Yesterday was a classic Hyacinth day, one I haven’t had in eons. Emotions came and went, lust, drunken debauchery, carnal pursuits. Nothing out of the ordinary.
I met Nixon for margaritas at 3. In the car on the way over I fought doubt and indifference. He was an AFF fella and one of the few who know English; 6’1″, muscled like a track star, the color of milk chocolate. But, I told myself as the wind whipped my hair on the drive down, why assume the worst? He could be ridiculously cool and a terrific fuck, not just an aggressive, pervy asshole. My feelings weren’t that unlike what I had before my first meeting with Troy, and that ended up being quite the amazing ride when I remember only the good stuff.
So, I pushed through my misgivings and charged on. He met me at the bar, tall and statuesque. He leaned down to hug me hello, his aftershave a sharp, sweet smell. His face split into a grin, white teeth flashed and his high cheekbones accentuated his differences from me. Three margaritas and countless salacious stories later emphasized by light touches, winks, and innuendos, he walked me to my car and finally kissed me. His embrace was gentle, yet confident, and his lips firm. My hands skittered across the muscles bunched beneath his shirt. Holy shit this guy was gorgeous. I moaned a little thinking about the sight we made: a big, powerful dark-skinned man tenderly embracing a shiny, short blonde woman.
“I don’t want to let you go yet, Hy,” he said looking down at me. “You should cancel your dinner plans.”
“I can’t. You don’t understand, this restaurant is sex in my mouth. I won’t pass it up for anything.”
His answer was to mention how he’d been longing to suck on my tits all afternoon.
I pulled my shirt and bra to the side and let a creamy round spill out into the daylight. He dipped his dark head and took the nipple in his mouth. I arched into him.
“Come on. Cancel dinner,” he mumbled into my breast.
“Nuh uh,” I groaned.
He chuckled at my stubbornness and turned on his heel and went around to the passenger side of my car and climbed in without a word. I climbed in, too.
In the cab, he grabbed me and kissed me some more. Pulled down my shirt and returned his mouth to my body, his dark skin against my fairness so exotic and strange. He leaned back in his seat and began to unbuckle his pants. My pussy pulsed and eyes sparkled when he hefted out his meat. Thick and huge, it lay in his lap on the pillow of his ball sack like a resting snake.
I fell down on to him with gusto and he picked up a long string of filthy words, “You wanna be my cum junky, Hy? You gonna swallow all that big, black cock has to offer??” I nodded and whimpered and slathered all over him. “Oh, fuck yeah, you little slut, you like that?” Again, more little nods and whimpers.
I curled over the console and lay on my side, his heavy hand came down once on my flank. I slowly raised my ass and gave his resting hand a little nudge. He understood immediately and dipped his hand around to find my bare, sopping slit. He groaned as he dove in.
I looked up for half a second and two girls were climbing into the car next to us. Nixon started then relaxed when I said, ‘Don’t worry, they never looked in here.” Ten minutes later when I finally gave up, there was a whole new car there. He’d never said if we’d been discovered, but I imagined the eye-full the strangers would have gotten if we were.
I did my level best to get this pretty man to unload in my mouth, but the angle was horrible and my jaw had turned to water. (Today I have bruises on my right ribcage and a sore jaw for all my efforts.) He tried again to get me to cancel my plans, but I only said, ‘You’re not going to see me tonight.” He kissed me one last time and disappeared into his convertible Beemer a few cars down.
I drove back home with a shit-eating grin on my face, jumped in the shower to wash Nixon off of me, and dressed in the same slinky outfit for Roy.
He was on time to the minute, his dually rumbling like a disinterested bull in a field. I climbed up and we headed to the restaurant. I knew I was going to have to fuck him tonight. You don’t get taken to one of the most expensive restaurants in town twice and not put out. I giggled at my own line of thought. Dissolute, indeed.
I fucked Roy twice at the end of last summer. The first time I was so drunk I don’t remember a stitch of it. I woke up to my firsts bedside note and agreed to see him two days later where I met him at a chic boutique hotel for an hour or two before he shipped out to Afghanistan. White sheets, his pussy-perfumed beard, his chubby belly and smallish cock that he pounded into me with all the stamina he could muster, and a twinkle in his grey-blue eyes. Sex with Roy was like eating a lollipop: short and sweet with zero nutritional value, but I was strangely down for it last night.
