“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked, swirling on my barstool while Clint grinned at me from behind the tap.
“It means what it means," he teased aloofly. "You’re a guy’s girl, Dali, always have been.”
I studied him for a minute as he poured my whiskey sour into a Collins and hooked a lime slice on the rim. It was hard to tell when Clint was kidding. His full lips were always twisted into a naughty leer – it was simply his customary air.
“I own a flower shop and I am in a quilting club.” I defended my femininity staunchly while sipping my drink. “How exactly am I a guy's girl?”
He chuckled as he drew a Michelob for a guy down the bar. “I didn’t say you were only into guy stuff. You’ve got plenty of woman in you. But, face facts, kiddo, you are totally a guy’s girl. You know your classic rock and classic cars . And you quote football stats better than half the men in this joint,” he grinned, motioning to the TV behind him where the Jets were getting trounced by the Raiders.
“So, that’s all it takes to be a guy’s girl?” I asked, amused. “I drive an old Mustang, I own Foghat and Rainbow CDs? I enjoy watching the Jets lose? Is that all it takes?” Whiskey and citrus were starting to make my cheeks ruddy; I could feel it burning a blush across my features.
“No, that’s not all.” He leaned over the bar toward me and lowered his voice. “She also has to be hotter than a fire ant on a frying pan.”
Rolling my eyes, I drained my Collins glass and pushed it forward for a refill. “Who told you I broke up with Drew?”
“You broke up with Drew?” Clint gasped in mock surprise as he emptied a little more of the blender into my glass and tossed in another slice of lime. “Do you need a shoulder to cry on? Or any other body part besides a shoulder for that matter?"
I couldn’t help laughing as he wiggled his lascivious eyebrows and ogled at me. “You’re a wicked old man, Clint.”
“And you’re a guy’s gal, Dahlia Malone," he replied matter-of-factly. "You're Goddamn catnip."
The Monday Night Football crowd began to get a bit more demanding, and Clint was quickly occupied with filling orders and making small talk with the soused old maids who liked to quaff imports and send him “fuck me” eyes until late into the night. The never-delivered-upon promise in his flirting gave the spinsters something to get out of the house for, I suppose, and kept Clint in big tips. It should have been unscrupulous, but he managed to remain charming nonetheless. It was an indecent skill.
Clint Floyd was a man old enough to be my father, who had been hitting on me since I’d flashed my first fake ID at him ten years before. We traded witticisms and played the little games that a married man not quite fifty and an unmarried girl not quite thirty usually played. Lots of serves, volleys, and spikes, but very little scoring was involved. It definitely wasn’t a contact sport. He was a lanky, fun-loving sot, though, and I’d killed many an hour listening to him wail out on his guitar du joir after hours and debating whether Jimi Hendrix or Steevie Ray Vaughn were the better thrasher.
“You stayin’ after the game?” he asked, stirring a dash of grenadine into a tequila sunrise.
“Is there any reason I should?” I countered, waving him toward my glass for my third and final whiskey of the night.
He shook his head and re-blended the sour mix for me. “You just won’t give me an inch, will you? Hell, yes, there’s a reason you should stay. I’ve got something to show you.”
An unfeminine snort cuffed off my lips. “You’ve been trying to show me that for ten years, Clint.”
“Smart ass,” he growled, nodding to the waitress who was tapping on the end of the bar for her order.
“Sure I’ll stay, old man,” I winked with what I hoped was a saucy and not soused smirk. “If you promise to play some Dylan for me.”
“Aces,” he nodded and fell back into his animated bartender persona. Having dated both bartenders and radio DJs, I was well aware of the duality inherent to their natures. "Behind the bar" could loosely translate into "on air" and the character of the individual altered significantly with the addition of an audience. I looked away. Clint was one of those rare individuals who was more intriguing out of character than in character. Watching him flirt and ply his patrons with false laughter always made me a little depressed.
Of course, Clint always insisted that was just because I was a gloomy drunk.
