing.”

  You giggle quietly together, then doze for a few minutes. The sense of warm honey flooding all your veins is irresistible, but there’s a tiny voice in your head prodding you to get up and go home. If you stay the night, things are going to get complicated.

  “Xavier,” you say. “Wake up. I hate to break up this party, but I need to go home.”

  He protests, groggily, but you’re firm. “Remember what we said, this is just a one-off.”

  He clasps your hand and tugs it to his lips. “But I want to do this again. And again and again and again. And then some more. And then about another hundred times. And then I’d like to start all over again.”

  You’re both moved and flattered. And so very tempted. He looks like a fallen angel, lying on the bed, his cock now quiet on his flawless thigh, his eyes sleepy. Get a grip, you scold yourself.

  He kisses your hand again and you weaken for a moment. And then you remind yourself, he’s a student. With all the angst of growing up still ahead, and loads and loads of student girls, with their issues and dramas and their soul-searching. Not to mention their perfect nineteen-year-old bodies. Xavier is the type to fall in love and break hearts and get his heart broken, and it all still lies ahead for him. He needs to get on with doing all that, and you need to get on with your life.

  You get up slowly and retrieve your underwear and shoes. Then you lean over, kissing him lingeringly one last time.

  “Goodbye, Xavier. You’re going to make some lucky woman—or maybe quite a few lucky women—very happy, you know.”

  “I’ll never forget you,” he whispers earnestly. “Not if I live to be ninety and have sex with millions more women.”

  “It was my pleasure. Literally. Now go back to sleep. I’m going to call a taxi. I’ll wait for it downstairs in the bar.”

  He doesn’t fight you anymore. He turns onto his side with a contented sigh, and his impossibly long lashes flutter down onto his impossibly perfect cheeks. His last words, almost on the verge of sleep: “Well, you know where to find me, if you want me.”

  YOU’RE DONE FOR THE night. All you want is your own bed. But this last adventure has been so sweet and unexpected, you’re tempted to drop in on Melissa and tell her the whole story.

  If you go straight home, click here.

  If you want to drop by Melissa’s to tell her about your night, click here.

  You’ve decided to call it a night; it’s time to go home

  IT’S LATE. IN FACT, it’s so late it’s almost early. Your night out has been a lot of fun and quite the adventure, but you’re thankful to be heading home at last. Even though you’re exhausted, adrenaline is still spiking through your body. Sleep feels very far away, but that’s okay. You don’t have any plans for tomorrow and you’ve got Bridget Jones’s Diary on DVD, which you’ve been wanting to watch again for ages. That movie never gets old.

  You’re
not used to wearing such insanely high heels anymore. Your feet are aching, and your purple G-string, as fabulous as it is, might just be strangling you from the bottom up. It’s going to be bliss to stop sucking in your tummy, pull on your comfy pants, and climb onto the couch with a cup of tea, a bowl of popcorn, and the remote control.

  All’s quiet as you step into the lobby of your apartment building. You press the elevator button and glance up at the row of numbers above the door. According to the little light, the elevator is stuck on the sixth floor. That’s your floor.

  You press the button again a couple of times, and then shake your head—why do people do that? It’s not as if it ever makes the elevator arrive any faster. When you look up again, the light is still glowing on the sixth floor. You’re annoyed. Which idiot neighbor is holding up the elevator at this time of night?

  You look to your left—there’s always the stairs.

  If you decide to take the stairs, click here.

  If you decide to wait for the elevator—your feet are killing you—click here.

  You’ve decided to take the stairs

  BY THE TIME YOU’RE halfway up the stairs, you have to stop, bending at the waist and panting. What possessed you to pick the stairs, especially in these heels? Who tries to be a hero at 4 A.M.?

  When you finally make it to the sixth floor, you push open the stairwell door. You’re dying to get home and get your shoes off, so you hurry forward in the dim light. The next second, you’re yelping as you skin your shins on something unmoving. You instinctively stretch out both arms to brace yourself as you come crashing down.

  “Fuck!” You look to see what you tripped over, and discover it’s one of about twenty cardboard boxes scattered randomly along the passage. What kind of moron would leave all these boxes lying around? Your shins throb and your palms and wrists sting from breaking your fall on the rough carpet. You could have broken your neck!

  “Oh my god, are you all right?”

  Still on all fours, tears stinging, you twist around to see who’s asking.

  There’s a tall guy in a pair of torn and faded blue jeans, a checked shirt, and glasses standing in the doorway of apartment 610. You’ve never seen him before—he must be moving in, which explains all the boxes and the jammed elevator. He hurries over and drops to his knees beside you.

  “Are you okay? Is anything broken?” He reaches for your elbow and helps you to your feet. Once you’re upright, you push the hair from your face and then bend down to rub your shins and evaluate the damage. A big, angry bruise is forming on your left shin.

  “Oh no,” he says, “you’re bleeding! This is all my fault. I’m so sorry! Please come inside. I haven’t unpacked the bathroom boxes yet, but I’m sure the one with the bandages is in the kitchen. We need to get you patched up.”

  If you go into his apartment to stop the bleeding, click here.

  If you just want to hobble home, click here.

  You’ve gone into his apartment to stop the bleeding

  YOUR NEW NEIGHBOR TAKES your arm and helps you limp into his apartment. The layout is almost identical to yours, but the decor is vastly different. This is clearly a man’s domain. Very few boxes seem to have been unpacked, and the bulk of them are stacked all over the place, but the big-screen TV, entertainment system, and couches are set up as if they’ve been here forever.

