“What about that one? Lay or nay?” Alex points toward a table near the far end of the dining room. Seated at the worst table in the restaurant was a redhead with freckles peppered over her cheeks, wearing a pleated dress that hugged her curves and plunged at the neckline. Her hair looked expensive under the flattering yellow lighting, flowing into curls that must’ve taken hours at the salon.Her date, however, was painfully less prepared.
“You mean the guy in the pink polo, right?” I clarify, to which Alex nods. On top of his bold choice to pair a pink polo t-shirt with a reversed baseball cap, Mr. Pink Polo had the indignity of making a last-minute reservation, on Valentine’s Day, at one of the hottest spots in town. This left him and his date seated next to the kitchen door – giving them front-row seats to Chef Duffy’s curse-laden tirades every time the door swung open. “It’s fucking raw”, he’d scream in what was a terrible Gordon Ramsay tribute. He wasn’t that good a cook. He wasn’t even British.
“Soooo yeah, lay or nay?” Alex repeated, his voice more urgent. Lay or nay may seem crude, but it’s a game Alex and I play to kill time when the bar isn’t overflowing with impatient patrons all stabbing their hands out in desperation, as though having to wait a few extra minutes for a gin and tonic would be the end of them. The premise was simple – one of us would pick a random couple, and then both of us would attempt to guess if their date was going to end with them getting laid. Alright, maybe it was a *little* crude.
“Lay, one hundred percent” I return, finally responding.
“What, no way,” Alex dismissed me. “How is that a one hundred percent lay, eh?”.
Alex didn’t see what I saw. Curly redhead’s fingers were restless, playing with her curls one minute, then pushing them back the next. Her eyes roamed all over Mr. Pink Polo’s body as he cracked joke after joke, settling on his biceps far too obviously and much too often. Every time he went to the bathroom to likely do a line, she would yank her neckline down a wee bit further. If Mr. Pink Polo did even one more line, I worried her boob would fall right out onto her plate. *He did order the breast*.
“You judge people too quickly,” I explain my juvenile deductive methods to Alex. “Plus, it’s Valentine’s Day. If you’re already on a date, you genuinely need to make an effort to **not** get laid”.
“Nah, man, you’re wrong. I can tell from the way …..” Alex stops mid-sentence with his mouth agape as Mr. Pink Polo and curly redhead begin to sloppily make out. It gave me little pleasure in guessing correctly. The curly redhead deserved far better. And Mr. Pink Polo was using far too much tongue.
“Alright man, that’s my cue”, I sigh. “I’m clocking out. Have a good one.” Alex still had his mouth hanging open, shaking his head as Mr. Pink Polo began to get handsy. “Even frat boys get the lay on Valentine’s.” After having to pick up a shift at the very last minute because the all other bartenders mysteriously fell ill, I was excited to unwind with a few cold ones and a book.
“Wait,” Alex grabs my shoulder, “*that* though, that’s a guaranteed nay.” I turn back and follow his gaze. Seated in the very middle of the dining area was a woman who, by all accounts, was stunning. Her olive skin practically glowed, while her hair was a dark chestnut with a few rebellious streaks of blonde falling out from behind her ear. The only problem? She’s alone, and she’s been alone for the last two hours. Her only companions were the Wellington main that she’s been prodding with her fork for the good part of half an hour, the quarter-drunk bottle of red in the middle of the table, and the wine glass she kept twirling between her fingers in-between Wellington prods.
*No one deserves this on Valentine’s Day*
Waving Alex off, I quickly decide to comp a dessert for her on my way out, trying to get one of the waiters to send over a panna cotta to her table. Yet, none of them seem to notice, all juggling trays streaming in and out of the kitchen.
I finally resolved to grab one from the line when Chef Duffy had his back turned. I’m an overthinker by nature, and every possible outcome blazes through my mind as I make the walk over. A woman left alone at dinner. Possibly drunk. On Valentine’s Day. The nerve. The gall. The *audacity*. But her table is approaching far too quickly, and I haven’t got the words to explain myself so, when I finally get to her table – I lie.
“Compliments of the chef,” I place the white plate of gelatin down by her. Her eyes examine me first – oh fuck her eyes, they’re blue like the ocean, and likely just as deep. The longer they’re on me, the longer she stares at me, the more strained my breath becomes. Quickly, I clear my throat and smile, hoping she doesn’t notice.
