Animus
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He watched her with furtive eyes…the eyes of a calculated man. She came to this bar every night around the same time, and every night she looked woefully out of place in her delicate blouses, shapely business suits, and long legs perfectly complimented by expensive black heels.
She ordered a scotch and soda religiously, to the point the bartender, Sonny, had it waiting for her when her bottom, firm and beckoning, finally sashayed its way to her bar stool. She spoke to no one, save the occasional quips that occur between bartender and familiar patron as rounds are being refilled. She just sat. Staring into her glass, resigned to tolerating the occasional puff of smoke blown into her face by another drunken, rude stranger, she drank. She sat, and she drank and, then, she left.
He’d watched her engage in this monotonous routine more times than he’d care to count and, yet, he could never gather enough nerve to approach her. He desperately wanted to speak to her, to say something—anything—that could possibly solicit a smile from that sullen, weary, yet ironically youthful face. As he became more familiar with her nightly habit, he studied her intently. He focused on every line and deviation of her body to such an extent that he could probably draw it to perfect scale.
As minutes passed and he nursed his beers in the same tired corner, scenarios would assault his tired mind. He imagined approaching her, with the most suave and dignified air, and drawing her into conversation so enthralling, they’d close the bar together. He pictured her approaching him, seemingly out of the blue, to confess that she had been admiring him from afar and really only made her nightly detour in the hopes he’d come speak to her. Once or twice, he’d even gathered the nerve to order from the bar (taking advantage of his observant and accommodating server’s shift break) but lost his nerve as he closed in on her. He’d caught a whiff of her fragrance: the most intoxicating, compelling scent he’d ever experienced, as it swirled around above him and drifted by, making his knees feel peculiarly wobbly, and his heart thump so vigorously he was sure she’d hear it. He was a man with intention and confidence, but around this goddess—this woman he did not at all know but whose life he felt he’d been a greedy companion in—around her, he was nothing.
And he began to resent it.
He felt the first twinge of resentment flood his gut when, one day (a day which had already been a particularly bad one), she absentmindedly turned to look at the television mounted above him and caught his eye, locked it, then frowned and dismissively looked away.
That bitch! Who the hell does she think she is? I’ve been here the whole time, I’ve memorized every strand on that stupid little head of hers. I’ve been the only one in this fucking bar interested in her miserable little life—the only one who’s even noticed she was here! I’ve put up with her sauntering in, night after night, with her primal, careless sexuality out on display for everyone to gawk at, and yet I’ve treated her with respect. I’VE TREATED HER LIKE A LADY, which I assumed she was—not some two-bit whore in a fancy suit. Bitch!
The next two nights, he stayed away from the bar, the image of her dismissive air seething ever more into his veins. The woman he had, all this time, so ardently longed for, he could now not stand the sight of.
The next night caught her in an unusually playful mood and, somewhat to his dismay, it eased his resentment a bit. He watched her attentively as she fiddled with the hem of her skirt, which was unraveling at its kick-pleat. As she reached back and down to try to tuck the stray threads back in, he was able to garner a glance down her silk blouse, pleasantly rewarded with the faint impression of black lace and shiny satin underneath.
The night after that he worked late and, the following night it was raining so hard the bar was virtually empty.
But now, tonight, here we are, and I am going to reclaim my manhood. I’m going to show her I am not to be dismissed, discarded like some sort of trash sticking to the bottom of those fucking fancy, expensive heels she trots in here wearing. She’s going to wish she’d known me.
She threw back the last of her drink, grabbed her coat, thanked the bartender with a fresh, crisp ten dollar bill, and scooted off the stool. God, that ass. It jiggled as she popped down from her high perch. As she slipped her waifish arms into her raincoat, it created such tension across her blouse that he thought a button would pop. He could see the well-defined lines of her bra pushing through, and his cock stirred.
