Track No. 12 Desperado #3
Yeah... he was lookin’ right at her. Because he was singin’ a fuckin’ love song. That’s the job. But one wrong move, and this could end with him in cuffs or watchin’ his back for months.
He slumps against the car, tryin’ to think fast, but then she’s on him, latchin’ onto his bad shoulder, fingers diggin’ in right where it screams.
Pain flares in him as she hauls him down, goin’ for a kiss. He grabs her and holds her back at a distance.
A heavy breath kicks outta her. “That it? You fuckin’ teasin’ me, Andrew?”
Tease? Shit, she wants him right here. Right now. In this garage.
And there ain’t no fantasy to offer.
Not when she’s already livin’ inside one.
And he’s past the stage of exhaustion when grown men cry. ‘Cause he knows he’s the reason it got this bad.
If he doesn’t give her what she wants, will she spin a rejection into sexual assault? It happens. A guy alone with a woman in the middle of the night in a parking garage? Who’ll the cops really believe? One hundred fuckin’ percent not him.
He checks the garage for cameras, his last shot at salvation.
But there ain’t any, and a breath escapes him broken, resigned, the fight leavin’ him all at once. Then he folds to his knees right there on the concrete. He fuckin’ surrenders, waitin’ for her to take whatever she came for.
“Yeah,” she smirks, “that’s what I fuckin’ thought.”
She throws her leg high on the bumper.
No panties, pussy hangin’ in his face.
He gives it the routine, then he goes cold, dark, and numb, head tipped back, mouth open, lettin’ her ride his tongue like it don’t belong to him no more. His body aches from holdin’ himself down—the real guy locked somewhere inside him.
The tired bastard.
The pissed-off bastard.
The one who wants to swing at her or scream loud enough to crack the concrete walls. Instead he keeps his head back, mouth wide, tongue slidin’ from hole to clit.
He’s gone. So gone that if she slit his throat open from ear to ear, he’d bleed out and never know it.
Instead, she uses his skull as a seat, fistin’ his head and fuckin’ his mouth faster.
He snaps his hands up to grab her, to take back an inch of control, remindin’ himself he ain’t some object she can grind to pieces.
Finally, her whole body locks up, then breaks open on him, legs shakin’ violently, the heel of her shoe scrapin’ across his bumper.
When the climax passes, her muscles unlock, and her cunt falls limp in his mouth.
He cleans her up, never wantin' 'em leavin’ sticky after, don’t want 'em havin’ to clean up a mess alone, carryin’ anything that could turn into shame between their thighs.
He’d rather swallow it down, consume it, leave no trace behind.
And in his head, he thinks—Christ, if I could do the same for me, lick myself clean, the guilt, the numb, the disgust, so I don’t carry it after every fuckin’ time.
When her foot finally leaves the bumper, he’s stuck there, frozen on his knees, chest heavin’, every muscle tight. At that moment, he could break knuckles on the concrete… or he could just break down cryin’.
He wipes his face, starin’ out into the night, holdin’ it all in.
And when he finally stands, it’s like he’s risin’ outta his own grave. A man on the edge of collapse who refuses to. He keeps his gaze nailed to the dark sky ‘cause he knows if he looks at her, he’ll wanna punch her, and it ain’t her fault.
And that ain’t who he is.
So he stares past her.
“You’re mine, Andrew.” But he hardly registers the words, hardly feels her lips brushin’ his jaw. “Don’t fuckin’ play. Just give it to me.”
She ain’t done.
Her hand lands on his zipper when his reflex snaps, and he smacks it off, breathin’ hard like somebody yanked him outta a nightmare.
But she still don’t quit and goes straight for his belt, snatchin’ him closer.
“What—so you’ll eat my cunt but you won’t fuck me?” She shakes her head, like this ain’t the end of the fantasy she wrote. She probably knows his rules, wants him breakin’ one for her. “You ain’t walkin’ away from this, baby. Not now.”
Yeah. He’s gonna have to fuck her.
Only way out’s through.
She needs an ending to her love story.
One that fucks like closure.
Then she’ll replay it, romanticize it, and let it go. Or at least, that’s what he’s hopin’. He don’t know anymore.