“Join me?” she asks in a wobbly voice, her tone still uncertain if I pose a threat but deciding to say fuck it.
“Thanks, but ….,” I try to decline, but she raises her palm to me.
“Really?” her voice suddenly jumps. “You’re really going to say no to the woman who’s been sitting alone for the last hour?” she raises her shoulders and shoots me a smile, her full lips slightly parting.
My smile widens. For someone who’s likely been stood up, she seems remarkably upbeat.
“Well, it’s been around two hours, actually,” I chuckle, pulling out the chair.
She snorts so loudly that Mr. Pink Polo takes a break from excavating curly redhead’s mouth with his tongue and spins around. I see a glimpse of her cheeks flushing before she covers her mouth with a napkin. “So that’s how our date is going to start, by you making fun of me….,” she trails off, her eyes searching for my name tag to complete the sentence.
“I’m Tyler,” I remark. “And this is a *date*?”.
She nods and pours herself another glass of wine. “Unless you would rather not be on a date with me? I’m Bea and you”, she reaches out, handing over the wine glass which she’s gripped at the stem “are two glasses behind.”
Looking across from me, I study Bea quickly – who’s even more gorgeous up close – high cheekbones, her face lightly if ever so slightly bronzed, and a short streak of black over each eye. Her features were stunning, and yet her eyes were kind and soft – an infatuating combination that probably led many a guy trudging up to her, only to sit down and realise just how far out of their league she was.
She’s wearing a white mini-dress, with thin straps and a neckline that merely teases – flashing just enough cleavage that my eyes linger for just a handful of seconds too long —
“I’d take that’s a yes then?” she crosses her arms, bringing my attention back to her face, now cheekily smirking. I’m thankful that I’m sitting, repositioning myself to hide the nominal erection I didn’t realise I was sporting.
I try to speak, but the only words that seem to disentangle from my tied tongue and fall out are, “I….. er.”
“Gosh, aren’t bartenders usually smoother than this? You must make a pretty good cocktail if you’re”, she circles her finger highlighting all of me, “this bad at flirting.”
Flirting never came naturally to me. Instead, I relied on humour and quirkiness, which women usually find endearing. It didn’t hurt that I topped those qualities off with a wide chest and prominent biceps.
Bea, however, was looking right through me, disarming me much too easily. I raise my hands in surrender. “So, what’s the story here, or was this”, I pick up the bottle of red, one of our more expensive ones, “your date?”.
To her credit, Bea barely hesitated to respond, explaining how she had a first date scheduled for tonight. Some banker she met on Bumble. They’d been talking for a week. He insisted they meet here, at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city. *I know the owner* Bea animatedly moved her head from side to side doing a poor impersonation of Mr. Banker.
“That’s a terrible impersonation.”
“How would you know what he sounds like?”.
“No one sounds like that.”
She snorts again. “Fuck, sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be.”
“Okay, maybe you’re not such a bad bartender after all.”
Laughter begins to fill the table and the wine begins to set and flow through us, our mouths becoming looser, our words louder, our glares warmer. “I’m impulsive,” she suddenly admits, her words slow and deliberate – but I already knew this – a bunch of lilies inked on her right arm with vines coiling down past her elbow and a butterfly paired with two starbursts on her left, a dead giveaway.
I’ve stared at her for too long now, the whites of her eyes lightly stained with red, looking back at me intently. “Tell me three things I should know about you” I blurted out.
“I hate this game,” she says biting her lips in thought. They’re full, the kind of lips that you can instantly picture kissing, and painted in maroon tonight. “Okay so firstly, I don’t sleep with guys on the first date, not even on Valentine’s Day, and especially after being stood up.”
“Well, even if you were – I would have said no,” I bring my palms together resting them on the table.
Bea’s right eyebrow raises. “Is that right?” she scoffs. “Well, aren’t you my knight in shining armour!”. She slaps her hand on the table. “Second thing – I don’t need saving, okay?!” Bea crosses her arms and looks away. She’s feigning anger, but I can tell there’s a smidgen of truth in the sideways glare she shoots me.
“Okay, last one. I’m itsbeababe.”
She pauses for a second, eyes fixed on me. Then, she tilts her head to the side, her lips curving. She’s waiting for me to figure it out. When she finally realises I’m not going to, she responds with four words that bring the entire conversation to a crashing halt.
“I’m an influencer.”
I audibly gulp.
“That’s my social media handle.”