Instantly, her eyes were on him--she caught him staring at her chest! His face contorted, crippled with an expression much like that of a boy caught by his mother while jacking it, and it took all his nerve to shake it off and throw her a smile. Not a pervy smile, but a kind one. She smiled back, knowingly, almost as if she saw his sophomoric ogling as something to appreciate. His stomach turned a bit, and his thighs began to tingle. Could this be the very moment he’d been imagining--praying for--all this time? He looked down momentarily, then back up at her. In his mind, if she was still looking at him, it was an implied invite. But, to his dismay, in that second of diverted eyes she’d turned and headed toward the door.
So, I’ll follow her , he decided. He’d done it before—knew she lived two blocks from the bar and would be walking home. Maybe she’d graciously bestow upon him a little show? Maybe leave her curtains open while she changed? He felt his cock stir again. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll let me in.
Whether it was the few extra beers he’d imbibed or just pure lustful stupidity he did not know, but he threw some money on the table and hustled out of the bar. It was raining slightly and took a minute for his eyes to adjust and catch her figure, carefully but hurriedly skipping through the water puddles beneath her. He began to pursue her, sprinting forward a bit, then slowing to a fast walk to match hers once he’d gotten the right amount of space between them.
The rain intensified as she turned the corner, and he sped up his step in order not to miss her. He turned the corner, and…
… what the fuck??? There she was, standing right in front of him, arms crossed, waiting to confront him.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded.
The look on his face must surely have been one of absolute horror—a deer caught in headlights probably looks more calm than he did at that moment.
“What?Uh.........Hmmmm?” He stammered, looking down and shuffling his feet in the puddle beneath his soaked shoes.
“I’m not stupid. I know when I’m being followed,” she asserted. “Why are you following me? Are you some sort of stalker?”
For once in his life, he was speechless. How much did she know? He looked intently at her face, then quickly away. What he saw, emblazoned across her furrow, was a look of knowing—she was on to him, and he was caught without recourse.
“Are you?!” she insisted. Then, suddenly, it was all clear.
Be honest with her.
“I think you’re beautiful!” he declared, and then you couldn’t shut him up if you tried. “I’ve been watching you come into Jake’s every night, and every night you look so sad and depressed and it makes me feel bad because you are so fucking beautiful and a woman like you should never be alone—let alone SAD—and I have been wanting to talk to you for so long but I could never get the nerve up—I mean, I tried! I tried a few times! But every time I thought I’d gotten up the nerve and even once—no, twice—I came up to the bar right next to you and I REALLY thought I was going to do it, but then I smelled you and, oh god, you smell wonderful—you smell amazing!...and I just…..” he paused, breathlessly realizing what a complete and utter fool was now standing before this beautiful woman with the rain caressing her skin so gently, the way he’d always imagined caressing it, and he sighed. “I just couldn’t.” he surrendered weakly.
There was a moment there, between them, that was so silent and awkward that he felt a barrel of nausea roll through his stomach and push up toward his throat. Oh my god, don’t you dare even fucking THINK of throwing up, you stupid fucking ass!! His mind raced.
He looked up at her, feeling bad for keeping her out in the rain like this but, just as he was about to apologize in what would likely be the second-least sophisticated rambling of words ever to clamor from his lips, she was against him. Her arms grabbed at him, her lips to his, and he looked up to see her eyes closing as her tongue shot out from between her soft, delectable lips and hungrily hunted for his.
Go with it.
He stepped forward, pushing her back against the wall of the building behind her, and his hands were on their own--frantically grabbing and pulling on every stitch of clothing that separated her warm, luscious body from his. She was a force to be reckoned with: while he was trying to extricate her soft, alluring respite of flesh and tight budding nipple, she was furiously grabbing at his belt and zipper, intent on unleashing a sexual fury that he’d never felt before now. He was all too willing to assist. Quickly, he tore at her buttons, pulling apart her finely woven, expensive silk blouse like it was tissue paper, and then reached down and let himself loose.
