I sit on one of the two couches in the communal living area, relishing the deep cushions and plush fabrics. I have a thing for old furniture. It’s softer, more pliable, because of its lived-in character, and this couch is exceptionally old. It feels lovely under my intoxicated fingers.
Beside me, a young woman chatters away about her dream of becoming an “alternative fashion designer”. Before the six-pack and ninth shot kicked in, I’d asked her what that meant, and she’d described a number of designs she had in mind based on insect anatomy. I recall being vaguely horrified by the idea of a woman made up to resemble a praying mantis, given that the females of the species are sexually cannibalistic following copulation, and that my only real interest is in her sexual qualities makes it particularly concerning. But she’s attractive enough that I’m willing to risk having my skull eaten. She’s tall with little curvature, save for one of the more amazing racks I’ve ever seen–perky, round, at least a large C, made all the larger by her slender frame, barely covered by a skin-tight black tanktop. She wears nothing under the tank or her baggy green cargo pants, based on the view she’d inadvertently given me bending over earlier. She sports a nose ring and multiple earrings, and a colorful tattoo creeps up her back, along her neck, onto her buzzed scalp. I have no idea what her name is, but I’ve never fucked a girl with a shaved head, and damn if her decidedly punk appearance isn’t driving me crazy.
Or rather, it would be, if the ethanol hadn’t suddenly kicked in with full force. It’s making me much more interested in the upholstery than I should be. But I do my best to nod and appear interested as she describes, in more detail than one would imagine possible, her idea to recreate a moth’s wing patterning using black embroidery on a grey dress.
“That’s cool,” I say absently. “Though I’m not sure there’s much of a market for that kind of thing here in the South. Maybe Chicago or Detroit, someplace with a larger punk subculture?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” She starts to say something else, but a noise behind her distracts her. A noise best described as slobbery.
We both look over her shoulder, to the other couch in the living area, where Hank and a European girl are making out. Intensely so. She’s laying on top of him, her shirt tossed across the room, her jeans open and half down around her hips. His lips smack loudly against her tongue, producing the slobbery sound. It’s not as pleasant as one might imagine. (Or, perhaps, precisely as pleasant.)
“How did I miss that,” I mumble to myself. I glance at the punk girl. “I suddenly feel decidedly left out.”
“Yeah, me too.” She shrugs. “Wanna make out?”
I blink. “Umm… yes?”
In one swift, sudden movement, she straddles me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. She kisses me deeply, immediately moaning, as though this were something she’d been considering and desperately wanting for hours. It catches me off guard, and I laugh against her lips.
She responds by biting my lower lip and muttering through clenched teeth, “Shut up,” grabbing my hands, and placing them firmly on her breasts. They’re every bit as firm as I had imagined, yet pliant, moving under my touch in the way only natural flesh can. The laughter is replaced by a groan in the back of my throat, and I grind my hips up against hers, kneading flesh and smelling gin and tasting stale cigarettes on her tongue.
She abruptly pulls back and looks at me, panting, her chest rising and falling heavily. Her eyes are wide with what my inebriated brain interprets as desire. “Bathroom,” she says simply. “Now.” I’m too drunk to argue (not that I would, mind you).
She leaps to her feet, pulls me to mine, and leads me down the hall, into the bathroom. She slams the door shut behind her and pulls her shirt off in one deft motion. Her cargo pants are so baggy that all she does is unbutton them, and they fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a pair of combat boots. Her body is long, lean, completely smooth and without a single hair. She drops to her knees in front of me, releasing my jeans with practiced ease. Perhaps a bit too practiced. But my concerns evaporate as she pulls my semi-turgid length into her mouth. She helps me out of my jeans, and I pull my shirt over my head, allowing her to do as she pleases. My head falls back and I close my eyes, sighing contentedly as I listen to the wet, slippery noises she produces.
I can still hear Hank slobbering on the European girl. It makes me giggle.
Without warning, she jumps to her feet and moves around me to the bathroom sink. She hops up onto it, sitting precariously on the edge, while pulling me toward her. “Now, fuck me.”
“Who am I to tell a pretty girl no,” I answer, my best inebriated attempt at wit.
She reaches up and puts her hand over my mouth, her voice breathy. “No, don’t talk. Just fuck me.”
Well. Yes ma’am.
I close what little distance remains between us and press my length against her. She’s incredibly moist, so much so that I imagine her cargo pants must be soaked. One easy thrust buries me inside of her, and she cries out softly, quietly. She wraps one leg around my hips, the heel of her boot against my lower back, and plants her other foot on the long bathroom counter, spreading herself wide, taking me in as deeply as she can. She places her hands squarely on my ass, holding me against her as she rocks her hips, guiding my movements precisely the way she wants them. There is very little thrusting–it’s more a gyration, my shaft rotation clockwise inside of her, her smooth groin gliding against mine.
It’s almost like I’m a sex toy. I like it.
I relax and let her show me precisely what she wants. She presses her breasts against my chest and hides her face in my neck, whimpering with each movement, whispering words of encouragement and complimenting my size and skill between moans of approval. I let my hands explore her back, tracing her spine, her shoulder blades. I kiss her ear, her temple, smell the alcohol in her skin, feel her loins tighten, the muscles contracting rhythmically, pulling at me, as she gasps against my throat, almost growling through her orgasm. I hear her whispering, “You too… you too… cum for me…” And I grind harder against her, at her prompting. I gasp once, grunt… and she pushes me back, dropping to her knees and grabbing my length, stroking hard, fast, furious. My breath catches in my throat, my eyes close, and I release, her hand moving expertly along my shaft, guiding me through my own orgasm, coaxing every bit of life out of me that she can.
As I come to, I open my eyes and look down at her. I expect to see her chest or face covered in my cum, but I am surprised–hell, more than surprised–to see that she actually jerked me off onto her head. The thick white ropes cling to her shortly buzzed hair, pooling in some places, stretching out in others, drawing lines and amorphous shapes across her scalp and forehead. It looks remarkably like a two-tone abstract painting. I can’t help but laugh.
“Now that’s a hell of a sight,” I say contentedly. She grins and sucks the last remaining bit from the head of my cock, making a little *pop* in the process.
“Most guys like that,” she says, standing and stretching languidly before me. “It’s unexpected.” She runs her hands over her head in a most unladylike fashion, scraping as much off as she can before washing her hands. I step behind her and press my slowly relaxing length against her ass. She growls playfully and pushes back against me.
“Next time, maybe I’ll consider eating it for you,” she casually remarks as she dresses. I start to respond, but she covers my mouth again, kisses my cheek, and whispers into my ear, “You’re a damn good fuck, honey. Don’t spoil it by talking now.” She steps back and gives my cock a playful squeeze. “I’ll see you again real soon.”
And she exits the bathroom, leaving me standing naked in the bathroom.
I look down at my clothes, then at myself. I grin. “Well. That was fun.”