Fuck Him or Hate Him [M/F, Outdoors]

*Disclaimer: Identifying details changed to protect the not-so-innocent. The rest is true, if a bit rose-colored by memory.*

I met Tom met through my best friend when he was on tour. I hadn’t planned on prowling that night; to be honest, I was done with guys in bands, guys on tour, and guys in general. I was too fucking busy for their bullshit, their neediness, their requirements of my devotion and attention when they were in town.

I arrived at the bar after work, but before sound check, and everyone was well on their way to being merry. It was supposed to be a low-key night, with a shitty band on stage and free booze. My best friend (and partner-in-many-crimes) Kate met me outside, her too-short dress riding up as she navigated through the crowd of commuters on the busy street. She grabbed me by the arm and tugged me around the side of the building, quietly telling me to listen up. The memory of this moment is wildly vivid for me, from the sweep of her dark hair against her pale cheek to the lusty catcall she got from a bike messenger. She smiled. “There’s a guy inside,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You’re either going to kill him or fuck him senseless. We already have bets going. I’ve got $50 on you two fucking, don’t let me down.” I remember asking, “What if I do both?” She rolled her eyes; we went inside.

I made the rounds, said hello to the regular crowd, got introduced to some visitors. I finally ended up at the table where my friend was snuggled up next to the tour manager on one side, while the guy I suspected was my fuck-or-kill date for the night sat looking bored on the other. I’d met the tour manager before; rapidly approaching middle-age, Jim was clinging spectacularly and desperately to his rock-and-roll youth, and often overcompensated with rounds of free booze and backstage passes for us “young ladies.” It was impossible to talk to him for more than three minutes without him name-dropping someone “famous” — no joke, we timed it often and called him out on his bullshit regularly. He said he liked hanging out with us when he came through our city because he knew he and his buddies would always have a fun night out with us. I was a consummate wing-woman; I knew what was up when we rolled with him (he just wanted to bang Kate), and he usually provided me with interesting people to pass the time.

Tom was no exception. He was newly divorced, in a publicly spectacular fashion. His ex-wife was semi-famous. From what I pieced together later, he spun briefly in her orbit before it exploded in a fiery miasma of paparazzi. He wore a neatly tucked-in checkered shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His trousers were pressed, and his shoes shined. His hair was styled in an immaculate pompadour, turned dark with expensive product. His forearms bristled with dark blond hair, and he had an intricate tattoo around his right wrist. On his other hand, he had a faded inked band around his ring finger; causality of the divorce. It was unseasonably warm for mid-autumn, and I was wearing a brightly colored silky sundress with stockings and black leather combat boots. My tan was still holding strong from the summer. My brown hair was loose, in waves around my face; I wore very little make-up, just some lip gloss. We shook hands, cordial. His handshake was firm, but his fingers cold. He had a hard time making eye contact and bristled with nervous energy.

We talked, caught up. The three of them killed a couple of pitchers of cheap beer, I had a vodka double on the rocks. My friend had been drinking since 2pm, I discovered, so I knew one of us had to keep our wits about us. Tom fidgeted with the battered coasters strewn on the table, doodling on them with a Sharpie he pulled from his breast pocket. He talked quickly but quietly, which made me lean in to hear him better. He smelled like ozone. He told me they nearly started an electrical fire during load-in, a live panel misbehaving. We traded barbs, and he quickly realized that he wasn’t dealing with a naive co-ed. We argued about our favorite cities, and the best clubs to see live music. He was infuriating, and ran hot and cold with his body language and his tone. Finally, I called him on it, and excused myself to the ladies room to give him a moment alone.

I came back after a detour at the bar for another drink, caught his eye before I sat down. I must have said something like, “Are you ready to stop being a jerk?” I don’t remember exactly. I do know whatever I said shocked him enough to make him laugh. He admitted his divorce was fresh, and averted his eyes when he shared that it “had been a long time.” His face turned intense. “What a shame,” I replied, sitting down. We shared a moment, his eyes flickering down to my lips as he breathed out a “yeah, it is.” He tapped the Sharpie on the table gently.

It was at this moment, I decided I was all in. Fuck it, y’know? What did I have to lose? So, I plucked the Sharpie from his fingers with one hand, and the other grasped at his left wrist. His fingers clenched and relaxed, but he let me manipulate his hand into my lap, resting it on my thigh as I carefully inked my phone number on his inner forearm. “Just in case we get separated tonight,” I said, lightly. I bent my head down, pursed my lips and blew on the wet, black ink, sealing my number into his skin. I remember seeing his thighs clench through his well-fitting trousers, and how his voice pitched low when he replied, “Doubtful.”