In a frenzy of flesh and brawn she was down on her knees, determined to submit to the essence of this man—this man who’d no more than two minutes earlier been groveling to her about his long-unacknowledged obsession with such genuinely pitiful and heartfelt honesty that it lit her up like a gas lamp. She nipped at the head of his cock like a tiger starved for days. As she drew him in with all the fervor of an animal in heat, he gasped, sucked in and pulled away as quickly as he could, but it was too late. A flood of cum roared out and saturated what was left of her blouse, a second splaying upon her lips like graffiti. She looked up at him and narrowly missed the last stream, as it violently jetted from his furious head like a geyser and almost caught her eye.
He felt utterly dejected. His first—and likely last—opportunity to finally experience the glory of taking the very woman he’d been so urgently focused upon for so long, and he ruined it. It didn’t make matters any easier that she was staring into his eyes with a keen look of both defeat and aggravation; she clearly was in a mood and craved—nay, DEMANDED--satisfaction. He pulled away, out of embarrassment, but then (perhaps by some divine sort of intervention) there was no need. His famished, persevering cock had reacted, and reacted well, by bouncing up toward her with a rigidity that defied gravity. He grabbed her arms, pushed her again to the wall, yanked up her skirt and tore off her pretty little panties.
There to match his cock’s voracious appetite was the very sweet little pussy he’d imagined engulfing him so many times in the last few months. An adorable, attentive fleshy pink with a light flush of hair to frame it, he ached to poke and prod it with his fingers, his tongue, his entire manhood. There’ll be time for that , he decided at once, and grabbed her leg at the knee, bent it up to wrap around his ass, and in a moment of absolute delectation, he plunged his throbbing manhood into her with such force it almost knocked both of them over.
“Holy shit!” she cried out, grabbing his shoulders to balance herself. The sensations rocketing back and forth between the two were indescribable. As he slowed from a frenetic series of thrusts down to a respectable rhythm, he looked up to watch her: eyes closed, face contorted into an expression that defied replication. It was total, utter lust--passion fueled and driven by the spontaneity, the anonymity, the exhibitionistic nature of this coupling.
He wanted nothing more than to make her scream and, again, she did. As he drove himself into her with the force of a Mack truck, she wailed and bellowed an incoherent slur of words and sounds that echoed forcefully in his ear. It drove him closer. It drove him crazy.
Trying so deliberately to pace himself and enjoy the grandeur of fucking hot, sexy, stranger pussy, he felt a flicker of orgasm as it began to build again at the base of his shaft. She was screaming out, taking it all as his engorged cock slipped in, and almost out of, her. In and out. She wailed. In and out. She wailed again. In….hold it. She gasped, gulped, and pulled him closer. In further…..and…..THERE. She shrieked so loudly he thought his ear drum would burst and, in that moment, he knew he’d won. He’d wanted her, decided to have her, and took her, and as her tight, wet cunt began to flush out the second pool of seed to be offered to her hungry, slick pussy, he wrapped his arm around her head, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look at him. And, as she sank down softly from the throes of orgasm, she was absolutely willing to submit.
“You are MINE now,” he grunted, and let go a fury of jism in such an uncontrolled convulsion of orgasm that he had to lean against her to stay up.
As the last waves of pleasure began to drift from his sweaty, exerted body, he pulled out, zipped himself up, then stroked her face.
“Why did you look at me that way that one time?” he whispered.
“What one time?” she responded breathlessly.
“The time you looked up at the TV and caught me staring at you.”
“Hmmm? I wasn’t watching any TV.”
“Sure you were," he argued, though he had no idea why. He was already beginning to feel the twinge of embarrassment rising in his stomach again. "You watched for a moment, then looked down at me, had this look of disgust, I would say it was, and looked away.”
“Look," she asserted, crinkling her brow in confusion, "I don’t know what you thought I did, but if I did that, I wasn’t aware of it. I can’t even see the televisions in the bar…I’m terribly near-sighted.”