The entire night suddenly feels like a house of cards that has come crashing down. Still, I force myself to nod and go, “wow, that’s great.”
“Wow. Holy shit, you have a terrible poker face!” she exclaims.
“What, I didn’t say anything!” I meekly protested. But she’s right. I do dislike influencers. No, I hate them. “I’m sorry, I’m just not a big fan of the whole influencer culture.”
“And here I thought this date was going somewhere.”I laugh, and she rolls her eyes at me. “You’re lucky, you’re cute. Normally, I’d ask you to fuck off, okay?” she grabs her butter knife a playfully points it at me. “And I’m in no mood to stop drinking just yet. How’s about a bet?” she suggests.
“A bet?” I repeat quizzically.
“Yeah, give me a chance to change your antiquated mindset on influencers.”
I’m intrigued. “So what’s the bet then?”.
“If I change your mind by the end of the night”, she rolls her wrist to get a good look at her watch, “in 3 hours, then you have toooo…,” she scans the dining room, looking for inspiration. “You have to make me a drink that’s not on the menu. Every single time I come in. On the house.”
“That just means I’ll be able to see you more often,” I remind her, the wine clearly now having its way with my words.
“What makes you think I’ll be coming in for that drink alone?” she retorts, a beat barely skipped.
*Touché.*
Free drinks were easy. She doesn’t know how easy that would be because she doesn’t know the truth yet. I don’t need to think about what I want either, it instantly leaps out at me. “And if I win, I get to post whatever I want on your social media account, and you cannot delete it.”
“Oooooh”, she considers this. “Deal,” she extends her hand out across the table.
“Quite formal, aren’t we?” I took her palm in mine.
“Well, we’ve yet to establish that you aren’t a serial killer. Yet.”
“Oh no, just the two bodies. Haven’t worked up to serial status just yet.” She ignores me.
When Bea calls for the bill, the waiter stares at me, then her, then back at me. “It’s er, on the house”, he manages finally.
“No please, I insist on paying,” Bea rebuffs him and extends her card out.
“One minute please.” Our waiter spins on his heel and speed walks to the back of the kitchen.“I do get this a lot”, Bea explains. “But I swear, I always pay.”
“Well, aren’t you a noble influencer.”Our conversation is interrupted by someone new – the manager. “Ma’am, the bill is on the house on account of Mr. Tyler.
”I point at myself sheepishly. “Why, thank you, Christopher.”
“Well, er …” Bea stammers and then finally gets a “thank you” out with a smile.
I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat when Bea says, “You’re judging me, aren’t you.”“I am.” I *was*.
I can almost feel the heat emanating from her cheeks that began to turn red. I want to tell her it’s fine but pushing her chair back, Bea’s already walking past me when she continues speaking. “Chop chop Tyler, we don’t have all day.”
A pity we didn’t. Spinning around as Bea walked past me, I finally see the back of her dress or lack thereof. Two thin straps crossed each other in an X across her back, exposing her shoulder blades. Were exposed shoulder blades always this alluring?
*God.*
Her dress flowed down to a handful of inches below her bum cheeks, the hem loosely swaying and bouncing, giving little away to what they hid.
“Where are we going?”.
“You’ll see.”
A few minutes and a bumpy Uber ride later, and we’re at a place that was the antithesis of the restaurant – a dive bar. Flattering yellow lighting gave way to garish, fluorescent hues that only served to illuminate the various graffiti scrawled across walls and tables. A jukebox? Check. A bartender with a beer gut? Check. A pool table? Bea had already picked up a cue before I noticed it in the far corner of the bar.
“Bea doll, it’s been too long!” a voice boomed from across the bar. Turning around, I see the bartender running towards Bea, his belly and beard bouncing in unison. It was oddly mesmeric. Upon reaching her, he raised her in the air, wrapping his arms around her torso. “How I’ve missed you!” he added, still very much hugging.
“Robbbb”, were the only words Bea managed as Rob swayed her from side to side. “Robbbb”, Bea squealed, “my dress!”. It had ridden up her thighs ever so slightly, and the bottom curve of her bum cheek peeked out, bare.
Was she not wearing any underwear?
