Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  Honestly, tonight could have gone either way. It depended on whether he said anything about what happened last Wednesday morning, when I lost half my body’s blood to his mattress.

  He didn’t say a damn thing. What a considerate guy. Maybe there’s hope in this world.

  He better hope so. Because when he gazes into my eyes, my mouth working him until all I can taste is his skin and precum, he knows he’s looking into the eyes of a woman who has had a lot of practice.

  I have to admit… he has a very satisfying girth, doesn’t he? Not so big I feel my mouth splitting open. Not quite like I’m going to choke to death if I forget how to breathe like a woman who can fucking deep throat. Definitely not so big that I look at it and heave the heartiest guffaw you’ve ever heard coming from a woman about to throw down on a dude’s dick. (Seriously, I’ve seen some massive cocks in my day. I once went out with a guy who was so big I legit asked him how he kept that thing tucked into his trousers without alerting security everywhere he went. He didn’t think it funny. Nor did I think it funny he wanted to stick that in one of my orifices.) But I also appreciate a guy who is the right size for me. Maybe that’s why it feels so good to fuck him. It’s not only emotional catharsis of getting the guy who thought he could get me. It’s the physical might of a guy who fits into your relaxed, wet pussy so well that you also can’t wait to get this thing down your throat.

  Honestly, he could take it a little further, if he tried.

  “Is that all you got?” I cajole, my mouth totally off his dick but my grip wound tightly around the base of his shaft. I lift my head far enough for him to entice me with a kiss. I don’t let him have one, though. Kisses are for men who give me what I want. And I want a different experience. The more I put my mouth on this guy, the more my body craves the kind of “loving” I’m not going to get with merely anyone. I’m craving sex like it’s going out of style. You could tell me this is my last chance to get laid, and I’d believe you. Or, at least, my body will definitely believe you. It’s throbbing for his thumbs to press into my shoulder blades and hold me down while he rams me. I don’t care from what direction. I don’t care if he comes all over my ass because he got too excited, as long as I get to come first. “Come on, Drew. You got this obnoxious bitch to come up to see you alllll the way from Portland.” I languidly stroke him as I tease his chin with my lips. My hair falls against his open shirt. He continues to grip the edge of his bed, where he’s been clinging ever since we came in here and I sat him down. He thought he was slowly undressing me and taking me every which way to Sunday? Ha! I’m the conductress of this night’s performance. He merely has to play the instrument I hand him.

  How about my throat, Drew? Do you know how to play that like a fiddle?

  “I know how you look at me.” With one hand still on his dick, the fingers of my other hand lightly brush against his stubble. A man who was in love with me, as his mother loves to put it, would lean into my hand and try to kiss my palm. (Been there. I know what it looks like.) A guy who wants to put me in my place and use me for his own lascivious ends? He’s doing what Drew soon does.

  He’s keeping his face pointed toward me, throat growling and knuckles turning white.

  “How do I look at you, Princess?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. “Like I want to fuck you until you scream? Because that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Why scream when I make a multitude of other fun sounds?” Both of my hands land on his legs. I didn’t wear a bra on my trip today. Makes it easier for me to pull down the bust of my dress and entice him with my naked breasts. Not to touch with his hands, oh, no. These things exist for one purpose right now, and that’s to tease his cock with their cleavage. The guy doesn’t have to work for a titty fuck. I hand it to him on a silver platter, and I do all the work.

  For five whole seconds. What? Did you think I was putting more effort into that? Ha! I’m merely planting seeds in his imagination. I want to see how good he is at reading my signs. Let’s see what kind of lover I really have in my hands here.

  I don’t travel to Seattle for just anyone after all. I want to know that the guy is worth it in the bedroom department.

  “I dare you to do it.” I drop my tits and flick my tongue against his tip again. Drew hisses through his teeth, as if I’m the sexiest gal he’s ever beheld. He better think so. When I take him into my mouth again, it’s for the sole purpose of getting what I want.

  “What exactly are you daring me to do, Princess?” he continues to hiss.

