I WANT the Bartender Explicit Erotica #4
Linda’s remaining heel caught the seatback.
Marc’s jeans trapped his thighs and he cursed, shoved them to his knees, then gave up and left them there.
The back seat became a narrow wreck of limbs and heat.
She ended up astride him, knees bracketing his hips, blouse still on and shoved to her collarbones.
His bare chest was a map under her palms.
The bird over his pec flexed when he breathed.
His cock stood between them, tattooed and slick from her mouth and her cunt. She wrapped her fist around it and dragged the head through her folds, painting the thorns with fresh wet. The contact made her hips stutter.
“In,” she said.
Marc gripped her ass with both hands, fingers digging into the give of it, and pulled her down as he pushed up.
The first inch stretched her in a burn that pulled a sound out of her she did not recognize.
Thick. The raised ink on his shaft dragged along her inner walls in a way smooth skin never had, a faint ridge she could feel when she bottomed out.
She sat on him fully and had to drop her forehead to his shoulder to breathe.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he said against her hair. “Been clenched on that stool for months thinking about this?”
“Yes.” No point lying with him buried in her. “Move.”
He did. Short thrusts at first because the roof was right there and her knees had nowhere to go.
The leather squeaked. Her tits bounced against his inked chest, nipples dragging over the bird and the script.
Every downward grind smeared her clit on the hard plane of his stomach.
She was still sensitive from his mouth. It bordered on too much and she chased it anyway.
A pair of headlights swept the far lane.
They both froze, his cock pulsing inside her, her pussy fluttering around the tattooed stretch.
Voices. Two men talking about a game, footsteps slapping concrete, coming closer.
Linda’s heart slammed. Marc’s hands on her ass tightened, holding her down on him, keeping them locked together and still.
The footsteps passed the trunk. A laugh. A car door two spaces over. An engine. They waited through the whole ugly minute with him throbbing inside her and her thighs shaking from the effort of not riding him.
When the other car pulled away, Marc exhaled against her throat.
“Quiet,” he said. “They come back, you keep my cock in this cunt and you don’t make a sound.”
The order landed low. She nodded against his skin.
He started moving again, slower, deeper, the wet noise of it obscene now that they were trying to hide it.
She bit his shoulder to stay silent and tasted salt and ink.
His fingers slid inward from her ass, spreading her so he could grind up into that spot that made her vision white out at the edges.
Linda came on a muffled gasp, face buried in his neck, pussy gripping him in hard pulls. He groaned like it hurt him not to follow her over. His cock stayed steel. 26 and stubborn about it. She wanted to hate the control and instead it made her clench again.
“Off,” he muttered. “Turn around. Hands on the window.”
She lifted off him with a slick sound that made her face heat.
His cock slapped wet against his stomach, tattoos shining, the head dark and leaking.
She turned on unsteady knees, presented her ass, and braced both palms on the cool glass.
The garage beyond was empty orange and shadow.
If anyone walked the lane now they would see the shape of a woman and not the details. That was enough and not enough.
Marc got behind her as well as the seat allowed, one foot on the floorboard, and lined up.
He pushed in on a single slow stroke that forced the air out of her.
This angle hit different. Deeper. She watched her own open-mouthed reflection in the tinted glass and did not recognize the woman staring back.
He fucked her like that, measured, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to find her clit again.
His chest branded her back with heat and sweat.
Every thrust made her tits swing and her breath fog a small circle on the window.
The wet slap of skin on skin filled the car.
She could smell them now, sex and leather and the ghost of bourbon on her own tongue.
“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked but still even. “Luxury car, expensive blouse, taking bartender cock like you were built for it. This pussy is soaking my balls. You feel that?”
She did. His balls, tight and drawn up, slapped against her with each stroke. She pushed back to meet him and the change in depth punched a moan out of her she only half swallowed.
Footsteps again. Lighter. A woman talking on a phone, heels, passing the front of the row this time.
Linda went rigid. Marc did not stop completely.
He shortened the stroke to a filthy grind, cock buried, circling his hips so the head rubbed that swollen place inside her while his fingers kept a lazy circle on her clit.
The woman outside laughed at something on her call.
Linda came again with her teeth in her own wrist, shaking, dripping down her thighs onto his jeans.
The heels receded. Marc’s forehead dropped between her shoulder blades.