“Sorrey, sorrey,” Rob gruffed, finally eased his grip, gently letting her down. “It’s been so long, I didn’t think you’re ever coming back round here”. Rob’s gaze finally moved away from Bea, and he noticed me standing idly by the pool table. “Sorrey, I didn’t see – you’ze on a date? “What about Patri–.” Bea slapped Rob across the chest, who mouths sorrey to her – twice. At least, I think that’s what his lips were saying. The lighting by the pool table is terrible at best. Rob fetches a jug and two mugs by us, already filled. “Still a Bud girl, I hope.”
Bea’s already racked up the balls, lifting the wooden triangle away when I ask her, “Soo, is Patrick the … ”
“The banker?” Bea finishes my question for me. “No, he’s just an ex”, she explains. “This”, she extends her cue, sweeping the air across the bar, “is my scene. *Was* my scene. I’m much more at home here than I was at that fancy restaurant”. Bea fires the cue ball into the triangle of multicoloured balls, sending them flying into different corners, with one or two dropping into pockets with a satisfying *plop*. She then makes a bee-line for the table with our beers, chugging around half her pint and leaving her with a foam stake. “What”, she chuckles, looking at me and giving her a look.
I take a few steps toward her and trace the top of her upper lip with my thumb, swiping off the foam. It’s the first time I’ve touched her, but the first thing that grabs the attention of my senses is her fragrance. A faint aroma of spice is followed quickly by a wisp of citrus, and then vanilla. Some of it is from her hair, the rest from her perfume. Her aroma distracts me so that my thumb just stays there, by her lip. Our eyes meet, and I stare into hers, deep and hot, and I feel it for the first time – how my stomach begins to flip and my grip on her waist instinctively grows tighter. Somewhere in me, I lustily hope her lips take my finger between them. But I stall, waiting for her.
“I’m… I’m stripes,” she stammers and turns her face away, back to the table. *Plop*, another striped ball drops into the centre pocket. “So, does this mean I won the bet?”. She looks up at me while still positioned with the cue.
I contemplate and finally end up moving my palm from side-to-side. “Almost there”, I say, much to Bea’s dismay. Sure, this side of her was fun., but she was still an influencer.
“Let me guess”, she sees me thinking, “you think influencers are vapid, self-absorbed, pretentious douchebags who promote an unhealthy image.”
“And they promote stuff that is usually shit”, I add. “No offence,” I say after clearly uttering something offensive.
Bea hands me her iPhone, encased in a silicone black case that’s remarkably similar to mine. “Have a look and tell me what you think.”
It’s her social media profile on the screen. Instantly I press on the circle on the top left, bringing up her stories. There are stills of her dinner, then dessert. *When did she take that?* From her stories, to her followers, it looked like she had an amazing night – not even a hint of being stood up.
Scrolling down, I quickly pick apart her profile – 140,000 followers, and her pictures are all themed – light calming filters varnish every tile. There are a barrage of pictures of her – obviously – but they actually look like her. There’s wit within her captions. I’m still hesitant until I glance upon one of her pinned posts. Bea’s wearing a sports bra with matching burgundy tights – a reel plays, showcasing her fitness journey. The caption talks about her struggles with weight, and how she’s learned to accept herself. then there’s the date – posted 3 years ago.
“I don’t promote anything I don’t actually use myself, just so you know”. Bea is staring at me now.
I scroll to her latest post, and then the one before that, and the one before that. Bea used to post every week, and then – around 3 years ago, her posts became far more infrequent, two, sometimes three months apart.
“Why did you stop posting?” the words leave my mouth before I have time to consider them.Bea gives me a sideways look and sighs. “Remember the ex-boyfriend?”. She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need to. “You’re up”.
The table is already half empty, with solids dominating the table. It takes very little time to sink the first, then the second ball – a purple 4 and a yellow 1. Lining up a straightforward shot hot for the brown 7, I feel Bea’s breath behind my ear.
“So, have you changed your mind, Tyler?”.
I turn around to respond, but I take a few seconds to drink the sight of Bea in. “Not quite … not yet”, I say, my eyes staying glued to her. Even in the piss poor lighting, she looked stunning – her dress hugging her in all the right places.
“It was the bill back there, wasn’t it”, she tried to rationalise. “They must really like you, huh? That bill wasn’t cheap and …. . “
“I’m only a bartender?” I finished her sentence.“
No, that’s not what I meant. I mean”, she carefully considers the words that follow. “I’ve just never seen a restaurant be so nice to their bartender. Must mean they like you”.
“They don’t have a choice”, I say, finally potting the brown 7. “I own the place”.