At the restaurant I sipped on Prosecco and we split a bottle of wine, canoodling here and there. He laughed when I said I wasn’t bringing him home with me, “Ah, yes, because you’re in love with your neighbor!”
“Yep, pretty much. Let’s just fool around in the back of your truck,” we laughed at my bluntness and he surreptitiously slipped his hand between my legs under the table. We drove the couple of blocks to our next stop, a local music venue, and parked. I climbed into the backseat and he climbed on top of me. No fuss, no muss.
The street lights outlined his round silhouette and the truck rumbled under me. He took out his dick with no fanfare and started to jerk off over me. I laughed and grabbed his balls. He panted and pumped on top of me, told me how amazing my I looked, and I giggled because this was like a pantomime.
“Cum on me, Roy. Cum on me!” I whispered hoping to push him over the edge, to make it as quick as possible. It worked. I felt a hot spurt land on my jaw and the rest splatter on my belly. I righted my clothes, he buckled his pants, and we hopped down and went inside the building.
The Bob Schneider wannabe crooned to a packed house, the lights were low and the bodies warm. Roy ordered me a beer and I excused myself to the bathroom where I drunkenly penned a post and snapped a pic. I stumbled back out into the dark masses and told him I needed a cigarette.
Outside, alone on a bench, I wanted to crawl under it and sleep. I suddenly felt like I weighed 1000lbs. Roy had stuffed a $20 bill down my bra earlier for cab fare and so I decided to use it. I took off without saying goodbye. He texted me a few minutes later to see if I was still there and if I wanted to go home to which I responded, “No. Almost home. I was dying. Too drunk!!!!”
I climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment and grabbed the puppy, my drunkenness the perfect excuse to knock on The Neighbor’s door. No answer. I scribbled a note and pinned it on his door.
No sooner had I plopped down in front of the computer to edit my post than TN banged loudly on the door and entered, my note in his hand.
“Wow,” he said taking me in as I rose to greet him, “You look amazing tonight.”
The stench of other men on me made me irresistible, apparently. He quickly closed the distance between us, grabbed me and kissed me hard. In my heels, I was slightly taller than him. I pressed my breasts against him, melted into his arms and mewled a little. This is where I’d wanted to be all day and all night. In his arms, with his mouth on mine, his musky male scent filling my senses. Not Nixon’s, not Roy’s.
His hand reached up my skirt, found no panties just like Nixon and Roy hadn’t, and his fingers entered me, too, but he knew how to play me. He knew how to stroke me from the inside. He knew how to make my chest swell and my arms go numb, make my pussy gush into his hand. My juices ran down to my ankles as we stood in my living room locked in an embrace.
He pushed me back to arm’s length. “Jesus Christ, Hy, look at you,” he whispered with passion etched on his face.
“Please, please, can we fuck, TN? I’m dying. Look at me. I can’t handle it.” I trembled. He answered by crushing me to him again and hiking my skirt up over my waist. His hand went back to my cunt and he bucked it inside of me, ejaculate poured over his hand and trickled down to my sandals.
“Come on,” he said and took my hand, led me to my room and pushed me down on the bed. The overhead light split by the slow-moving fan blinked above me. He slid my skirt off and spread my knees.
“Turn out the lights, please,” I said. He got up, switched off some, switched on others, and quickly returned to me. He bent over and found my lips with his and returned his hand to my hole. I spurted and writhed beneath him, completely uncaring of the mess or the splatter sprinkling down on us. Five, six more times maybe. I lost count under the climaxes.
I pulled his engorged cock out of his shorts and hung onto it for dear life, licked the tip. He allowed that much, but made sure I didn’t go further. It was exquisitely torturous. He handed me my vibe and watched while I played with myself, his fingers doing a number on my opening, my folds, my center. The orgasm taunted me and never came and I drunkenly played it off as though it’d crashed down on me.
I was exhausted, he kissed me, we said what, I don’t know, and then he left. I stumbled back to bed and lay down in my wet spots, curled into my comforter and drifted off to sleep, my lips curved into a smile.