  “When did you move in?” you ask.

  “A few days ago,” he says as he helps you into the kitchen. “But those boxes in the hall only got dropped off earlier this evening, and I didn’t think anyone would be around so late, so I thought I could leave them there for the night. But I really should have stacked them against the wall. Again, I’m really sorry!”

  You can’t help smiling a little at how devastated he looks. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” you say sternly.

  He looks startled, but when he sees you’re joking, he grins, and you’re taken aback at how good-looking he is. You hadn’t noticed it at first. He’s definitely not hot in a conventional way, but he has a slightly skewed smile, and the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen on a guy—they just about swipe the lenses of his black-framed glasses every time he blinks.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to hop up here?” he asks, patting the kitchen counter. “Then I can take a closer look at that cut. It’s still bleeding, and we should probably clean it.”

  You lever yourself up onto the counter while he dives into a box on the kitchen table, and then comes toward you, unzipping a small first-aid kit.

  “Are you a doctor or something?” you ask, feeling a little queasy at the sight of the blood trickling down your leg.

  “Nope, I’m a writer, which is almost the same thing. I mean, I’ve written about doctors.”

  “Oh, well, in that case . . .”

  “So, let’s take a look at what kind of lawsuit I’m facing here,” he says, dabbing at your shin with a cotton ball. “Manslaughter, or simply attack with a deadly cardboard box. But I think you should know that I’ve written about lawyers as well, so you’re in for a bit of a battle should this ever get as far as a courtroom.”

  Aha. He’s cute and funny. Those are the dangerous ones.

  “I’ll be fine. The bleeding’s almost stopped,” you say, taking the cotton ball from him and pressing it against your skin. “It’s late. I’d better get home.”

  “No way!” he says. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and I’m responsible. At least let me make you a cup of tea or a drink before you go.”

  You look at him, hesitating.

  “You really can’t go yet,” he continues. “I haven’t even used half the stuff I’ve got in here.” He indicates the rest of the contents of the first-aid kit laying open on the counter. “What’s the point of an impressive first-aid kit if you never get to use it? See, there’s still Mercurochrome and antiseptic and bandages to go through before I can officially release you. Doctor-writer’s orders!”

  “Okay,” you relent, and he reaches for another cotton ball. Then he holds the back of your calf in one hand while dabbing your shin carefully with the other. Your leg tingles at his touch. You can’t believe how gentle he is, this big, barefoot guy. You take a closer look at him. He must be at least six foot, unshaven, with thick, dark, disheveled hair that could do with a trim.

  “What’s in all those boxes anyway?” you ask. “It was like running into a brick wall.”

  “It’s books,” he says, a little bashful. “I have a slight problem: I can’t seem to walk past a book without buying it. It’s an occupational hazard. That’s one of the reasons I had to move—not enough space for books in my last place. Plus, I’d run out of neighbors to trip up.”

  The bleeding seems to have stopped, and he releases your leg and stands up straight. With you sitting on the kitchen counter, his face is almost level with yours. He’s close enough that your skin heats, and, unless you’re mistaken, his face flushes a little, too, before he busies himself with a bottle of antiseptic and another cotton ball.

  “This may sting a little bit,” he says earnestly. “Just squeeze my shoulder if you need to.”

  That’s silly, you think, how sore can it— “Ouch, that stings!” you yell, grabbing hold of his shoulder, feeling his muscles ripple under your hand. The pain is gone as quickly as it came, and you let go of his shoulder reluctantly, feeling silly for making such a fuss. He reaches for a Band-Aid, tears off its wrapper, and covers the gash on your shin, wiping it down gently. And for a brief moment you wonder if he’s going to kiss your leg better—the thought of it sends a little thrill up your spine—but he doesn’t.

  “In my unprofessional opinion, the other leg looks okay—the bruising should go down in a couple of days. I don’t have any arnica, but I hear that’s good for bruises. Once again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. What’s your boyfriend going to say when you come hobbling home all cut and bruised?”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” you say. “What about you?”

  “I
don’t have a boyfriend, either,” he says, that lopsided smile breaking across his face. You laugh and climb off the counter.

  “Can I at least prescribe something for the pain before you go?” He opens his fridge and peers inside. “My shift at the hospital just ended, and I think I need a drink myself.”

  If you needed any confirmation of his single status, it’s right there on the shelves. The only items in there are a couple of six-packs, a quart of milk, and some Chinese-takeout cartons.

  He takes out a beer, twists off the top, and offers it to you.

  If you have a drink with him, click here.

  If you decide to call it a night, click here.

  You’ve decided to have a drink with the neighbor

  YOU ACCEPT THE BEER and thank him. The bottle is refreshingly cool, and you can’t resist holding it to your cheeks, which still seem to be burning. He grabs another beer for himself and clinks the neck of his bottle against yours.

  “To new neighbors,” he says.

  “And lucrative lawsuits.”

  You catch his eye, and some kind of current flickers between you.

  You follow him into the living room. There are piles of books leaning against just about every wall. You peek into the master bedroom, taking in the unmade king-size bed, strewn with newspapers. An image of the two of you sitting up in bed, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper together, jumps into your mind. You shake off the ridiculous fantasy and sip the ice-cold beer.