I chatted for a while with Frank and Rory – two ancient Jets fans who were the resident versions of Cliff and Norm at the old Whip-Pour-Will Pub that had been in Clint's family for three generations. I liked to give the boys a hard time and pretend I didn’t care that their damn team was the bane of my Dolphins, but when they started in on calling Joe Namath a better quarterback than Dan Marino, I had to get downright ornery. I recited records, they blathered about Superbowl wins (and the lack thereof). This weekly intellectual debate concluded with me tossing a handful of popcorn at them and the three of us snickering like school kids.
Gloomy drunk my ass.
The lackluster game ended with a whimper and the crowd eventually filtered out. I helped Clint and the waitresses tidy; wiping off tables, turning up chairs, gathering glasses. When the place was finally back to as reduced a state of disarray as it was going to get, the three working girls left for home, and I remained behind. I often wondered what those three women whispered about Clint and I staying after in the bar, and I suppose I had a pretty good idea. Truth be told, I enjoyed the idea of being at the center of a small town scandal. Innocent though I was, it made me feel less the goody-two-shoes I seemed ever branded to be. And besides, Clint's wife had been the center of a scandal or two herself. Clint had mentioned their "arrangement" once or twice previously, and while I never asked for details, I had more than firm suspicions that they played ball far more on the road than they ever did on their home field. Although that made the five kids a little hard to understand.
"Head on back, Dali. I'll just be a minute," Clint called as he turned out the frosted-glass lights and neon signs.
The back room was a hodgepodge of storage equipment and sanctuary: boxes, broken and spare equipment, glasses, and a couple of beat-up folding chairs on either side of a small TV and VCR. The rundown room was the only private space of a man married thirty years with a brood of children. I always respected Clint’s sacred haven, ignoring the stacks of Playboy magazines that peeked out from under the Sports Illustrated issues. And I didn't dare question what tape was lurking in the VCR. That was his business and I didn’t need to know.
In a half-secluded corner was a cot with dark linens. I well knew that more than once, too many beers past driving home, Clint had wasted the night away on that lumpy single mattress. And I had often speculated about who might have wasted it away with him. Still, he kept it clean and it was far more comfortable than the folding chairs. I sat on it and felt a familiar moment of trepidation. Whether or not it was a spare bed in the backroom of a bar, it was Clint`s bed, and there was a certain taboo about my presence on it. I had felt the same way dozens of times before, but I couldn't banish the nagging thought. Somehow before I had always felt tethered - unavailable. The possibilities were tempered. This time it felt like flying without a net.
It was probably fall-out from the break up with Drew. I'd never been single. I'd always had a boyfriend in high school and had bounced from one monogamous relationship to the next - trading work-a-holics for self-obsessed ex-jocks and small-town community theater rejects.
The frustrating lack of sex aside, I'd begun to realize that my relationships served little more purpose than to provide me with someone who could be counted upon to kill bugs and get the oil changed in my car. Maybe getting close to the "big three-oh" had made me impatient, but I was no longer willing to suffer twerps gladly. And I was finding this new sense of freedom and self-confidence increasingly exhilarating.
The frustrating lack of sex aside.
Clint at last strode in, delivering me from my tipsy rumination, and handing me a glass that I knew I should refuse, but instead accepted. In truth, the drink was almost bigger than me, but I pretended not to realize that Clint was trying to get me drunk while he screwed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. I opened my mouth to scold him, but he quickly reached out and put his fingers over my lips. "I get enough of that shit at home, little girl. I'm smoking while I play, and that's all there is to it."
It was hard to voice disapproval for vices while I was nursing my fourth whiskey of the night, so I settled for primly crossing my legs and pouting at him.
The four-by-twelve Marshall speaker cabinet was a bit much for a backroom guitar hobbyist, but Clint had been part of a dozen different garage bands at one time or another, and was an absolute snob about his equipment. There were hardcore collectors that would have drooled and coveted his tools of choice. And, although it was enough to blast us both through the wall, there were times we had cranked up those speakers until the fillings in our teeth nearly vibrated out of our heads.
"Hey, where's the amp? Are you going acoustic on me tonight?" I asked while he disappeared toward the small, cramped closet that was shoved full of guitar cases. The usual place for the amp was atop the speaker cabinet, and I didn't think I'd ever seen it moved so much as an inch in all the years we'd been enjoying our naughty backroom concerts.