Jim’s phone trilled an alarm, a sign it was time to head to the venue for soundcheck. The next few moments were busy with the boys chugging what was left of their drinks, a flurry of motion as they argued over the bill and threw way too much cash on the table. “For while you wait,” Jim offered. He grabbed Kate’s chin and kissed her deeply while reaching across the table, ruffling my hair. They broke apart. “You’re on the guest list,” he said, gesturing to both of us. “Duh,” we replied in unison. Tom shoved his hands in his pockets, quickly said goodbye, and shouldered his way out of the bar. Jim chased after him, spinning around and throwing me a double-barred thumbs up and a wink on his way out the door.

Kate and I exploded into laughter, and proceeded to load the jukebox with hair metal for shits and giggles while we waited for doors to open. We caught up on our more private shenanigans and discussed our plans for the night. The guys were sharing a room at a shitty hotel, a treat after many nights on the tour bus. I promised to keep Tom occupied while Kate and Jim made use of the rare privacy.

We hit the gig, suffered through a local opener, and behaved ourselves during the band the guys were supporting. Luckily, they were using a lot of the headliners gear, so breaking down after the set didn’t take long. Kate got a text to meet them at the stage door, so we headed over, and ended up chatting with the headliners’ girlfriends while the guys finished up. Backstage is a lot of “hurry and wait”; this was no exception. They finally showed, a half-bottle of whiskey in hand. We killed it in a hurry, and spilled out of the club, and headed down the street.

“Where to?” Jim asked. “You know,” Kate replied. They looked at me and Tom. “You guys cool?” Jim asked. Tom had his hands in his pockets again, his face tilted toward me with a small smile. I threaded my arm through his, sliding my hand down his forearm and let him pull me close. “Yeah, I thought so!” Kate called out as Jim pulled her in the other direction toward the taxi stand.

I took Tom to a hole-in-the-wall bar with a great beverage selection that I knew would be quiet enough to talk, but crowded enough for us to remain anonymous. He was terrified of being recognized, I soon learned — remnant from his marriage. He was an absolute jerk one moment and terrifying vulnerable the next. He told me about his time as a session musician, before he got into support roles on the road, and I told him about my travels overseas. I sat sideways at the bar, got his hands in my lap and stroked the inside of his wrists. He looped his fingers into a small hole in my stockings, mindfully popping a few stitches every now and then.

Last call came too soon. I detoured to the ladies room to text Kate and freshen up. I took my panties off and shoved them in my purse. Stockings back up, I smoothed my dress down, ready to go. We waited a few moments for a cab, and I took advantage of the delay to tuck my panties into his breast pocket. He moved into kiss me, but stopped, his eyes calculating. We didn’t speak. We were getting in the cab when Kate finally texted me back, asking for another hour. “Greedy bastards,” I joked. Tom agreed, and hummed to himself as we headed toward the hotel. A few moments passed “Let us out here,” he said to the cabbie. We were about a half mile from the hotel, near a public park. “Huh,” I remember saying. Tom nodded, and paid for the cab and we got out. The street was quiet once the cab pulled away.

He shrugged off his jacket and offered it to me; the night had gotten colder and my dress didn’t provide much protection against the chill. We made our way into the park, sticking to the shadows, carefully stepping over branches and leaves, heading for a cluster of trees. It was dark, but the streetlights shone weakly through the branches. I was leading the way, and at some point, Tom grabbed my arm and pulled me against him, my back pressed against his front. He looped his arms around me, his hands spread on my hips as he dipped his head against my shoulder and took a deep breath in, nuzzling my neck. “Are you going to fucking kiss me or what?” I asked him, turning my face toward his. “Yeah, yeah, I think so,” he answered.

We kissed, briefly. I could feel him shaking against my back. I turned around and put my hands on his face, traced his cheeks with my fingers, pressed my palms against his neck. He shuddered, his head falling back and he bared his neck, his mouth dropping open.

I took a chance in this moment, carefully fit one of my hands over his throat, pressed lightly. “Good boy,” I said, and he made a noise that I could only call a whine. “Kiss me again,” I told him, dropping my hand.

He lunged forward and we tumbled to the ground, joined at the lips and hips. I wrestled him beneath me, grinning, my hands on his belt, pulling the buckle free as my fingers plucked open his flies. I told him I didn’t want to wreck my dress so I’d have to be on top; he made a smart-ass comment that I should just take it off, he liked these pants, after all. I paused, and lifted myself up off him and stood up, straddling him. He came up on his elbows. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the shadow my body was casting across him, but I knew he was rapt. I shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the ground with my purse and said something bitchy like, “Not sure you deserve it yet.” I bunched the hemline of my dress in one hand, and with the other tugged at the hole he had made in my stockings, splitting them up my thigh and over my bare pussy. He made like he was going to move, and I told him to “stay there.” He froze, save for his chest rising and falling rapidly with his breath.