“Liar!”, Bea squeals, begging me to explain. I tell her how I sometimes help out whenever they’re short-handed at the bar. “I used to bartend for a bit in college”. As the game progresses, I give Bea the bits and pieces of the puzzle – a couple of lucky investments during the crypto craze, a small amount of money from an uncle who passed and a convenient lot for sale and “tada” I make jazz hands.
My head lightly buzzes when I realise the jug is empty. Rob’s already offering us another, but be a shakes her head before I can.
“What?” Bea asks me when she catches me staring at her, my eyes hungry.
“Wanna get out of here?” I ask, the beer now talking.
“Yes, please,” is all she says. No further words are needed.
The silence is piercing on our Uber back to my place. I leave my hand by Bea’s thigh, simply moving two fingers over the hem of her skirt. They can’t venture further – not with our elderly Uber driver, whose eyes are moving back and forth between the road and the rear view mirror. I guide Bea to the elevator, my hand on the small of her back. They’re waiting to roam, restless and eager for the door to shut.
“Sorry”, a nasal voice calls out, whose fingers appear as the door shuts, and then the rest of him as the doors slide open.
Bea and I stand next to each other, the random intruder standing in front of us. My hand moves upwards as the elevator does, my fingers light tracing the outline of her shoulder blade, then her spine, slowly going down each crevice, each notch, each dimple.
Bea’s eyes shut, and she’s gritting her teeth.
My hand then slips down the back of her dress from the slit just above her bum. It’s clumsy, but from where we’re standing – our intruder has no clue. Bea grabs my hand and gives me a look. My eyes are on hers, looking for permission. Then, she lets my hand go. My fingertips brush over her underwear, a thin line of fabric , then finally caress her bare ass. The skin of her bum cheek is cold against my hand, lighting up with goosebumps the moment I touch it. I firmly grab it and ….
“Ahem,” Bea coughs, then clears her throat. My hand flings back to my side.
*Ding*
As the doors open, there’s a moment of hesitation and no one moves. The intruder eyes me, then Bea. Finally, I realise it’s my floor.
*Sorry* I mouth to him, leading Bea out and then finally, reaching my door.
“Nice place”, she concludes almost immediately, before the door has even shut behind us. Large floor-to-ceiling windows, dark furnishings and yellow lighting was all that was really needed to get that reaction from most.
“So,” Bea wraps her arms around my neck, “have you changed your mind?”.
“Yeah”, I don’t even think before responding. “I think I have”.
“You’re a terrible liar”, Bea’s lips curve as she undoes my top button.
“Really? Then why continue if you know I disapprove?”.
“Because”, she pauses, her eyes seeking mine. “I do not care about your approval”. She undoes another button, lower this time. “And I’ve been dying to see you with your shirt off”. I let her unbutton me, and then pulled my shoulders back, slipping my shirt off.
Bea traces her fingertips across my pecs, admiring how wide they stretched, tracing lines across their borders, then moving down to my abs. She pressed her lips against them, one-by-one, counting them as she did. “One”, her voice went husky, her eyes staring up at me, she went further and further. “Two”, she licked my abs this time before kissing it. I growled as she continued, feeling a heat deep within me burn. My shaft grew, pressing against my blue slacks. She continued until she reached six, then teasing me, her eyes staring up full of hunger and lust. I knew what was to come next.
“Whoa”. It’s no wonder then that Bea’s taken by surprise when I pull her up to face me. I see that same gaze of hers, full of heat, no – fire now. She wraps her arms around me and our lips finally meet. Her lips are as soft as I imagined, and I peck her once, then twice, then thrice. Then finally, I lean in and we lock lips.
I feel myself drain, and yet, I don’t want to stop. My hands cup her cheek, and as our kiss continues, it drops to her neck. We continue like this until I push my tongue and venture into her mouth. Finally, I hear her softly moan as her tongue dances with mine and then —
“Tyler”, she suddenly pulling back, those deep blue eyes staring back at me as I open mine. “Can we just have sex?”.
I shoot Bea a look of bewilderment.
“I mean…”, her voice goes shrill and soft. “Can we have *regular* sex?”. She pressed her eyelids together tightly and then speaks rapidly. “Can we just have regular sex no rough stuff like whips and clamps and slapping and choking and like just no BDSM at all”? Bea slowly opens one eyelid, like she’s checking if it’s safe, and then the other.