"I might lay down some acoustic after you've had another couple of drinks," he called from the closet. "You're a sucker for Dylan once you've been weakened with hard rock and whiskey."
"Why Mr. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me," I teased, stirring the ice in my enormous glass with a grin.
"Only for about ten years now," Clint sighed, shifting boxes and flipping open silver latches. He was looking for something in particular, and I found myself growing more and more curious about the surprise he was cooking up.
"What do you have up your sleeve, old man?" I blurted out, unable to maintain my air of indifference.
"Dali, I've been dying to show this to you since I unearthed it, and I'm not about to ruin the moment right before I spring it on you. Just sip your whiskey and give me a minute." Although he grumbled, I could tell he was as excited and anxious as I was.
He often joked that I was the best audience he ever played and, I had to admit that I was the perfect groupie. The great tragedy of my life was being unable to play guitar. Although I could pluck out "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" I had no gift with frets and strings, and if I couldn't wail then I didn't want to play at all. Instead I contented myself by getting wet in the panties when others made their guitars slowly weep, and Clint could rape a six string until it screamed in sublime submission.
Leaning forward and blinking twice to maintain focus, I watched him open and then close a series of guitar cases, which was extraordinarily odd. All the cases were clearly marked, so he knew what they were before peering into them, but he fussed like a show breeder trying to decide which pup was the pick of the litter. The Rickenbacker 360 twelve string, the ultra rare Gibson Flying V, the Paul Reed Smith, the Jackson Soloist, all were considered, only to be passed over. In the end, it was his battered old Les Paul that won the night. My favorite. His favorite. Wear had taken a toll and it was no longer pretty, but it had a heart of leather and steel.
"Uh. I've seen the Les Paul, Clint," I reminded him with muted sarcasm.
His reply was to slowly drop the tattered leather strap around his shoulder and reach behind the four-by-twelve stack to reveal his big surprise.
I couldn't help laughing when I saw what he was plugging the Les Paul into. "That's your big surprise?"
It was a butterscotch colored relic from the seventies. And although I knew that Clint was a connoisseur of yummy amplifiers, I couldn't imagine anything glorious emanating from that weather-beaten artifact.
With a smirk, Clint held out his hand and beckoned me like a siren in the shallows. "Come here little girl, I've got some candy for you."
I got up from the cot and sauntered toward him, emboldened by liquor and a smug sense of unimpressed amusement. "I can't believe you dragged me back here for this old thing."
He placed his hands on both my shoulders and then sat me down on the ancient amp. I was tentative at first about the placement of my ass, but the thing was built rock-solid. Sumo wrestlers could have tap danced on it and it would have held. I planted myself more comfortably.
"Not sidesaddle, Dali, bareback."
I looked up into his wicked eyes. Clint and I had flirted and teased and more than once I'd sent him home with a miserable case of blue balls. But never before had he asked me to place myself in such a deliberately sexual position. As I spread my legs and straddled the old amp, I couldn't believe my own actions, although I comforted myself I could always blame it on the whiskey. Clint had no way of knowing that the adrenaline pulsing through me had rendered the alcohol insignificant.
"I found it in that shop on Fairfax Avenue where my oldest got her clarinet." His voice was misty and melodious, and I imaged that Scheherazade had used the same tone while narrating Arabian Nights. "I went in for a new reed and saw it while I was poking around. It was shoved in the back and looked like it hadn't been touched in ages. I asked him how much he wanted for it and he said I'd be doing him a favor to take it off his hands for fifty bucks. So I brought the old girl home."
Reaching down between my parted legs, Clint began to flip switches and adjust dials. I knew I was blushing, but was grateful to once more be able to blame it on the whiskey. "She needed a little TLC," he continued, "But this baby's been modified for extra gain and it oozes the thickest, creamiest, nastiest crunch I've ever heard."
My eyebrows arched. Coming from Clint, that was high fucking praise. Something about his excitement was making my pulse race. I attempted to contain my enthusiasm, but it was all over me like a tattoo. He saw the anticipation when I looked up, and I read the same emotion back in his gaze. It was the most intimate look I'd ever shared with another human animal, and I felt unexpectedly stripped down and exposed.
