I WANT the Bartender Explicit Erotica #6
Linda sat on the edge and watched Marc drop the towel.
In this light the tattoos on his cock were unmistakable, a dark living thing wrapped around the thick shaft, leaves and thorns following the pulse she could see in the vein.
She reached out and traced one thorn with a fingernail. He twitched.
“On your back,” he said. “Knees up. I want to look at that pussy while I put it in.”
Linda lay back on her own expensive sheets.
The cotton was cool for one second. Then he was over her, dripping a little from his hair onto her tits, lining the tattooed head up with her entrance.
He pushed in slow enough that she felt every inch of inked ridge, every difference from a bare cock, until his balls pressed against her and she was full in a way the car had only approximated.
He did not move yet.
“Look,” he said.
She looked down the length of her body. The base of him, black with thorns, stretched her open. Her clit sat swollen above the place they joined. The sight pulled a sound out of her that had no words attached.
Marc braced on his fists and started to fuck her in long, deep strokes that used the whole bed.
The first dozen strokes were almost civilized.
Almost. Marc kept his weight on his arms and dragged his cock out to the tattooed head before sinking back in, slow enough that Linda felt the thorns catch and release inside her.
The wet sound of it was different on cotton than it had been on leather.
Softer. Wetter. She planted her feet and lifted to meet him and the change in angle made her mouth fall open.
“That’s the spot,” he said. “I felt it grab. Do it again.”
She did. Her pussy clenched on the inked shaft on purpose and he swore through his teeth.
Still no break in the rhythm. 26 years old and fucking her like he had hours, like the three times in the car and the kitchen and the shower had been a warm-up.
Sweat started at his hairline and ran down the bird on his chest, dripping onto her sternum.
She smeared it with her palm and left a shiny print over his heart.
He hooked one of her knees over his elbow and folded her open.
Deeper. The head of him knocked something that sent a bright line of sensation up her spine.
Linda grabbed the pillow behind her head and held on.
The slap of his hips against her ass filled the room.
City light moved across the ceiling when a cloud passed.
She watched it because looking at his face while he did this felt like handing him something she had not agreed to hand over yet.
“Eyes,” Marc said.
She gave them to him. His were dark, focused, a little mean with the effort of holding back. He fucked her harder once he had her looking, short brutal thrusts that made her tits bounce and her breath punch out in broken counts.
“This is what you were thinking about on that stool,” he said. “Every time I leaned in for the well. You sat there in those slacks getting wet for a man who pours drinks, and now you’ve got his cock stretching this expensive cunt in your expensive bed. Say it.”
“I thought about it.” Her voice did not sound like the woman who ordered bourbon. “I thought about your hands. Then I thought about this. I sat there with my thighs tight hoping you could not tell.”
“I could tell.” He ground in and stayed, circling his hips so the base of him crushed her clit. “You bit your cheek. You shifted on the wood. I went home with a hard-on and a towel that smelled like citrus and I thought about putting you on my bar.”
The image wrecked her. She came around him with a sharp cry, pulsing, soaking the sheet under her ass. He rode her through it without slowing, the wetness making every stroke louder, sloppier. When the shaking eased he pulled out.
The loss made her whine. His cock stood over her stomach, dripping her own cream down the thorn tattoos, the head almost purple.
“Hands and knees. Face the window.”
Linda rolled. Her arms felt unreliable. She presented herself on her own white linen and looked at the grid of other apartments, most of them dark.
Marc knelt up behind her, palmed both cheeks, and pushed back in on a single thrust that shoved her toward the headboard.
She caught herself on her forearms. This angle dragged the ink along the front wall of her pussy with every stroke.
She could feel the pattern. She would have sworn she could draw it from the inside.
He gathered her hair in one fist and used it. Not cruel. Direct. The other hand reached under and found her clit, two fingers bracketing it so each thrust rubbed her on his hand. The dual pressure built too fast. She tried to tell him and only got his name.
“I know.” His voice was frayed now, the first real crack. “Give it to me anyway. I want this sheet ruined. I want you dripping down my balls while I look at the same city you look at when you cannot sleep.”
She came again, messier, a flood that ran down her thighs and onto him.
Her arms gave out. Her cheek hit the pillow.