There’s a look on her face, one that Bea tries to hide, one I’m inherently familiar with. Her eyes dull ever so slightly. Her lips twitched. Her forehead is lined with beads of sweat. Her eyes can’t meet mine. She’s afraid.
The proper words elude me, they always have in moments bridled with tension. Instead, I try to make her feel safe. There’s no hesitation in my eyes when I cup her cheeks with my palms and nod. “Hey…” my voice goes soft, “we can stop anytime you want, all right?”.
Her face finally eased and Bea flashes her teeth back at me before they’re hidden away as our kiss resumes, our lips now smacking together impatiently. “Just tell me if I’m going too fast”, my voice peeks out between kisses. Bea merely nods. “Tell me what you want”.
“I want you to make me cum”.
“Oh, that can be arranged”.
I hook Bea’s straps and let them slide down her shoulders, agonisingly revealing more and more of her. First, her black lace bra, hugging her breasts and giving rise to a delicious amount of cleavage. Before even looking, I can feel trickles of pre-cum begin to leak, my hardness already feeling sticky against my boxer briefs. Then her toned abs, and a navel piercing.
“Fuck.” I say as her dress finally sinks to her feet, revealing a matching thong.
“You sure have a way with words, Tyler”.
My hands reach out to her waist, but Bea’s turned on her toes before they can – sticking her ass out and pushing into my groin. I don’t remember when my pants came off, but they’re gone – my hardness struggling to stay contained as Bea ground against me. Her ass was glorious, and each of her bum cheeks was round, plump, and firm, begging to be touched. Squeezed. Spanked.
But my hands resist, my mind reminding them of Bea’s words. Perhaps a minute passes, maybe more. I couldn’t tell you as I closed my eyes and my head just jerked back in a mixture of agony and pleasure. Suddenly, I feel her hands reach back and grasp the band of my boxer briefs. My eyes snap open as Bea drags them down while looking over her shoulder like she was afraid if she turned around I would be snapped out of her spell.
Glistening on the tip of my cock is a single string of cum—not that Bea noticed. No sooner than my boxer briefs were by my ankles was he back gyrating, my cock painting her bum cheeks with cum. I feel her lacy fabric slowly brush against my hardness, the sensation forcing more pre-cum to leak. I growl. I can’t help it. I’m in heaven and yet, I can’t help but feel like something’s off. Like she’s putting on a show. Like it’s too pornographic.
“Hey”, Bea’s startled as she’s about to push my dick between her ass cheeks and thong.
“If you keep that up, this isn’t going to last very long”, I lie. Well, partly. “Now, how do you want me to make you cum?” my eyes burn with lust now, and I want to give her what she wants.
“Hhh-how?” she stutters and gives me a blank stare. “Listen, ignore what I was saying just now, I— I was …. “, she slips her mask back on, but there’s that look in her eyes again, the one I knew all too well.
Fully aware I could blow my chance with her with the next few words brewing in my mind, they surprisingly fall out of my mouth with no resistance. “Bea, when’s the last time you came”.
“I—um ….”, Bea stalls, making weird humming sounds so silence doesn’t take over. Her cheeks go a little redder.
I cup her waist with my palms. “Sit on my face”, I say commandingly.
“Tyler!” Bea’s right-hand shoots out to cover her mouth as though my words were so vulgar, she’d get swallow an STD if she didn’t cover her mouth quickly enough.
My eyes don’t leave her gaze. “Sit. On. My. Face”, my voice goes deep, and my words now roll out slowly.
Her shoulders loosen and for the first time this night, I see her eyes glow with excitement.“I — I’ve never done that before”.
“I’ll guide you”.
“O-K”.
Tracing her bra strap, I play with a little red ribbon just by the edge of the cup, then let my finger trail along her collarbone. My fingers dance along her exposed skin, the prickling electricity sending goosebumps sprawling along her chest.Finally, I unhook her bra and let her breasts fall out. “They’re gorgeous”, I say.
“They’re too small”, Bea, interrupts my fawning. “I’ve been thinking of getting them do…. Oh fuck”, Bea swears as plunge my face and explore the valley between her tits. There’s little time for teasing – my lips tracing kisses along the contours, then teasingly moving to encircle her soft, supple boobs, finally enveloping her nipple in my mouth.“Oh God”, Bea groans, her neck cocking back. My hands grab her ass cheeks, and Bea’s legs instinctively wrap around my waist. I carry her and gently push her onto the bed, back first.Bea’s back is arched, inviting my mouth back for more. They oblige, this time my tongue softly encircling the bumps around her nipple, which begun to swell.
