I was minding my own business, as usual, nursing the dregs of my Manhattan while the Broken Arrow’s busted jukebox scratched out the smoky crooning of Perry Como.
“Dream on, indeed,” I mumbled, punching the ice in my tumbler as I searched for the final sips of that copper liquor. Lost in thought, I stared into the mirror behind the bar counter, my slick hair falling artfully in a small loop near my eyebrow. I pushed it back and rubbed my chin, inspecting the formation of–what time was it?–seven o’clock shadow. It was then that I saw the red vinyl door swing open and *you* stepped in.
My mood–soured by a shit case and an irritating client–suddenly brightened. *Talk about a stone-cold fox.* I glanced over my shoulder, hopeful that you’d park that black dress-encased ass on the stool next to mine. And you did.
I chewed against my toothpick, pushing it upwards as I gave you a sly, but friendly smile. “Evening, miss.”
A sweet smile, from you, but with a devious edge. You were about to be my femme fatale. I knew it when you walked in that door. And I knew it again when I watched you carefully cross your legs. Like you didn’t catch my eyes drifting down to that small gap between your thighs where the hem of your dress pulls tight.
I think you know my weakness. Bet you can see it in the way my green eyes always seem to drift downward. I know you know it when you start to roll up the hem of your dress, smiling at me as you reveal just a *tiny* bit more of your thighs.
Fuck.
I’m supposed to meet an informant. That rat, Joey Lamone. Fuck ‘im. He can wait, because Perry Como’s rolled into the cool call of Al Martino and he’s swooning about that *my cherie*.
Well, honey, this ain’t love, but you could be my cherie just for the night. And we both know there ain’t nothin’ more romantic than a man who loves pussy. That’s right, darling, lemme talk you out of that dress and into my car–not necessarily in that order. You’ll like it, I promise. It’s a great big classic Cadillac painted a lovely candy apple red. Just like your lips. And you can lay down in the back, wiggle your hips, and lock your ankles around my neck.
I’ll turn up the radio, sugar, so the burled brass of *Bitches Brew* can slip away into the wet night. And it ain’t just the city streets I’m talkin’ ‘bout honey–all slick and sweet and a tiny bit sour.
Oh? You wanted to talk? Nah. Shut up and put your hands in my hair. My lips are plenty occupied. And my tongue’s in a knot around that tiny bead. Go ahead and squeeze your thighs when it feels good. Lean back, arch your back, let out a sigh, a moan, a little whimper, and a shivering cry.
When I’m tipsy I can go all fuckin’ night. And I’m always tipsy, baby. It’s an occupational hazard. So drip that pretty cunt down my face and pay attention to the gentle pricking of my stubble. I’ll rub against your most sensitive places. I’ll put one finger, then two, between your folds. Push down, like I’m tapping the bartop, and feel you clench around me.
Let me lay my tongue flat against your swollen clit, then drag it nice and slow, pull it back and hold it straight as an arrow to push inside you, up, flipping above your hood and then back down. It’s a foxtrot we’re doing, sweetheart, with you shaking your hips while my weathered, calloused hands hold your tight little ass in place.
You can cum.
Don’t be shy. Ain’t nobody else to hear you but me. And, well, if someone does hear that crying whimper of release, I’ll just be damn proud and they’ll be mighty jealous. Most men can’t treat a cunt the way I can. I wanna feel you pop your hips into the air as you drive your clit against my tongue. Then you pulse back and forth, back and forth, a violent little jerking as I shove my fingers deep, demanding more, more, **more**.
Your eyes might cross. Or roll back in your head. But I won’t see. I’m too busy getting squeezed between your legs, your soft thighs finding resistance against my jawline.
Are you finished? Really? Lemme drag my soaking fingers across your pearl one last time. There’s a nice fucking shiver. And, damn, you’re wet. Were you planning to, well, get fucked by a stranger? Because you’re more than ready for me.
On your stomach. Wiggle that pretty little ass in the air. I’ll just unbuckle this belt, grab you by the hair, and **push**. Your pussy’s smeared across my face, now I want it soaking my cock. Listen, cupcake, I already know what you sound like with my face pushed into your cunt. Now I think you owe it to me–really, doncha?–to show me how you whimper and whine with a cock spreading you wide.
So close your eyes, bite your bottom lip, and **take me**.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/10uen50/hey_sweet_pea_why_dont_you_give_me_a_little_taste