"Come on," is all he says. There were words earlier, when we were sober, but those words were politely fake whereas these two, these two words are real.
He pushes me out with his hands resting on the backs of my hipbones, his thumbs sliding up and down the V that leads to my tailbone, under my shirt, down the waistband of my jeans. Every time we have to stop and wait for a path to clear through the bar he presses against me. But if I try to move my hips against his he pushes me forward, firm and impatient.
The night outside could be embarassing, but he doesn't give it the opportunity. As we fade into the darkness that circles the bar, he adjusts me so I am at his side, his left hand guilessly working its way up my stomach, down the back of my pants, but always guiding me rapidly forward. Suddenly we veer off and we're in an alley.
He presses me into a doorway, face up against one side looking toward the street, and lifts my arms above my head. He's not coy about it, he goes right to my fly and pushes my pants and my underwear down around my knees. He reaches one hand between my legs and the other disappears as I hear him unzip. It doesn't even occur to me to be terrified, or ashamed. He got me into this and, if need be, he'll get me out. I can't be expected to help what my body wants. He knows that. He may have me half naked, up against a wall, but isn't he kind of a gentleman for giving it to me without my needing to ask?
The tip of his erection taps my ass and thighs as he positions me, tilting my hips back so he can slide in. I have to bend over, but when it's in he pulls me back up, not even bothering to undo my bra, just pushing it up above my breasts. I'm nervously aware of a sliver of illumination to my left, just touching my thigh, my hip, my stomach, and now my exposed left breast. It's like he wants me spotlighted, enjoys the position he's put me in. He pulls me back against him, taking all our combined weight on his thighs so he can press fully against me.
He whispers jagged commands in my ear as he fucks me, and any other man I'd refuse, but I find myself stroking his balls, guiding his fingers, whatever he asks. It's surrender. He tells me to come and I do, just like that. It's not my system, but his system works. I have three little orgasms, two big ones. He has two and they drip down the insides of my thighs. I'm not even bothered by it.
Finally we rearrange our clothes well enough to get back to his car. He drives me to his place. We don't collapse into sleep, we do it again. And again the next morning, when he wakes me with his hardon already probing for any orifice at all. While he's in the shower I get my things and slip out.
I don't call him and I don't feel guilty about it. He took what he wanted, used me up, was cocky enough to be certain I wanted it, too. He was right, and it wouldn't be as good if I asked for it. We're done with each other unless fate sets us up like that again.
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