Clint caressed his Les Paul and closed his eyes while he got his game face on. As always, he warmed up with our favorite track from Abbey Road.
I want you…ou…ou…ou…ou…ou
I want you so bad
I want you…ou…ou…ou…ou…ou
I want you so bad
It's driving me mad
It's driving me mad
I didn't know a great deal about amplifiers, although I knew they were a piece of equipment easily taken for granted by the casual listener. It wasn't all about the guitar. It wasn't all about the guitarist. There was something transcendent about the way artist and instrument were translated by the right equipment. And the reason I knew all this was because I felt the soul of John Lennon reverberate up and down my spine before lodging squarely in my gut. It was the smoothest crunch I'd ever heard bawl out of a guitar.
When he finished with his eight-minute Beatles warm up, Clint reached back down between my legs that were still buzzing from the vibration of the amp. I couldn't see what he was doing, but I knew he was cranking the old girl up. When he stood back this time, there was a hum pulsating between my thighs like a steam engine chewing on coal. We shared another of those stark intimate stares, and I entertained thoughts I'd shrugged and laughed off for almost a decade. The tension was palpable.
The first chord shrieked out in magnificent horror of it's own resonance and I had to close my eyes and clutch that battered old butterscotch cabinet. Had I been able to, I would have shut my legs against the lewd invasion, but Clint had made me straddle the beast for a reason. I attempted to still them, but my hips rocked forward of their own accord. I was no longer feeling the music in my gut, but in a place drastically more private. While Clint chomped out Kiss chords, the music infiltrated my panties and the tender flesh beneath; I was soaking wet before he even got to the first lyrics.
You've got something about you
You've got something I need
Daughter of Aphrodite
Hear my words and take heed
As though commanded by some unknown force, I opened my eyes. Clint was staring down at me while his hands bled out magic from the Les Paul. Hot. Hungry. Vulgar. Demanding. I felt my hips buck slowly, my legs parting wider under his intensity. Before I knew what had come over me, I was riding the damn amplifier, rocking my soaking wet panties back and forth in attempt to draw those earth-shattering soundwaves against my slit.
God of thunder and rock and roll
The spell you're under
Will slowly rob you of your virgin soul
I closed my eyes again. It was overwhelming and glorious. I felt uninhibited. Liberated. Libertine. For the first time in my life I understood why fundamentalists opposed rock music. Its spirit lead to a whole lot more than dancing.
I'm the lord of the wastelands
A modern day man of steel
I gather darkness to please me
And I command you to kneel
My mind and nether regions were in cahoots, attempting to implement a full-body mutiny. There was no way to avoid the reality that I was more than a little turned on, and it had nothing to do with the drinking. The primal urges pulsing through me were divined by more than the music, and I was teetering on a rapidly diminishing line between chaos and practicality.
God of thunder and rock and roll
The spell you're under
Will slowly rob you of your virgin soul
My thighs were burning from the heat that radiated off the old amp. I was sweat-soaked and sopping - quaking with an almost primordial thirst. I was straddling and riding the butterscotch cabinet, there was no two ways about it. Between my legs it throbbed out rhythm and groove and I realized that unlike the Beatles, Kiss music had no soul. It had lust and fury and carnal sin howling in every note, but no soul. No conscience.
He repeated the chorus over and over while I humped harder and harder. Keeping my eyes tightly shut I reached down beneath my skirt and pushed my fingers against my wet crotch. My lips and clit were swollen, pouty, imploring. And while I inclined back and forth, I began to simultaneously stroke and tease myself.
I could feel him gaping; his leer was all but physical. I heard it in his tone and timbre as he snarled out lyrics, I felt it in the chords he smoked through the amp to wound and assail me. All the while I jammed my fingers against my drenched pussy, straining to cum while he watched me.
Unleashed. Shameless. Salacious. Aflame. I screamed until my wailing matched the melody Clint fervently improvised. My body thrashed, bucked, shuddered. I came so hard it ached - tears squeaking out between my clenched lids.
"You hot, nasty little bitch," Clint panted with victorious zeal as he let the last riff fade off. "I always knew you were in there somewhere."