Another extremely vivid memory is how the shadows moved with the wind in the trees around us, highlighting our various states of undress. There was a shift in the trees, and a slice of weak light on his mouth, his lips wet and glistening. I wanted that smart-ass mouth on me. I blinked and another flash of light showed me his cock peeking out from the waistband of his underwear.

I quickly made a call. I wasn’t about to fumble with my purse and find my emergency condom at this stage, and I wasn’t interested in barebacking someone that I really didn’t know. So I told him to get his cock out while I stepped around him positioned my pussy over his face. He pushed his underwear down and I lowered myself on his face, arching my back and stretching forward to take his cock in my hands. My knees protested the rough ground. His arms lifted up, his hands come around to push my dress further up my back, and he ripped my fishnets even more to expose my ass to the night air. “You good?” I asked. He answered by pushing my hips down, his tongue connecting directly with my clit; time completely ceased to exist at this point. I growled and sucked his cockhead into my mouth, wetting him with my tongue. He moaned against me, his fingers tightening on my hips and ass.

I slowly took him in my mouth, keeping my lips tight around his shaft. He bucked his hips up. My hands pushed at his thighs, holding him down as I carefully took him as far down as I could get him. His cock was rock hard and long and thin; the angle was challenging, but I wanted all of it. He sucked at my clit with his lips, his tongue pressing up against me hard. I gagged, my throat opening and letting me get that last bit all the way down, my lips pressed against his body. Saliva and pre-cum were leaking out of my mouth as I lifted my head up, one hand off his thigh to hold his dick steady. I knew we needed to do this quickly, so I firmly pumped his shaft with my hand as I sucked at the head, tonguing his slit. “Don’t hold back,” I told him as I dived back down, grinding my cunt on his face while taking him deeply into my mouth. He groaned and shoved his hips up again. This time I let him, planting my hands on the ground. He fucked up into my willing mouth as I lowered my head down to meet him. His fingers crept dug into my ass, creeping toward my asshole and I shuddered heavily. We were a mess of slick wet sounds, punctuated by the sharp crack of the leaves and twigs underneath us.

I was close, and could feel him begin to lose the rhythm. I pressed my tongue firmly against his cock, and took him all the way down and let him pump into the softness of the back of my throat. His teeth pressed against the underside of my clit and I lost it, gushing all over his face while I moaned around his cock. He yelped, his mouth opening wide and his tongue pressing up into me while his fingers dug into the sensitive skin near my asshole. He tensed up, spilling into my mouth. His cum filled me up, some leaking out my lips. I hungrily sucked it in, swallowing around him, over and over. I inched up, milking him with my lips, licking him clean with my tongue. I finally rested my forehead against his hip, his spent cock against my cheek as I caught my breath. His tongue swept against me, long, broad strokes, making me shiver.

We collected ourselves, shaking leaves and pine needles from our clothing as we attempted to get presentable enough to rejoin civilization. My stockings were, of course, trashed, so we finished the job and deposited them in the trash can as we snuck back onto the street. Kate had blown up my phone during our time in the park, including such gems like “Where you at?” and “OMG, you’re dead, he killed you and is wearing your skin, isn’t he? Oh, no, wait, you’re probably wearing HIS skin!” and “Where are you, cunt, I don’t want to sleep here tonight, Jim snores.”

Back at the hotel, Tom carefully put my number into his phone and arranged for a cab. Kate tumbled out the elevator by herself, and forced Tom to high-five her as he took her place. She looped her arms around my neck and asked, “Did you have fun, honey?” before giving me a bear hug. I laughed and waved goodbye to Tom as the elevator door closed. “Yeah, babe, I did.”

Tom and I saw each other a few times after that when his tours came through my city; we tended toward exhibitionism, by virtue of circumstance and desire. We never fucked (just didn’t feel right), and it was never as hot as that first time. He ended up taking a gig on another continent, so we just shrugged and said our goodbyes via text. Kate still sees Jim every now and then, and he manages to always bring along a friend for me that ends up being an interesting story to tell, at the least. (There was that guy who liked it when I hit him….) And there are a few other exhibitionism stories with other gentlemen. Maybe I’ll share? Let me know what you think, dearest darling Reddit.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/4e6k4w/fuck_him_or_hate_him_mf_outdoors