His heartbeat’s so faint he questions if it’s even there, if he’s just a walkin’ corpse, ‘cause he’s never felt this far removed from himself before, watchin’ this weak-ass Jersey boy standin’ there while her hand’s on his soft dick, cryin’ in his head about havin’ to have sex with her. Jesus.
Grindin’ down on his teeth, he grabs her, spins her, and shoves her face down into the trunk. He feels the thrill rip through her body, sees it in the way she hikes her skirt, back bent, ass pushin’ out, grindin’ like it’s supposed to make his dick hard.
“Yeah, baby… like that. C’mon, you know you been wantin’ this bad.”
His buckle rattles as his hand dives into his jeans, fistin’ his limp cock, jerkin’ himself awake.
With his other hand, he drives three fingers inside her.
Her cum coats his knuckles as he works himself, tryin’ to get it in the game, thinkin’ maybe if he strokes ‘em both good enough he’ll trick his dick into believin’ it wants this.
“Gimme your cock,” she whimpers, tearin’ off her shirt and bra while bouncin’ on his soaked knuckles. “I can’t take it anymore.”
He grits his teeth, pumping his dick rough ‘til he’s only half limp.
Then he rolls the rubber down fast, slams her chest down into the trunk, and forces himself inside, balls-deep before he goes soft again.
She moans, head hangin’ forward.
“Ohh, baby, that cock. That fuckin’ cock. So perfect…”
Behind her, he’s a zombie, dead-eyed, with two fingers rubbin’ her clit raw, while his cock punches into her, makin’ her choke on her own cries ‘til they split apart and echo back in the garage.
Her legs give out.
She’s shakin’, her drool streakin’ across the Civic’s chipped paint.
Whatever she’s sayin’ is all white noise—his ears hear nothin’ but a buzzin’, like they sealed themselves shut so he don’t gotta hear her moanin’.
“Shit—fuck—I’m comin’,” she moans and moans and growls.
He drives into her through the last waves.
Until she’s spent.
Until the shakes fade.
That’s it. That’s what she came for.
That’s the moment she’ll rewatch in her head and call it a fairy tale.
And he didn’t even let her see his face.
“You love me. I know you do,” she says, calm and delusional.
Everything in him stops, the words cutting into him.
The nerve to toss that word in his face to try and take that from him too.
He yanks out, fist ballin’ to keep from explodin’.
He strips the empty rubber off and stuffs it into his pocket.
He didn’t come—never does—but he ain’t leavin’ it behind for her to keep like some fucked-up trophy. It happened once. Blew his fuckin’ mind.
He opens the car door, snags a jacket off the backseat, locks back up, and wipes himself down with the sleeve, then her thighs. Next, he’s yankin’ her skirt down ‘cause she ain’t movin’ fast enough.
She’s slumped across his trunk, arms stretched wide, not movin’, like his dick nailed her there.
“That do it for you?” he mutters through his teeth. She’s pantin’ with her cheek smashed to his Civic, heart floatin’ somewhere he’ll never follow. “Stay here. Breathe for a sec. I’ll grab us water. Two minutes. Don’t move.”
She nods, all floaty with a dazed grin.
He checks the pockets of the jacket, then chucks it into the trash before walkin’ out of the garage, leavin’ his car behind without botherin’ to look back.
Then he fades into the dark, the end of the night feelin’ like a curtain call.
Spotlight dims.
Audience fades.
Show’s finally over.
Soon as he reaches the first alley on his right, he ducks in.
His fist hits the brick.
Then he collapses into it.
‘Duckin’ me?…’
‘Don’t care what kinda shape you’re in.’
‘you’re full of shit, gettin’ off on bein’ a fuckin’ tease…’
‘Everyone knows who you are, what you do…’
‘…say I’m yours,’
‘say I’m all you think about.’
His knuckles bleed warm, then cool fast. The skin around ‘em burns, but he don’t feel the pain. His shoulders sag, breath rippin’ ragged outta his chest, all of it pourin’ now that there’s nobody watchin’.
And his whole body shakes, finally done pretendin’ for the night. Everybody’s best time, and nobody’s real thing.
And when the lights go out, when he’s left standin’ there at the end, he’s just Andrew—hands reekin’ of guitar strings, sex, and pussy.
Alone.
Completely and always so fuckin’ alone.