I should have been humiliated. I should have gathered myself up and run, sobbing with indignity, out the door to my car and never set foot in the place again. There were countless numbers of things I should have done.
But I did none of them.
Instead, I opened my eyes to pierce him with a smoldering glint that would have put Salome to shame. I knew suddenly that the "hot, nasty little bitch" I'd been struggling to suppress all my life was finally awake…and that she was hungry. Starving. Ravenous.
He thumbed the introduction to "Layla" as I slinked off the amp. Every arch and sinew of my body was abuzz and pulsating, my toes curling in rapture to the music. He fumbled a chord when I dropped onto my haunches like a feral cat before lowering down to slowly crawl toward him on my hands and knees. I had absolutely no intention of showing him any mercy. He'd undone me on purpose - and I was out to show him the inherent danger of taking a wild creature off her leash. And a wild creature will always remember how to claw and bite and mate, no matter how long ago we've been removed from our dens and ushered into civilization.
An instant later I was kneeling at his feet - swaying like a charmed cobra to Clapton's most impassioned declaration. Just a sinful little kitten begging for Cream. I pressed my face against the cuff of his jeans and then bit at his ankle with my teeth. He lost his place in the song, missed the bridge and went back to trying to give me consolation for the old man who let me down. But then my mouth was at his knees and I was biting through denim, tugging and growling in an almost carnivorous frenzy. By the time my chin was digging into his crotch, he'd given up attempting to keep the tempo.
"Don't stop," I purred thickly, rubbing my whole face into the firmness of his growing erection. "If you stop, I stop." I took the tab of his zipper between my teeth to increase the stakes.
The Blue Oyster Cult now. I tugged the zipper of his Wranglers all the way down. He growled out lyrics as the tent of his boxers poked against my cheek. My nose pushed aside a flap of fabric and his naked cock shoved thickly against my parted lips.
He was strumming a cacophony of missed chords and half-slurred lyrics. But he did not stop playing. The rhythmic dissonance was lewdly erotic.
Burn out the day
Burn out the night
I can't see no reason to put up a fight
I'm living for giving the devil his due
And I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you
I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you
His hips heaved forward while I sucked. I flagged my tongue down to his balls and back up again. Slowly. Deliberately. Maddening and sloppy and grinning like a Cheshire cat. The bulb of his circumcised head slapped the sides of my face while he gyrated and groaned. He tasted hot and salty and masculine. I lapped his cock like an animal cleaning its mate, then I stiffened my tongue to a point and pressed firmly at the tender flesh under his balls. He nearly dropped the guitar on me, but the strap around his shoulders held. I arched my eyebrows up at him and he began to strum and sing in a sweaty panic.
Burn out the day
Burn out the night
I'm not the one to tell you what's wrong or what's right
I've seen signs of what freezing their eyes went through
Well I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you
I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning for you
I nibbled softly on the very tip of him and tasted that first trembling drop of pre-cum. It smeared luxuriantly against my tongue; the randy little demon inside me began to make more frightful demands.
Pulling myself up his legs I flattened my body and wedged myself between Clint and his guitar. It was a tight fit, but I had always been small and his strap had always been long enough to accommodate his lanky arms. Gripping the backs of his shoulders I hoisted my weight up, ass to the back of the guitar and tits pinned against his chest.
"You delightfully nasty little slut," Clint whispered hoarsely. "I've been dreaming about fucking you since I first laid eyes on you."
I shut him up with a messy, violent kiss. "Don't stop playing," I reminded, sucking on his tongue.
You couldn't really say he was playing music, but the effort was impressive. I reached down and struggled with my panties for a minute before realizing that I should have wiggled out of them prior to trapping myself between Clint's instrument and…his guitar. Unable to get them off, frustration insisted I tear a hole in the soaking wet fabric, silently thankful for cheap cotton knickers. His cock shoved against the hair of my trimmed muff and I felt him roar into my lips.
I held onto him talon and toe. My heels prodded into his lower back while my fingers clung roughly to his shoulders. When he finally penetrated me, it was with a brutal jab. I yelped in surprise.