She ordered a scotch and soda religiously, to the point the bartender, Sonny, had it waiting for her when her bottom, firm and beckoning, finally sashayed its way to her bar stool. She spoke to no one, save the occasional quips that occur between bartender and familiar patron as rounds are being refilled. She just sat. Staring into her glass, resigned to tolerating the occasional puff of smoke blown into her face by another drunken, rude stranger, she drank. She sat, and she drank and, then, she left.
He’d watched her engage in this monotonous routine more times than he’d care to count and, yet, he could never gather enough nerve to approach her. He desperately wanted to speak to her, to say something—anything—that could possibly solicit a smile from that sullen, weary, yet ironically youthful face. As he became more familiar with her nightly habit, he studied her intently. He focused on every line and deviation of her body to such an extent that he could probably draw it to perfect scale.
As minutes passed and he nursed his beers in the same tired corner, scenarios would assault his tired mind. He imagined approaching her, with the most suave and dignified air, and drawing her into conversation so enthralling, they’d close the bar together. He pictured her approaching him, seemingly out of the blue, to confess that she had been admiring him from afar and really only made her nightly detour in the hopes he’d come speak to her. Once or twice, he’d even gathered the nerve to order from the bar (taking advantage of his observant and accommodating server’s shift break) but lost his nerve as he closed in on her. He’d caught a whiff of her fragrance: the most intoxicating, compelling scent he’d ever experienced, as it swirled around above him and drifted by, making his knees feel peculiarly wobbly, and his heart thump so vigorously he was sure she’d hear it. He was a man with intention and confidence, but around this goddess—this woman he did not at all know but whose life he felt he’d been a greedy companion in—around her, he was nothing.
And he began to resent it.
He felt the first twinge of resentment flood his gut when, one day (a day which had already been a particularly bad one), she absentmindedly turned to look at the television mounted above him and caught his eye, locked it, then frowned and dismissively looked away.
That bitch! Who the hell does she think she is? I’ve been here the whole time, I’ve memorized every strand on that stupid little head of hers. I’ve been the only one in this fucking bar interested in her miserable little life—the only one who’s even noticed she was here! I’ve put up with her sauntering in, night after night, with her primal, careless sexuality out on display for everyone to gawk at, and yet I’ve treated her with respect. I’VE TREATED HER LIKE A LADY, which I assumed she was—not some two-bit whore in a fancy suit. Bitch!
The next two nights, he stayed away from the bar, the image of her dismissive air seething ever more into his veins. The woman he had, all this time, so ardently longed for, he could now not stand the sight of.
The next night caught her in an unusually playful mood and, somewhat to his dismay, it eased his resentment a bit. He watched her attentively as she fiddled with the hem of her skirt, which was unraveling at its kick-pleat. As she reached back and down to try to tuck the stray threads back in, he was able to garner a glance down her silk blouse, pleasantly rewarded with the faint impression of black lace and shiny satin underneath.
The night after that he worked late and, the following night it was raining so hard the bar was virtually empty.
But now, tonight, here we are, and I am going to reclaim my manhood. I’m going to show her I am not to be dismissed, discarded like some sort of trash sticking to the bottom of those fucking fancy, expensive heels she trots in here wearing. She’s going to wish she’d known me.
She threw back the last of her drink, grabbed her coat, thanked the bartender with a fresh, crisp ten dollar bill, and scooted off the stool. God, that ass. It jiggled as she popped down from her high perch. As she slipped her waifish arms into her raincoat, it created such tension across her blouse that he thought a button would pop. He could see the well-defined lines of her bra pushing through, and his cock stirred.
