Asphault, frigid against the underside of my thighs. Cigarette smoke, wafting down the dark & closed street of the rich and famous, originating with a glow between your lips, then your fingers as you breathe, expanding starward.
“How many of them are cunts?” You cavalier—the superhuman to make cavaliering a verb—winding your wrist backwards toward the fête we have shirked in favour of midnight fog and more grounded company.
“92 percent,” I reckon. “A few are nice, until they want something they can’t have. Always a couple gems.”
You grunt non-comittally, in emphasis of your general distrust of human beings.
“Versus out here,” I continue, “Where the figure is a clear hundred.” I swing my hair out of the path of vision to catch your smirk, open at the corner to keep smoke from settling into my perfumed bubble.
“Oh, nah,” you drawl, “‘Figure there’s only one.” I raise my eyebrows, implying a bite I’m unwilling to commit to fully, out in the open. Catching the drift, you shake your head as if to shake away the train of thought. “Yikes, Kitten. Gutter brains.”
“Pragmatic,” I respond, incapable of making eye contact, but managing to somehow flatten my hand further into the kerb so that the skin of the first knuckle on my pinky finger ghosts the skin of the bend of your thumb.
You look first at our hands, glowing in the dark, then at me, then back to the square as you flick your fag (to my dismayed mewl) into the street.
“Cards up. What’s the game, kid?”
I swirl the dregs of wine in my nicked glass before swallowing.
“No game.” I pull my legs underneath me, tangling in the latest of my statement dresses—the statement of which I had been hoping was ‘take me now’. “Not a kid.”
“Okay,” you huff, turning to tower over me and whispering, suddenly and fiercely, in the first threat you have ever faced me with. “What’s your plan? You want to kiss me? You want to, what? Shag me? And then what? Waltz into parties so these punters can say ‘Oh, look, there’s lady and her grandfather’? Wanna go to the movies and have disgusting back-row sex with the guy old enough to be your dad? Do you want to be stared and, exposed, everywhere we go? If—“ you’re so proud in this moment you stumble slightly, but carry on belligerently. “We couldn’t walk in there holding HANDS,” you conclude, “And if that can’t—“
“Why not?”
“What?” Your mad eyes blink, almost offended that I’ve stampeded your diatribe.
“Let’s walk in there holding hands,” I say, drawing the strength to fold your freezing fingers between mine from my undying drive to prove you wrong in the most contrary way possible.
“Let’s not,” you hiss, snatching your hand back. I feel a pricking burn creeping up under my eyes, but I’m exhausted and wine-cloudy and so uttery smitten there’s no other option. I start to yell.
Loudly.
“Do you not want me? If you don’t want me, just say so. But you shouldn’t be sitting here with me if you don’t, or staying up until dawn, or saving all my little presents, because I might be cute but I am not a child, goddamn it, and I am certainly not going to suffer patronising from the likes of you.”
I finish barking to find you staring, and then you grip my wrist at the narrowest point and pull me down the dark, quiet street, down a dark, quiet bend, into a dark, quiet close.
You toss me against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to express your exasperation, and then frame my chest with your hands. I swear you lick your lips before choosing your words:
“I don’t know what I want, okay?”
Not good enough.
“Decide.”
I catch my angry lip trembling before I can channel my remaining sobriety to the cells there—fortify them against your seeing. Too late. Your eyes soften at the sight, brushing my lower lip with your thumb, and oh, your thumb, my lip, your eyes go dark and clear and suddenly your lips are on me, first my mouth and then my neck and then my forehead.
There is no order. There is no structure. There is just want.
A choice. Desire, exposed.
I wrap my arms around your neck, tightening like a vice, pulling you into me as if I could swallow you into the gaps between my ions. You close all the little spaces between us, bending at the elbow to line your body up against mine completely.
One of us groans. I think it’s you. The thought makes me giggle, but laugh turns to moan as you thread an arm against the back of my neck, tilting my head back so you can suck and lave at my cartoid.
“Perfume tastes awful,” you manage, and I chuckle in gasping turn, “Cigarettes taste awful. Try somewhere else.” You bring your nose to trace mine as you reach for the fallen straps of my dress and ease them further down, tight and then springing over my breasts.
“Here?”
I nod, feverishly, and a gutteral noise slides from my throat as you suck an entire bud into your mouth, covering the other with a softly grasping hand to keep me from catching cold—or just to play with. I’m too far gone to ponder the point much.