Marc followed her down without pulling out, covering her back, still thrusting in shallow rolls that kept her fluttering.
His mouth was at her ear. The heat of him was everywhere, chest to ass, the sweat between them turning the ink slick against her spine.
“Not done,” he said. “On your side.”
They shifted in a tangle. He hooked her top knee high and entered her from behind that way, spooned, one arm under her neck, the other hand on her tit, pinching the nipple in time with his hips.
Slower. Deeper. She could see their reflection in the dark glass: her mouth open, his inked forearm across her chest, the flex of his ass as he worked.
The sight was worse than the talk. She reached back and grabbed his ass to pull him in tighter.
“You last too long,” she said, wrecked.
“You complained in the car when I almost didn’t. Pick one.”
She laughed, helpless, and the laugh turned into a moan when he changed the angle by half an inch.
His fingers left her breast and went back to her clit, gentler now, because she was raw and he had noticed.
The gentleness was what did it. She came a smaller, shaking time with his name in the pillow and her nails in his thigh.
Marc pulled out again. He was shaking too. A fine tremor in the muscles over his hips. His cock looked painful, the tattoos stretched dark, a thick drop hanging from the slit and falling onto her hip.
He flipped her onto her back with none of the care he had used in the shower. Climbed over her. Put the head back at her entrance and stopped.
“I can feel how close I am,” he said. “I have been close since you put your mouth on the ink in that garage. I am going to fuck you until the sun starts and then I am going to cum where you can watch it hit the tattoos you keep staring at. Unless you tell me inside.
You have about ten seconds to decide before I stop being polite about it.”
Linda looked at the tattooed cock notched against her swollen pussy, at the man who had poured her drinks and remembered her floor and still had not spent, and hooked her heels around his ass.
“Inside,” she said. “I want to feel it. I want it leaking out of me when I walk back into that bar.”
Marc’s control cracked down the middle. He slammed in to the base and started fucking her like the night had finally run out of patience.
Marc stopped being careful.
The strokes lost their measured count and became a driving rhythm that shoved Linda up the bed until her hair caught under her own shoulder.
She did not care. She locked her ankles at the small of his back and took it, the tattooed thickness punching into her over and over, wet enough now that the sound was a filthy continuous slap.
His mouth found hers and the kiss was all teeth and shared air.
She tasted her own cunt on his tongue and the mint that had started the night.
“Look at it,” he rasped, pushing up on his arms so she had a clear line down their bodies.
She looked. His cock pistoned in and out of her, the black thorns appearing and disappearing, glossy with her. Her clit was a swollen peak above the stretch. The sight and the drag together ripped another orgasm out of her with no buildup left, just a sudden hard clamp that made him shout.
That was the thing that broke him.
Marc buried himself to the hilt and came with a groan that sounded dragged out of his chest.
She felt it. Hot pulses against her cervix, thick, more than she expected from a man who had held off for hours.
His cock kicked inside her again and again, pumping cum into her while his forehead dropped to hers and his whole body shook.
She held him through it, nails in the wet ink on his shoulders, pussy milking every spurt like it could keep him there.
He stayed planted, breathing like he had run the fourteen flights. A last weak throb. Then the heat of it started to register as a fullness that would leak the second he moved.
“Fuck,” he said into her mouth. “Linda.”
Just her name. No joke attached.
He pulled out slow. The rush of cum that followed made her hiss.
She felt it slide out of her and onto the sheet in a warm smear.
Marc sat back on his heels and looked at the mess he had made of her: pussy swollen and open, white dripping from her entrance, thighs shining, the expensive linen already doomed.
His cock hung heavy, still half hard, the tattoos wet with both of them, a thread of cum connecting the slit to her inner thigh until it broke.
Dawn had started without them noticing. A thin gray line under the orange city glow. The room smelled like sex and her diffuser fighting a losing war.
Linda did not close her legs. She reached down and dragged two fingers through the leak, then held them up. Marc caught her wrist and sucked her fingers clean, eyes on hers. The gesture was obscene and oddly careful.
“Still here,” she said, echoing him from the garage without meaning to.
“Still here.” He dropped beside her on the wrecked half of the bed, close enough that their sweat mixed. One arm stayed across her stomach like he had not decided whether he was allowed to hold her yet. “You meant that. About walking into the bar with it leaking.”