Another chapter in the La Petite Mort series of stories. Just like chapter one, there's no excuses for this fiction. It's driven by narcotics, pent up desires, and the delicious sounds of Portishead. I recommend "Scorn" as your musical choice while indulging in this lemony sexual exchange. Let me know your temperature after reading. More to come in the near future, keep your eyes open.
"Strangers"
Have you ever wanted something so badly, that you were willing to explore a part of yourself that had been trapped, caged, forbidden, and tucked away inside?
The door snaps open and so do my eyes, nostrils flare, and my serpentine tongue parts past parched lips to taste the air.
I see her, she does not see me and as I slink into the corner of the desolate gas station, hidden behind rows of fattening confection, my hungry eyes observe every curve of her perfect, little body.
A short, black dress, and it's doing her such justice. The way in which her long, blonde hair slides ever so deliciously down her spine is especially enticing.
The whisky bottle shakes in my hand. I've seen her before. I've masturbated to the thought of her… I twist the top of the bottle, take a healthy swig, and pull the hood of my black jacket over my head.
She talks (flirts) with the attendant behind the counter, a twig of a kid. He fumbles for a bag and precariously shoves her items inside.
My eyes dart from her to the door, to her, and fuck… She's onto me, staring from between aisles. Crimson twins, they dig into me. It's like an arrow between my thighs, a concentrated pang of dangerous excitement twisting into my depths.
Can she see it? I advert my gaze and make for the glass double doors. The tension as I pass is like the air before a storm – thick.
Cool air presses into my face as I escape outside to the front of the station. My hand seeks out a pack of smokes. The first drag brings instant relief. Rain drips off the overhang. I can hear each drop, feel each impact, and shakily I take another drag.
The door swings open behind me. My eyes scan the ground, and I see a shadow cast by the dim streetlamps. A hint of perfume wafts on the breeze.
My chest constricts, pupils dilate, and I can feel the buzz creeping into them. I glance to my Ducati, it's only steps away, I could leave, I could ignore the craving, but the wolf wants what it wants.
Slow, calculated, I release a breath and straighten upright. The cigarette hangs loosely from the corner of my mouth as I look over in her direction. She's checking her phone, either unaware, or pretending that I'm not watching her.
Between my fingers, I take the cigarette and flick it away. It lands at the edge of her boot; she has no choice but to look at me. A smile creeps across my lips and I back away, stopping briefly at the edge of the building before disappearing into the darkness.
On the back wall, I lie in wait. A streetlamp flickers menacingly, casting awkward shadows on the slick asphalt. Then I hear it. The click, click, clicking of her thigh high leather boots – Gods, prey can never help but seek out the danger.
I lift my head and catch her gaze. It's something between curiosity and worry, such an addicting look, a victim right before they're taken.
Impulsive actions lead me toe to toe with her. I reach out. She flinches like a startled rabbit but my hands around her wrists prevent her escape. Her body falls back against mine in struggle. Her plump ass grinds against my pelvis and that familiar throb in my core makes itself known.
The bag of purchased goodies hits the ground, bottles shatter, liquid sprays the cuffs of my jeans. She inhales for a scream but it's strangled as my hand clamps over her mouth. The gasps against my flesh are hot, irregular, strained.
Forcefully, I drag her to the back of the building. Her boots scrape against the wet ground. A space between the dumpster and that flickering streetlamp conceals the both of us and I am on her in an instant, pressing her against the wet, sour wall.
She grunts, pushes back against me, a feisty attempt indeed, but she is no match. My right thigh forces hers apart and I grind upward. Those delectable moans, they're making me so god damn delirious. My weight keeps her in place, freeing my hands.
Fingers wrap in her mane, jerk her head back, expose her throbbing jugular. It thuds underneath a thin veil of milky skin, and my canines dig in, savoring the taste of her. She lets out a ragged "Mmrph", and grasps the back of my head.
Hands grab, pull, and rip at the dress, shoving the lower portion up over her hips. A sharp inhale and my eyes narrow. Red. Fucking. Lace. I stumble backward, mesmerized. She's turning now, facing me head-on; finger in between her teeth like some innocent darling. Her eyes shimmer in the unsteady light, transfixing me in ways that make my thighs press tightly together.
Eyes darken, pulse quickens, I approach but this time she makes no attempt to run. A dare. She stares me down, eyes like iron, audaciously beckoning me onward. My insides tingle. We press into one another, a perfect fit, like two equally filthy puzzle pieces.
I slither my hand down the front of those panties, spread her open and seek out the source. Her hands grip my hips, nails dragging against the rough fabric of my jeans. Hips jerk, thighs spread with each thrust of my eager digits, she's panting, gasping, grinding, and I am dying.
Leaning into her, I slurp and suck on her throat, bite down the edge of that protruding collarbone, lips languidly carving a path to her covered nipples which I devour one at a time until they strain tortuously against the inside of that dress. She likes my teeth, and I oblige with teasing bites to those tender buds.
Harder, more sincere, my thrusts become and her body squirms under the invasion of her sacredness, relinquishing its yearning, coating my fingers and her inner thighs with delicious nectar. She trembles against me. Her breath tickles my ear; her hands slide the hood from my head and run through my hair. She pushes, jerks, stabs her hips forward, drives her sex into my palm, silent pleading…
I extricate myself from her, she whimpers, we lock eyes once more. Her eyes are two vermilion pools of desire, and those half-parted lips of poison are poised to perfectly capture my demise on this night.
"Fuck me." She says in that throaty, sensual way. "Fuck…"
My hands are around her throat, forcing a strangled cry from between those parted lips. One hand moves to her shoulder, the other to the back of her head. She pushes against me but I spin her stomach first against the wall. My weight is like steel against her.
The hand on her shoulder snakes down, slips between her thighs slides those lace panties aside and stokes the fire. Her palms press into the slick wall, hips push her ass back against me. Her cries are muffled by my mouth on hers, eating each breathy release, downing her submission like wine.
Nails scrape against the concrete wall; I press her face harder into it. She sighs deep and long as my fingers invade her depths, seeking out the sacred elixir she's trying so desperately to deny me.
Ravenous, a beast she's made me, maddened by her wiles, tempted by her sins, I have to devour her. I have to drink her in. Deeper, I drive her, closer; I bring her, right to the edge, right to the precipice.
She's shaking, biting at my wrist, sucking at my veins, her teeth snapping through the delicate skin and spilling my blood into her hungry mouth. She laps, suckles, cries out with red dripping down her chin and succumbs to my insistent coaxing; her body an ocean of shuddering waves crashing against me.
Depleted, her body lies limp against the building; nothing but ragged breaths breaking the silence that surrounds us. Hands slide down the wall, press into my thighs, and squeeze tenderly. Hips roll in slow motions, riding out the last pleasurable undulations. Carefully, expertly, my fingers slip from within her warm confines. Her moan lingers in the air like a siren call and she slumps back against me.
Arms wrap protectively around her, one hand lifting to massage her scalp. She purrs, my momentarily content little creature. My lips loiter on her neck; sporadic kisses here and there.
"You had to wear the red lace…"
"They're your favorite." She replies sleepily.
She knows me so well, my little puzzle piece.