"Fucking hell you feel good," he groaned aloud and followed that violent push with another of its kin. I realized in a decadent, depraved, hazy glee that I'd never fucked before. I'd made love. I'd had intercourse. I'd dallied. Fucking was an entirely different beast.
"Jesus fucking Christ, why the hell do I still have this fucking thing on?" He was yanking off the Les Paul as though he'd never seen it before and I laughed full into his mouth. I couldn't believe how long he'd played along with me and kept trying to wail on the damn thing. He laid it to rest against the wall and I had a brief vision of the guitar as a serpent - an insane notion of Beatles music wafting in the background while Eve picked fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.
It was going to lead to a whole lot more than dancing.
The guitar safely stowed, I felt his cock pump hard once more, fucking me through my ripped panties and plunging all the way into my slippery cunt. My back hit the wall while Clint grabbed onto my ass with one hand. I couldn't believe the strength of the two of us, and wondered if his thighs were strained and burning like mine - if his arms were operating on nothing but desperate, primal lust for fuel. I was still pinned, the guitar had been traded for the wall, but it gave Clint much more room to maneuver. He shoved and pushed and swayed, making slow, hard circles with his hips, cock deep inside me while he teased and stimulated every inch of my damp inner core. There was something inexplicably criminal about how good we fit together and how good it felt to have him inside my tight little box.
Now that he'd regained a sliver of control he was back to teasing me, pushing his fingers between us while he made slow shallow stabs inside me. "You are one hot little dirty tease, Dali," he huffed in my ear; the both of us were so winded I don't know how he managed to speak. Our ears were buzzing so loud we had to shout to hear one another. "I've got half a mind to throw you on that bed and eat your pussy for a couple hours, but it feels too good to fuck you."
I inclined my head back and arched to him with all my might. His agile fingers had found my clit and begun to strum me like that fucking Les Paul. It was like throwing gasoline on a forest fire.
"That's right, you nasty little girl. Fuck me back. Fuck me back hard, Dali."
I was shoving and bucking and wrenching all the tendons of my body for every inch they could provide. I couldn't get him deep enough, couldn't slam my hips back hard enough. As it was, I probably wouldn't be able to sit for a week, but I didn't care. It was a kind of hurt I had never known before. It was a hurt that I needed.
"Cum for me, you hot fucking slut. Cum right in my hand. Cum with my cock inside you. Let me hear you. Let me feel you. Cum for me, Dali. Cum for me."
I kicked and thrashed and howled and pushed my swollen clit against his fingers as hard as I could. I did cum again - realizing for the first time that I was capable of multiple orgasms as a wet gush of hot salty musk drenched his fingers. My cunt clamped around his cock like a vice and I both felt and heard him roar my name.
Suddenly we were on the cot with him on top of me, humping and thrusting and shoving like rabid dogs. We were both lathered in sweat and I helped him pull off my blouse. Had there been buttons he'd have torn the damn thing off. As it was, he nearly strangled me in effort to get at my hard-nippled tits.
I was sore and aching and more alive than I had ever been in my life. Exhausted, soaking wet, and still lifting myself into an arch, still milking my flesh for whatever energy was left. I realized this delicious sinful electricity could never be intentionally recreated - the friction and the intensity and the licentiousness was not the formula of a deliberate force.
"Fuck me, Clint," I gasped and begged. "Fuck me harder. Harder. Harder!" I didn't know if two people could fuck harder, but it was a magnificent thought.
"I am fucking you, you nasty little bitch," he puffed back. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll feel it tomorrow. I'm going to fuck you so raw you won't be able to walk for a week."
My thighs were limp, but his words sent chills of delight up and down my spine. In a sudden burst of vigor, Clint pulled back and out of me, yanking me unceremoniously around and onto my belly. My ass was up in the air while he ripped and pulled off what was left of my panties and skirt and wrestled out of his own clothes.
Grabbing me by the shoulders he leaned down and told me to guide him inside me. I reached shakingly between my knees and took him in my hand. Slick and still raging hard. I felt like a painted whore in a porno movie. Another gust of sinful delight raced up and down my spine. I positioned him against my slit and he pumped me. I was sore. I was aching. I was throbbing. But I continued to shove back against him, feeling his sweaty chest on my back, his soft belly against my rear end.
