Strings (4 page)

I’m grateful I can’t see his eyes. If I
could, he might change my mind. I push him off and wiggle out from
under him. I can’t suppress the sigh that sneaks out when his cock
slides free.

“
Play with yourself,” I
tell him. “And get that condom off.”

The rubber snaps and drops to the carpet. I
watch him jerking off as the strap-on and I get cocked and loaded.
It takes me a minute to figure out how to put the thing on. I’ve
never worn a strap-on before, but it’s…empowering. I heft the
weight of the flesh-colored love thumper, rub the flat inside
behind the fake balls against my throbbing clit, and stroke it as
if it’s an extension of myself. Yeah, I’m digging this whole
womancock thing. I shake it threateningly at him. “On your
knees.”

He assumes the position, ass up. Shooting a
pleased, knowing grin over his shoulder at me, he somehow manages
to make his impending humiliation hotter than—

Holy motherfucking shit,
look at that tattoo!
Jeees
-us
Christ
-o. An inked black skeleton
adorns his entire backside—neck to ankles—each line corresponding
to the actual bones beneath the skin. I swallow hard. It’s the most
beautiful body art I’ve ever seen.

I’m
so
gonna fuck this guy
stupid.

I squirt some more lube on this mighty cock
of mine and press it against his hole before he changes his mind.
Not even a flinch out of him. Gawd. Damn.

I push the head of my sili-dick past the
barrier. He barely tenses. I pause and reach around to stroke him,
imagining how tight he must be. For a second, I wish I had a real
schlong so I could experience how it feels from the giving end of
the cock.

Knowing how bad it can hurt if you’re not
used to the pleasure-pain of anal, I pull back to give him a quick
rest and douse us both with more lube. One can never have too much
when anal is involved. I enter him again, nice and slow. After a
few beats, he relaxes into me. Such trust. I love this.

With an index finger, I trace the lines of
both his spines. A series of notes swims through my head. I fuck
him to the tune. He matches my slow rhythm.

I speed it up. Just a little.

He’s still with me. Oh my God.

I fumble for his dick and pump it in time
with our song.

“
My balls are about to
fucking explode.” His gruff voice smooths into waves of erotic
bliss.

“
You’ll come when I tell
you to.”

“
I’ll come when I damn
well feel like it.”

Just for that, I thrust a little harder.

His pleasure-drenched grunts get louder and
faster. I press my tits into his back, lick the scapula tattoo, and
pump his ass full of me, all the while jerking him off. “You enjoy
being fucked like a whore, Shades?”

He rears up, a surprise
explosion of muscle and power and menace. For a second, I expect
him to throw me off, but he doesn’t. “We both know who’s fucking
who.” Abrasive grit peppers the truth of his words. There’s no fear
or shame hiding below the surface. Shades
likes
this.

The tables turn. I suddenly feel a little
used. And it’s kinda hot.

Heat races to my head,
addles my brain. I toss my arms around his neck and hold on for
dear life like a jockey riding a bucking bronco. By God, I
will
tame this
horse.

My chin rests on his back
as I thrust and stroke. His jaw clenches, but the rest of his face
is loose with condescension. Cock jutting, stabbing the air through
my small hand, he growls—actually
growls
. The power struggle between
us is both maddening and addictive.

I stretch and secure a more dominant
position higher up his spine. I lick the edge of his ear, pump the
head of his cock, and hump him like a horny dog. “You wanna come,
don’t you?”

“
You want to more.” His
hips take over, and I no longer need to thrust. Now he’s driving
this train. My breath races. His muscles twist. “Do it, Lucky. Come
for me. Now.”

The smooth mastery in his
voice forces my hand. I can’t hold on any longer. This guy
owns
me, and he knows
it.

Not fair. I don’t want to
give up first. I want him to submit to
me
—

Tough shit.

My clit succumbs to the pressure of the
rubbing dildo, his slick pre-cum coating my fingers, and the
seductive bass line playing in my head.

Scales tip. Reality wobbles. Tequila
rules.

The orgasm rocks me from tits to stern,
inside and out. Yowls burst out of my mouth like the banshee cry I
utter on stage when the music really moves me.

Riding me hard, he wears a triumphant,
shit-eating grin as he ushers my orgasm to conclusion. He’s an evil
mastermind who orchestrated the whole torrid affair, and I’m the
naïve plaything who fell right into his trap.