  He wants me to talk with his dick in my mouth? Fine!

  “Fuck me,” I purr.

  That purr is two-fold. He gets to hear my scintillating response, and Drew gets to feel my throat vibrating on his cock. I do give a great hummer, don’t I? Except hummers are for men who take their time to appreciate my skill.

  It’s kind of hard to give a guy a hummer when he’s fucking you right in the throat.

  My hair snaps against my scalp. My nice dress sleeves fall down my arms. I don’t have time to think about anything else. My throat now belongs to Drew, and if I don’t want to completely choke and ruin the moment, I better concentrate on what I’m doing.

  This isn’t one-sided fucking, by the way. Drew doesn’t just get to pull my hair, still my head, and fuck my mouth like it’s my willing cunt. My muffled cries of surprise and pleasure aren’t reserved for his future spank-bank and nothing else. You think I don’t get something out of this? Please! It was all I could think about the whole train ride up here. “I’m going to blow him so hard he won’t be able to think about anything else for the rest of the night. Blow him so hard he can’t get it up again.” Yes, I thought that to myself with quite the smirk on my face. I daresay everyone on the train knew I was thinking satisfyingly dirty thoughts. You see, it’s the last day of my period, and I have a very firm no below the belt sex when I’m on my period rule. I don’t care if it’s day six and there’s hardly anything left from my uterus. It’s not happening, and once it is officially done, I’m taking the longest shower to start a new month. I don’t care about a man’s opinion on it. It’s my body. I fuck when and how I want.

  Also, I’m not stupid. Drew was going to want sex. It’s his whole reason for agreeing to bring me up here for a couple of days. When he’s not taking me to eat in some of Seattle’s nicest places, I’m treating myself to a little shopping spree. There are boutiques here in Seattle you can’t get in Portland. Shit, sometimes I come up here by myself, using my own money, but I won’t say no to a man wanting to spoil me.

  Even now, Drew is totally spoiling me.

  My mouth, jaw, and throat are completely compliant as he fucks me. Maybe I brace myself against his legs a little harder than necessary, but we’ll consider those bruises my love marks for him to remember this moment by. I’m not afraid of what he’ll do to me. He should be afraid of me!

  He should be afraid of any woman who continues to look right into his eyes as he fucks her throat.

  Every time I lose a little of my concentration, I thank God Drew hasn’t noticed. I don’t want him to stop until he comes. This may shock you, but I actually want his seed shooting into the depths of my throat. I consider it a triumph. The harder he comes, the more I win.

  Go on, Drew. Do it.

  I fucking dare you.

  He gleans as much from my intense stare. I am unwavering in my stance as he tears me apart, trying to make some chauvinistic point about using my throat for his own ends. He’s unrelenting with his thrusts, the power of his hips always two centimeters away from my face. My own depths are hot with arousal and pleading me to get off his dick and hop on it somehow else. But I’ll deny myself for today. Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow, he’s getting the full Cher Lieberman experience.

  Right now? I’m his ultimate cool girl fantasy. The one who loves it when he fucks her mouth, slaps her on the face with his wet cock, and works her throat until the first hot wave of seed hits the back of her tongue.

  Does she take
it a champ, or what?

  The struggle was apparent in his eyes. Drew knew that if he came, that was it. He’d be spent, with nothing leftover for other parts of my body. He’s young enough for a shorter refractory period, but we’re at least one hour before he’s ready to go again. I don’t doubt he’d step up and eat me out or finger me wherever I wanted, but I can’t say I see the appeal tonight. Let him have his little fantasy.

  Drew collapses back onto his bed. I take my time easing off him, letting both spit and seed linger on his softening cock. He can look at if he likes. I merely prefer to leave a little bit of his own mess behind for him to clean up. (What? I’m not his maid.)

  “Did you come all the way up here to do that?” He has one arm flung over his face. I slowly round the corner of his bed, helping myself to the tissues he keeps on the nightstand. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but you’ve decimated the poor guy.”