Bent over me, Clint continued to growl obscenities into my ear. Nothing like that had ever excited me before, but the more he spoke, the more it turned me on until I was spewing tirades of smut back at him.
"I want to cum in your ass, Dali," he breathed into my ear, grunting louder than before. He couldn't possibly hold out much longer and for the first time, a part of me seized in hesitation. "I want to cum in that tight luscious ass you've been wagging at me since you were sixteen years old."
My voice was tight and raw. "I've never done that before, Clint," I knew I sounded frightened. I was.
"I know," he said simply, removing his slippery cock from me. Once more, those deft fingers tapped at my clit. "But you're going to do it now. And you're going to cum with my cock in your ass like the nasty little whore you are."
"Clint…" I began, but any objections I intended to make disappeared when the demanding of my clit fanned back into power. Down on my hands and knees, his hand slapping my pussy, fingering my clit. And that dominant cock pushing against my puckered, quavering button of an asshole.
His fingers plunged in at the same time his cock penetrated that first constricted ring of anal muscle. I screamed and felt him bite softly on the back of my neck. It was feral, brutal and rough. Slow, but ruthless. He nudged and pushed and jabbed and thrust, all the while screaming as loud as I did. His fingers plucked at me in frenzied vehemence.
"Cum you nasty little fucking cunt. Cum now. Cum for me. I can't hold it…I can't hold it…I can't…Oh fucking God!"
I couldn't open my mouth to tell him I'd already cum. My face was buried in the cot's single pillow, and I was weeping. Sobbing because it hurt. Sobbing because I was sore. Sobbing because I felt more nasty and dirty than I ever imagined I could feel in my life.
And sobbing because there was a pinnacle of pleasure that you can never really understand until you are there. And then all you can do is cry. Because it hurts. Because it robs you. Because all the clichés are dead-on-balls accurate. And all you want to do is remain in that moment of adrenaline and endorphins and sweat and tears and ecstasy and agony for as long as you can possibly hold on.
On top of me, Clint was doing that masculine "I'm not crying" thing where you pretend to sputter and suck in deep breaths all the while clearing your throat over and over. His whole body was wet and comforting and warm, shuddering with as much force as my own. But I knew he felt it too. It wasn't the sort of thing that can happen to one person while the other is oblivious.
We settled with my back against his front - his cum leaking out of my sore ass and his limp cock snuggled against my hip. I was exhausted and I wanted nothing more than to sleep.
"What do we do now, Clint?" I asked with a yawn. Worried as a brief flash of reality touched my mind.
"We sleep," he replied simply.
If I'd had the strength left, I'd have strangled him with my bare hands.
"No, you prick. I mean what do we do tomorrow?"
He chuckled lightly and pulled me tight. "Well, I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going to go kiss that music store owner smack on the mouth and thank him again for the amp."
I elbowed him in the ribs. "I'm not kidding, Clint."
"Christ you're a gloomy drunk, Dali," he sighed. "I'm not expecting a repeat performance every time you wander into the bar if that's what you're worried about," he assured me with a kiss behind my ear. "You don't want me to leave my wife and kids do you?"
"Fuck no!" I almost shouted.
He held back a rumble of laughter. "You could have deliberated that for a minute or two just out of kindness."
I smiled. It was indecent for him to be so casual. But it was also warm. I didn't feel like a whore. "Just so long as you're not expecting a repeat performance."
"I waited ten years to get you in the sack. I figure by the time I'm sixty I'll have just managed to gather up my energy and recover from tonight," he teased, his voice simmering with sleep.
"So much for the God of Thunder and rock and roll," I taunted quietly, bending my face into his neck as I began to nod off.
"Like you ever had a virgin soul."
"I Want You / She's So Heavy" by John Lennon and Paul McCartney
©1969 Apple [Capitol] Records, Abbey Road
"God of Thunder" by Paul Stanley
©1976 Casablanca Records, Destroyer
"Burnin' For You" by Donald Roeser and Richard Meltzer
©1981 B. O'Cult Songs, Inc., Fires of Unknown Origin
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