“Still here,” he said, and she did not know if he meant the stranger or himself.
He pulled out. The loss made her whimper.
He sat back against the seat, cock standing red and tattooed and glistening with her, and dragged her into his lap facing him this time.
She sank down and they both hissed. Face to face.
His eyes were blown dark. She could see the strain in his neck, the way he swallowed.
“You’re not going to cum,” she said, not a question.
“Not in this car. Not yet.” His hands framed her jaw. “I want the lights on when I do. I want you to see every inch of ink when I fill you. Ride me until you can’t. Then we drive.”
Linda rolled her hips. The tattoos on his shaft dragged inside her again, that faint textured pull.
She used his shoulders and the headrest and fucked herself on him in small desperate circles.
Sweat slid between her breasts. His mouth found one nipple through the open blouse and sucked hard enough to sting.
She came a third time weaker, oversensitive, clinging to him, her cunt rippling around a cock that still would not give up.
Marc’s breath sawed. His abs stood out in rigid lines under the bird tattoo. He was close enough that she felt the warning twitch, and he lifted her off him with a curse, fist wrapping the base of his own cock, squeezing, denying it.
“Apartment,” he said. “Now. Or I am going to ruin the leather and I do not care.”
Linda’s legs barely worked. She found her slacks, did not bother with the underwear, dragged the fabric up over wet thighs. He yanked his jeans up over that angry tattooed cock and hissed at the contact. Her hands shook on the fob. She climbed into the front like a woman leaving a crime scene.
He got in the passenger side because there was no version of this where she let him drive her car with his cock that hard. The interior still smelled like her pussy. She started the engine. The dash lights painted his throat, the ink, the wet shine still on his mouth.
“Fourteenth floor,” she said.
“I remember.”
She pulled out of the space with her slacks undone and her pulse between her legs. Two blocks had never been so long.
Linda kept both hands on the wheel for the first half block because the alternative was putting one of them where it wanted to go.
The city at this hour was all sodium light and empty lanes.
Her slacks were fastened on a single button.
The silk lining clung to her cunt with every shift of her hips.
She could feel how used she already was, swollen, slick, a dull sweet ache from taking him in a space too small for it.
Marc sat in the passenger seat like a man trying not to breathe too deep. Jeans open. He had given up on the zipper. His cock rested against his stomach, still wet from her, the thorn tattoos glossy under the dash glow. A muscle ticked in his jaw each time the car hit a seam in the asphalt.
“Hand,” he said.
She glanced over. “I’m driving.”
“One hand is plenty. You managed a bourbon and a conversation for months. You can manage this.”
Linda dropped her right hand off the wheel and wrapped it around him.
He was hotter than the vents. The inked skin dragged under her palm, that slight raised pattern she could now identify with her eyes closed.
She stroked once, root to slit, and he made a sound that had no business in a moving vehicle.
“Keep it loose,” he said. “I mean it. You tighten up and I will cum on your console and then I will still fuck you upstairs. I would rather not split the difference.”
She kept it loose. Barely a hold. Her thumb smeared the bead at the head and brought it down the shaft so the tattoos shone.
The smell of her own pussy filled the cabin, mixed with his skin and the leftover leather.
She should have been embarrassed. She was 34, crossing downtown with a bartender’s cock in her fist and her own wetness cooling on her inner thighs.
The embarrassment never arrived. Heat did.
“Talk,” she said. “If we sit in silence I am going to do something illegal at a red light.”
Marc’s head tipped back against the rest. “You always this bossy after you cum three times in a parked car?”
“Yes. You always this controlled with a fist on your cock?”
“When the fist belongs to the woman I have watched drink the same pour for three months, yes.”
He looked at her profile. “You bite the inside of your cheek when you are thinking about saying something filthy. You did it tonight when I set the olives down. You did it the first night you stayed past eleven.”
Linda’s grip twitched. He hissed and she loosened again. “You catalogued my mouth.”
“I catalogued all of it. The way you cross your legs when I lean in. The way you look at my neck like you want to put your teeth there. I closed the bar thinking about that look more nights than I am going to admit while you are holding my dick.”
A light went yellow. She braked smoother than her pulse.
Her hand stayed on him through the stop, a slow lazy stroke that made his abs jump under the bird tattoo.
A couple crossed in front of the hood, late, laughing, oblivious.