Instantly, her eyes were on him--she caught him staring at her chest! His face contorted, crippled with an expression much like that of a boy caught by his mother while jacking it, and it took all his nerve to shake it off and throw her a smile. Not a pervy smile, but a kind one. She smiled back, knowingly, almost as if she saw his sophomoric ogling as something to appreciate. His stomach turned a bit, and his thighs began to tingle. Could this be the very moment he’d been imagining--praying for--all this time? He looked down momentarily, then back up at her. In his mind, if she was still looking at him, it was an implied invite. But, to his dismay, in that second of diverted eyes she’d turned and headed toward the door.
So, I’ll follow her , he decided. He’d done it before—knew she lived two blocks from the bar and would be walking home. Maybe she’d graciously bestow upon him a little show? Maybe leave her curtains open while she changed? He felt his cock stir again. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll let me in.
Whether it was the few extra beers he’d imbibed or just pure lustful stupidity he did not know, but he threw some money on the table and hustled out of the bar. It was raining slightly and took a minute for his eyes to adjust and catch her figure, carefully but hurriedly skipping through the water puddles beneath her. He began to pursue her, sprinting forward a bit, then slowing to a fast walk to match hers once he’d gotten the right amount of space between them.
The rain intensified as she turned the corner, and he sped up his step in order not to miss her. He turned the corner, and…
… what the fuck??? There she was, standing right in front of him, arms crossed, waiting to confront him.
“Why are you following me?” she demanded.
The look on his face must surely have been one of absolute horror—a deer caught in headlights probably looks more calm than he did at that moment.
“What?Uh.........Hmmmm?” He stammered, looking down and shuffling his feet in the puddle beneath his soaked shoes.
“I’m not stupid. I know when I’m being followed,” she asserted. “Why are you following me? Are you some sort of stalker?”
For once in his life, he was speechless. How much did she know? He looked intently at her face, then quickly away. What he saw, emblazoned across her furrow, was a look of knowing—she was on to him, and he was caught without recourse.
“Are you?!” she insisted. Then, suddenly, it was all clear.
Be honest with her.
“I think you’re beautiful!” he declared, and then you couldn’t shut him up if you tried. “I’ve been watching you come into Jake’s every night, and every night you look so sad and depressed and it makes me feel bad because you are so fucking beautiful and a woman like you should never be alone—let alone SAD—and I have been wanting to talk to you for so long but I could never get the nerve up—I mean, I tried! I tried a few times! But every time I thought I’d gotten up the nerve and even once—no, twice—I came up to the bar right next to you and I REALLY thought I was going to do it, but then I smelled you and, oh god, you smell wonderful—you smell amazing!...and I just…..” he paused, breathlessly realizing what a complete and utter fool was now standing before this beautiful woman with the rain caressing her skin so gently, the way he’d always imagined caressing it, and he sighed. “I just couldn’t.” he surrendered weakly.
There was a moment there, between them, that was so silent and awkward that he felt a barrel of nausea roll through his stomach and push up toward his throat. Oh my god, don’t you dare even fucking THINK of throwing up, you stupid fucking ass!! His mind raced.
He looked up at her, feeling bad for keeping her out in the rain like this but, just as he was about to apologize in what would likely be the second-least sophisticated rambling of words ever to clamor from his lips, she was against him. Her arms grabbed at him, her lips to his, and he looked up to see her eyes closing as her tongue shot out from between her soft, delectable lips and hungrily hunted for his.
Go with it.
He stepped forward, pushing her back against the wall of the building behind her, and his hands were on their own--frantically grabbing and pulling on every stitch of clothing that separated her warm, luscious body from his. She was a force to be reckoned with: while he was trying to extricate her soft, alluring respite of flesh and tight budding nipple, she was furiously grabbing at his belt and zipper, intent on unleashing a sexual fury that he’d never felt before now. He was all too willing to assist. Quickly, he tore at her buttons, pulling apart her finely woven, expensive silk blouse like it was tissue paper, and then reached down and let himself loose.