  “Did I?” My one sleeve is still down my arm. Although my tits aren’t popping out of my dress, Drew doesn’t mind staring at my chest. “Weird. I could’ve sworn that was you using up all my energy.”

  “You dared me. As we’ve established, I’ll almost always do some sexy thing you’ve dared me to do.”

  “Tell me.” I ignore the rest of his statement. Since when am I interested in hearing his excuses? “Do you usually fuck like that? Or am I special, because I’m such a bitch for you to hate-fuck?”

  “Are we still calling it hate-fucking? Because I was fondly thinking of your visit today. Could barely keep it in my pants as I thought of all the tender ways I was about to fuck you.”

  The sarcasm in his voice isn’t lost on me. I sit next to him, not bothering to lie down. Drew’s hand lazily plays with the base of my zipper. If he had any sliver of strength left in him, he’d pull down my zipper and undress me with the intent of giving me that tender shit. Hmph. “I’m not your girlfriend,” I remind him. “I’m your current fucktoy.”

  “If you insist on such wording, I’d hope you at least acknowledge the toying goes in both directions.”

  “You think I lie in bed at night fucking myself in the face with my dildos? Hardly.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “What do you think that was?”

  “Wait a minute…” Drew finds the excuse to sit up. “Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Sometimes, the kind of sex a girl likes skirts the edge of… well, pain.” I give him one sultry wink to take his mind off thoughts of accidentally hurting me. I’d be pleased that a guy cares so much, but for one thing, I don’t believe him… and for another, I don’t have the wherewithal to deal with this right now.

  He bites his lower lip. It’s not strong enough to get him hard again, no matter how much he thinks we’re gonna keep going. “Give me like… an hour… sorry, Princess. You were more of a Succubus again. When you get that way, I’m drained for…”

  “There’s no need.” I turn away from him as if he’s utterly nothing to me. His hand instantly drops to the bed. “Consider it my thanks for letting me come up here on your dime.”

  “Huh?”

  I pick up my skirt and grab some toiletries from my overnight bag. “Is it all right if I leave these on your sink?” My travel kit is ready for his sink and shower. Mostly stuff I’ll throw away before I go back to Portland. I prefer to not bring mementos back with me. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Get the travel grime off me. Maybe think about what I want for dinner. Is there any decent curry around here?”

  “Uh… I don’t need… payment… for…”

  I don’t let him finish. It’s more than enough for me to shut the bathroom door behind me and flick on the fan. As I prepare to brush my teeth at his bathroom sink, I face my reflection. Flushed cheeks. Tousled hair. Wrinkled dress. I definitely look like I was up to no good.

  “Got him,” I mouth to my sultry reflection. Fucking with men shouldn’t feel this good.

  Hey, if I’m not milking him for his financial potential, then what am I doing? Let’s not pretend I’m suddenly having changes of heart because a guy might have caught feelings for me. Let alone a man like Drew Benton, who makes his living ruining women like me.

  We’ll see who breaks whose heart first.

  Chapter 18

  DREW

  Every time I’m around this woman, I’m completely thrown for another loop. It’s like Cher grabs me by the hand, pulls me in a hundred little circles, and releases me to throw up in the wind. Centripetal force is a bitch like that. Always getting chunks on your face.

  I had no idea what to expect when she messaged me a few days ago, asking me to buy her a ticket to Seattle. I offered her more than that. Why not a personal chauffer, so she can avoid Union Station and the stress of traveling by train? No? At least let me buy you a plane ticket, sweetheart. I know a guy – personally – who has a charter service that runs twice a day between PDX and Sea-Tac. It would be easy to get her a seat, but nooo, she insists on traveling her tried and true way. Which tells me she has reasons beyond seeing me on her mind.

  I only become more suspicious when she pushes me onto my bed and goes to town on my dick. This is a woman who knows what the hell she’s doing. We guys always joke about getting a girl who used to be a porn star. Gals who can deep throat you until you’re coming so hard you no longer know which way is up – nor can you hear their squeals of protest as you choke them with your cock. I mean, that can’t be helped. I’m sorry, ladies. When you’re that good, your man will only be found on another plane of existence, and nowhere else.