I card my fingers through your hair to gain leverage to grind harshly up against you. I can feel how badly you want me, your body confessing what words couldn’t, but as I grin and go for a second rise, your iron grip falls to my hips.
“No, no. Kitten first.”
And then. The most heavenly sight. You, falling to your knees. A glint of demon’s glare as you finger the fabric at the hem of my dress. Then, with a flourish, you’re gone.
Your fingers find my knickers almost immediatey, pulling them down so I can feel the ghost of your breath steaming up against me. Ever the sensationalist, you bury your nose in me first, and I remember to be grateful you can’t see how my eyes roll back in my head, because if you could, I’d never hear the end of it.
I feel a warm palm slip up, so gingerly I almost crumple, up the ridge of my ankle, the swell of my calf, to pull the meat of my thigh up and over a shoulder. As a reward for good behaviour, kisses flow from my inner knee up my leg to the crease of my thigh.
For a moment, it’s just your breath, ragged on me in this silent sideways world. I catch myself adjusting my skirt over your back, thinking you must be freezing on your knees. Then, my nails seize into your back as a tongue hits me.
You lave up, down, and around my lower lips, not pausing much for technique, just hungry, and I’ve had to take one hand from shielding my breasts from the cold to shove it in my mouth so as not to cry out.
For a moment, the wet pulse of your tongue against me ends with a stripe up my centre. You growl into my core, almost up inside me: “Let me hear.”
“What if someone comes?” I breathe, wrenching my eyes open to glance back up at the main road.
“Oh, someone’s going to come,” you purr, and then your tongue is rooting up inside me, carving me open, spearing into me as your nose traces back and forth across my clit. The supple movement of muscle inside muscle has my fingers tense against the wall as I start to slip down, held up only by your shoulder and sheer will… and the will is rapidly vanishing.
I think nothing could feel more overpowering than this cocktail of sensations—and then I feel a single, slim finger pressing against my asshole. Something about it—the confidence you had to just *do* it, maybe—loosens my grip with reality before the finger makes its way inside, and I convulse, you growling once more, wrestling to keep your tongue inside my channel as it spasms, massaging you out.
I can’t see except for the white behind my eyes as you *slurp* under my skirts in the middle of the alley, drinking up everything that’s just spilled from me. When I return to Earth, one of my palms has migrated to rest against your head through the fabric, and to any passerby, we would look like the world’s most fumbled knighting.
My chest heaves as your head appears from underneath my hemline. “Comments? Concerns?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I gasp, warring between my firm belief in reciprocity and the feeling that you’ve been too cheeky to reward. In the end, mutual satisfaction wins out, and I pull you up by your collar to my lips, pushing my tongue beyond your teeth as I start work on your trousers.
“Yes ma’am,” you manage, sounding a bit breathless yourself as I reach over your waistline and grasp you, a bit firmer than is strictly necessary.
“Will you be good now?” I ask, wringing the circle of my thumb and forefinger down to your tip as I hike my dress to the side.
“Never,” you hiss through gritted teeth, pulling me up and quickly back down around you, all at once.
You must have gotten carried away, because you start to murmur, “Shit, are you—” even as your cock flexes inside me. “I said,” I drawl, wrapping my legs around your waist and shunting you forward into me, “Shut—the fuck—up.”
You take direction and jerk once, twice into me before setting a pace that’s unforgiving, fucking me back against and up the brick wall as you drive as deep as possible. You’re like a man starved, so I hold on, head falling over your shoulder as your nails claw into my thighs, my waist, my ass, anywhere you can hold me up while your hips piston like a machine.
At first, I’m bucking back into you, but between the booze and the hour and the orgasm I’ve just had, I start to lose steam. “Hey,” you whisper, pushing your forehead against mine, “Hold on for me. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I nod, curling even firmer around you like a shell as you rocket to my core, prick sliding and scraping through me as I start to tighten around you.
I can feel it when you start to leak, pace only flagging for a moment.
I can feel it when you bite a curse into my neck, a nail on your right hand breaking my skin underneath.
I can feel it when you come, hot pulses firing off inside of me as you shake. By intent or by providence, you’re pressed so firmly into me that I can’t fall as you cry out, then slow, then soften.
I’m still pinned against the wall, clutching your shaft inside the hearth of me, when I pull the hair out of your eyes to catch your glance.
“The right choice?” I ask.
“The best.”
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/kegxuk/the_right_choice_fm_outdoorpublic_just_mmph_age