In a frenzy of flesh and brawn she was down on her knees, determined to submit to the essence of this man—this man who’d no more than two minutes earlier been groveling to her about his long-unacknowledged obsession with such genuinely pitiful and heartfelt honesty that it lit her up like a gas lamp. She nipped at the head of his cock like a tiger starved for days. As she drew him in with all the fervor of an animal in heat, he gasped, sucked in and pulled away as quickly as he could, but it was too late. A flood of cum roared out and saturated what was left of her blouse, a second splaying upon her lips like graffiti. She looked up at him and narrowly missed the last stream, as it violently jetted from his furious head like a geyser and almost caught her eye.
He felt utterly dejected. His first—and likely last—opportunity to finally experience the glory of taking the very woman he’d been so urgently focused upon for so long, and he ruined it. It didn’t make matters any easier that she was staring into his eyes with a keen look of both defeat and aggravation; she clearly was in a mood and craved—nay, DEMANDED--satisfaction. He pulled away, out of embarrassment, but then (perhaps by some divine sort of intervention) there was no need. His famished, persevering cock had reacted, and reacted well, by bouncing up toward her with a rigidity that defied gravity. He grabbed her arms, pushed her again to the wall, yanked up her skirt and tore off her pretty little panties.
There to match his cock’s voracious appetite was the very sweet little pussy he’d imagined engulfing him so many times in the last few months. An adorable, attentive fleshy pink with a light flush of hair to frame it, he ached to poke and prod it with his fingers, his tongue, his entire manhood. There’ll be time for that , he decided at once, and grabbed her leg at the knee, bent it up to wrap around his ass, and in a moment of absolute delectation, he plunged his throbbing manhood into her with such force it almost knocked both of them over.
“Holy shit!” she cried out, grabbing his shoulders to balance herself. The sensations rocketing back and forth between the two were indescribable. As he slowed from a frenetic series of thrusts down to a respectable rhythm, he looked up to watch her: eyes closed, face contorted into an expression that defied replication. It was total, utter lust--passion fueled and driven by the spontaneity, the anonymity, the exhibitionistic nature of this coupling.
He wanted nothing more than to make her scream and, again, she did. As he drove himself into her with the force of a Mack truck, she wailed and bellowed an incoherent slur of words and sounds that echoed forcefully in his ear. It drove him closer. It drove him crazy.
Trying so deliberately to pace himself and enjoy the grandeur of fucking hot, sexy, stranger pussy, he felt a flicker of orgasm as it began to build again at the base of his shaft. She was screaming out, taking it all as his engorged cock slipped in, and almost out of, her. In and out. She wailed. In and out. She wailed again. In….hold it. She gasped, gulped, and pulled him closer. In further…..and…..THERE. She shrieked so loudly he thought his ear drum would burst and, in that moment, he knew he’d won. He’d wanted her, decided to have her, and took her, and as her tight, wet cunt began to flush out the second pool of seed to be offered to her hungry, slick pussy, he wrapped his arm around her head, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look at him. And, as she sank down softly from the throes of orgasm, she was absolutely willing to submit.
“You are MINE now,” he grunted, and let go a fury of jism in such an uncontrolled convulsion of orgasm that he had to lean against her to stay up.
As the last waves of pleasure began to drift from his sweaty, exerted body, he pulled out, zipped himself up, then stroked her face.
“Why did you look at me that way that one time?” he whispered.
“What one time?” she responded breathlessly.
“The time you looked up at the TV and caught me staring at you.”
“Hmmm? I wasn’t watching any TV.”
“Sure you were," he argued, though he had no idea why. He was already beginning to feel the twinge of embarrassment rising in his stomach again. "You watched for a moment, then looked down at me, had this look of disgust, I would say it was, and looked away.”
“Look," she asserted, crinkling her brow in confusion, "I don’t know what you thought I did, but if I did that, I wasn’t aware of it. I can’t even see the televisions in the bar…I’m terribly near-sighted.”
Mila
- 16.06.2020
- 13
- 0
- Category:
- Straight Sex