*More for me to suck.*
My lips formed a seal, while my tongue fluttered against her swelling bud. Bea moans and her hands grab a fistful of sheets, pushing her chest further and further out, her back arched like a bow. “Oooh”, Bea’s voice wobbles as my fingers circle her other nipple, lightly pressing her between my fingers every so often.
Bea’s breathing is so staggered that when I stop, she almost chokes on her breath. Looking at me with murder in her eyes, her chest deeply heaving in and out, she asks, “Why’d you stop?”.
I don’t speak. There’s very little time for words in the mood I’m in. I slowly push myself off the bed, grabbing her thighs with me and easing her to the edge.
Tossing her hair to one side, Bea smiles, then blows away two of those rebellious blonde strands. I give her a knowing look, and Bea bites her lower lip.
I kiss her from the bottom of her thighs all the way to the top, and then I wander further, feeling the little dip in her skin, the line which told me where her pleasure area was about to begin.
“Please, Tyler”, Bea begged.
Pressing my nose into the lace, I can smell her wetness. Hell, I can almost taste it even through the lace.
“Mhmmmm”, she nodded, biting her lower lip even harder now while her thighs slowly wrapped themselves around my face, her hips grinding, her pussy eager for my mouth. Her lace panties are soaked in her juices, and they stick to one side, finally exposing part of her puffy lips to me. A single wild moan escapes Bea’s mouth as I sheathe her folds with my lips, lightly sucking them.
“It’s time”, I tell her.
“Lead the way”.
Positioning myself at the head of the bed, I direct her to kneel over me, her legs on either side of me.
“And I just sit on your face? That’s it?”. I nod. “What if you can’t breathe?”.
“Then let me die”. Bea looks down at me horrified as I chuckle. “Bea, I’ve done this before. You just focus on yourself. If you get tired, if you’re not enjoying it”. I grip her thighs. “If you want something else, just say the word”.
Bea mumbles to herself and slowly lowers onto me, and I finally taste her. I love tasting a woman for the first time – each tastes different. How her pussy smells, how it tastes – it’s like a sexual fingerprint.
Bea is no different – her sweet nectar and sweat mixed together, creating a delectable concoction I wanted to drink more and more of. “Oh my God”, Bea gasped as my tongue finally crosses the threshold and begins to explore her pussy. Almost immediately, she’s grinding against my face again, her hips rocking back and forth as my tongue runs across every soft crevice within her beautiful slit.
She mewled, then asked, “How do I taste?”.
Pausing, I wait until she’s looking down at me, and then give her pussy a long lick from the bottom to the top. “Like heaven”, I growl, my slurps now louder and needy. I wanted Bea to hear just how glorious she tasted.
I reach up and begin circling her nipple with one hand, the more sensitive one – now fully engorged – like a large brown Hershey’s Kiss that needed to be kissed, licked, bitten.
“Fuck”, she cursed, “What are you doing to me”, she says between whimpers. I could see her body slowly lose control, the overwhelming sensations taking over.
I closed my eyes and let her lead, letting Bea show me how she wanted to be eaten out. Her sweet nectar flowed like a stream, I didn’t need to open my eyes to see. I felt her wetness glaze my mouth, my nose, my chin, then my beard. Even the sounds her gorgeous lips made as they gyrated over my mouth – squishing and sloshing – I could have cum from those alone.Her thighs were beginning to tense – her muscles slowly strained as they edged closer to my face. Then, I saw it – her hood, barely covering her delightful engorged clit.
“Yes, right there —- oh fuck”, Bea’s voice leaped in an unrestrained wail when I lightly licked her clit, before slowly taking it in my mouth. My tongue dances around it, flitting her clit upwards until it reaches the top of my tongue, then slowly going the opposite way. Her bum cheeks tighten. I can feel Bea’s pleasure build, her pussy dripping and her hips bucking. “Tyler….”, she pants. “Tyler… I’m close. I’m close”, she repeats, her words gobbled up as her breathing strained. Bea’s hands move to my hair. “I need to …. fuck, I’m going to …..”. Bea’s body tries to betray her as it instinctively endeavours to pull away. The pleasure was too much. The sensations were too much.