  It takes a lot to unnerve me, you know. Especially when you’ve given me the gift of holy shit that’s called coming. So when Cher implies she blew me and asked for nothing in return because, in her words, “Consider it my thanks for letting me come up here on your dime,” I’m going to feel a certain way.

  Not exactly bad. Definitely not good. Dunno. Can’t put much better words to it. Yet if there’s one thing Cher knows how to do, it’s keep her on my mind.

  I half expect her to be gone that first morning in my Seattle apartment. Yet there she is when I wake up, sleeping on her side, wearing nothing but a silky negligee she packed in an overnight bag. When she’s not conked out from sex, she wears her hair in a loose twist to sleep. I suppose when you’re someone who can’t sleep on your back, a good way to take care of your long hair is to wear it like that. I can’t say I’m used to it, though. This woman always wears her hair down. Down and free, flowing on the breeze as it blows against her face. Her straight and silky locks are like Heaven to touch. They’re more fun to pull when you’re fucking the life out of her. I mean, I’ll take ‘em either way.

  All right. It’s time for a mulligan. Cher is peacefully asleep, albeit so far on the edge of my bed that it’s liable she’s disgusted with my presence. Probably dreaming about the real reason she’s here. (Let me guess… searching for some poor Seattle sod to screw over? I’m saving her travel money. I bet if she comes up empty, she’ll “let me” fuck her. Great. Can’t wait.) Last time we did this, I had to have my sheets dry cleaned and the blood scrubbed out of my mattress. Not my finest moment. Not her finest moment, but I like to think I’m a gentleman. You know, when I’m not screwing over people instead of her.

  We really do deserve each other, don’t we?

  Maybe it was the toast that was unlucky. I’ll make some oatmeal, instead. Steel cut oats cooked with cinnamon and a dash of milk. I have fresh berries out my wazoo, thanks to Brent’s husband’s affinity for all things natural produce. (You know I pay Brent too much money when his house-husband can grow his own black, blue, and strawberries in their tiny yard. Couple that with some freshly squeezed orange juice, I might be doing this pseudo-boyfriend things all right.

  Oh my God, I have no idea what she likes. Does she like orange juice? Why the fuck do I care!

  “Hey.”

  She half-startles me as I survey my kitchen. Yet Cher’s voice carries that well from my bedroom doorway. She’s leaning again
st it, one strap of her baby pink negligee falling down her arm. Her makeup-less face isn’t that much different from when she has it judiciously applied. Sure, the cat eyes are gone. The lips aren’t as full and colored. She has a couple acne scars that you only see because she hides them so well. Yet if she thinks she’s frightening me with her gargantuan hideousness, she can think again. She’s as different like this, with her hair piled in tangles on her head and her body spilling out of her negligee. That’s all I see. Not an imperfect face. Just… a regular, beautiful woman rubbing sleep out of her eyes and licking her dried-out lips.

  “Hey.” I turn to her, one hand clutching my island counter. “You like oatmeal? ‘Cause I’m thinking oatmeal.”

  “Don’t wanna keep you from whatever you’re doing. I’m sure you’ve got places to be and women to ruin.”

  I don’t let her words affect me. Doing so would be to give her exactly what she wants. “Taking a little time off, actually. I figure you’re the one who has places to be.”

  “I mean, I would love to go shopping. With the added bonus of I don’t expect you to buy me anything.”

  “Ooh, brought your own money, did you?”

  “That, and it’s a little weird having a guy you’re not really going out with buy you Chanel. Maybe it’s me. Some women are absolutely shameless.”

  “Especially the women who don’t have the funds you’ve amassed for yourself?”

  “Hey, I’m not a millionaire.” She turns toward my bathroom door. “Well, I don’t get to access that million. Not for another few decades when I’m retirement age and a million barely means anything anymore.”

  “Tell me about it,” I drolly say.