But my hands are tightly gripped around her ass. Her body doesn’t know what to do, so her hands roughly pull at my hair, eliciting some pain and some pleasure.I don’t nod. I don’t even blink. I look up, grip her ass and my weary tongue continues to suck, to flit, to bring her hungry clit the attention she deserved and lapping up every inch of her pussy I can.
Finally, Bea’s mouth opens, but no words fall out. Instead, there’s an instant of silence, with nothing but the sounds of her drenched pussy being tongue fucked filling the room. And then, she lets out a strangled gurgle, like something caged had been released. Bea’s hips bucked, then began jerking into my face, again and again, and again, each time stronger than the next. “Oh God. Oh God”, she cried while my tongue continued riding out her climax. I can’t tell you how many times she came. All I can remember is how tired my tongue was, how numb my jaw was – but I refused to stop until she told me to, until her body told me to.
Finally, I hear her say, “Okay—stop stop”. I immediately pull my face from under her.
Bea’s body slowly slumped forward while she dragged her legs down my body until she was laying next to me.“Oh my God”.
“Yeah, you did say that quite a bit back there”.
Bea’s arms could barely slap my chest. “Tyler”, she rolled a few strands of hair between her fingers, “My hair, it’s all knotted”, she laughed in horror. “Wow”.
I bridge the gap between us and kiss her. Bea takes a second to notice, and then “Holy shit”, she squeals. “That’s how I taste?”.
I give her a knowing smile. “You want to taste more of yourself?”.
Bea nods and her tongue dives into my mouth, sipping and tasting the leftovers of her climax. It’s not a lustful kiss, and yet, it’s deep and long. It’s different from before, it’s slower, it’s lighter. Like Bea is taking back what’s rightfully hers from within my mouth. My erection grows instantly, and Bea begins moving her hand over it – but her grip is loose, and her movement is laboured.
“You okay?” I ask, sensing her tiredness.
“Yeah, I just need a minute”.
“Okay, hold on”, I get off and head towards the kitchen.
“You’re still hard”, Bea points out by the time I’m at the door. I am, but from her voice that she’s spent.
“He’ll go down, you rest first”.
Barely a minute and I return. And yet, my hands are already ice-cold from the water bottles I’m gripping. Bea gulps her bottle down, and then mine. I quickly tell her both were hers.
We end up talking for some time in the darkness. Bea candidly reveals how she used to be incredibly independent, and strong, and all that was broken by Patrick. “Shit, I’m bad-mouthing an ex on the first date”.
“That’s a red flag. I must ask you to leave now”, I laugh, pointing at the door. “
But Bea”, my voice deepens, “you are a strong woman. Well, the woman I met tonight is, anyway”. I’m not lying.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to get in my pants”, Bea makes light of the situation. Her eyes look even more haunting in the dark, and just when I’m getting lost in them, she turns away.
“That was me trying to act like how I used to be”. Bea sighs. She tells me about how Patrick only liked rough sex before stopping herself again. “Fuck, I’m going to stop talking”. She turns to her side, and I wrap an arm around her, going across her chest and feeling her warmth. A minute passes, and I feel my palm grow cold – Bea interlaces her fingers with mine. “I couldn’t act like my old self once we started having sex”, she says, not to me, but out loud, like she needed the words to come out.
There’s no need to respond with words, and I just kiss the nape of her neck. “You don’t need to act”, I say.
I must’ve overslept because it’s already bright out – but as I squint I realise the windows are all still painted with the icy blackness of the night sky. The light is coming from my phone. Fuck, I mutter, picking it up. It must be Alex messaging me. Except, it’s not Alex. It’s from someone named Patrick, with a bright red heart bookending his name on the screen.
I should’ve stopped reading, but it’s too late – my mind was simultaneously numb and on fire.
*Hey babe. Sorry, my flight was delayed, and we just landed.*
*Didn’t want to wake you. Hope you had some good wine at least?*
*Sorry, couldn’t make our reservation. Will make it up to you tomorrow, *purple devil with horns emoji**
*Love you and call me when you’re up.*
My stomach churns, and my mouth suddenly tastes sour. I just stare blankly at the screen, as if the bright white light had hypnotized me.“Wh — what are you doing with my phone?” Bea’s voice groggily breaks the trance.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/11or9cn/an_impromptu_date_with_an_influencer_ends_in_a
Damn part 2, needed
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This is incredibly written. I’m almost distracted from the story by how well you tell it.
Fantastic writing. Is there a Part 2 coming?
Noooo i need part 2
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