I may have lost the battle, but I’m not
going down easily.

“
Your turn.” My voice is
like used sandpaper. Sated, but not conquered. I put some elbow
grease into jerking him off and cover the head of his cock with my
hand. He reaches backward, clamps his thick, straining arms around
my thighs.

The bastard smiles.

Hot jizz shoots like a busted fire hydrant
into the cup of my palm. I imagine filling his ass with the same
and fuck him harder through his orgasm.

When the last of his ejac evacs and my knees
quit shaking, I lay my cheek on his wiry shoulder.

He put on an ovation-worthy performance, but
I can’t have him upstage me. The final power play is mine.

I bring my hand to my mouth, open wide, and
swirl my tongue through his cream, sucking down every last drop.
His salty cum erupts my taste buds. I savor his flavor, commit it
to memory, and swallow.

He lifts an appreciative brow. “Happy
birthday, pussycat.” Laughing, he collapses face down on the
carpet, pants bunched around his ankles, my dick impaling him. Not
a speck of modesty anywhere on the guy.

Jesus Mahalia Christ.

The swirl of tequila, cum, and dopamine
grabs me by the hair, pulls me under, and drowns me. I snatch a
deep, full breath and pass out on his back.

Up, Down, and All
Around

Buzz…clunk…buzz…

Yeah, I’m buzzed.

Buzz…buzz…clunk…

What the fuck is that?

Buzz…buzz…buzz…

Shit. Phone?

I lift my head from a warm puddle of drool
inching across a black and tanned image.

Hey, that looks like something from my high
school biology textbook. Vertebrae?

Hey, there’s a live body under me. Why am
I…?

I push up slowly.

Hey, I have a cock. And it’s up a dude’s
ass.

Whoa.

I look around the fancy hotel suite. Shove
red tangles out of my eyes. Wipe the cum and tequila-tinged saliva
from the corner of my mouth. My head pounds with a swirl of
morning-after regrets. What the fuck did I get up to last night? I
mean, besides this guy’s ass? And how do I free myself from this
hot little medieval torture contraption strapped to my loins?

The man lying face down, impaled by my
silicone love torpedo seems to be asleep, but it’s hard to tell
through the dark glasses he wears. His trim, muscled body displays
a full-length tattoo of a human skeleton. The details and shading
are fucking amazing. I slide my fingers over his scapula, and
memories jolt to life.

Birthday drinks. Adult toy store.
Shades.

Shades.

He makes a little sleepy
sigh—the one hint of vulnerability he’s relinquished since I met
him—and my cooter juices like Pavlov’s fucking dog. Christ,
I
cannot
be here
when he wakes up. Just can’t.

No clue how the hell I got these straps
buckled in the state I was in last night, but I did a damn fine
job. So fine that I have to fiddle with the fuckers for a couple of
minutes before I can shake the gear loose. Despite my efforts to
leave the cock engaged, it slips out. Somehow, he sleeps through my
jostling. He must’ve been as wasted as I was.

Gingerly crawling off his splayed form, I
take a wistful look at the scene of my crimes, and my gut churns. A
used but empty condom, along with eleven unopened packets pepper
the carpet around him. Drained tequila bottle. A crusty towel. Torn
brown bag barfing up assorted sex-toy packaging.

And
him
.

Sigh.

Hottest. Sex. Ever.

And for me to remember it
that way, I have to leave. I’ve learned through trial and a lot of
error that wanting is far more fulfilling in the long run than
having, no matter how many times the “access denied” screen stabs
you in the neurons when the instant replay kicks in. I look at each
one-night stand as a
Veni, vidi,
vici
deal. I get to keep the details of
amazing sex logged in my memory banks. History gets to keep the
unwanted emotional baggage those memories like to travel
with.

Much as I’d love to give the walk-in shower
a whirl, I’ll have to bathe at home. I stand and wriggle into my
jeans with lightning speed. As I reach for my shirt, a black square
of leather catches my attention. His wallet. Open on the floor
fifteen feet away, flashing his driver’s license, which I can’t see
clearly from here. His life’s story—condensed to a series of
numbers, dates, and goddamn it, a picture of him without the
shades—is within my grasp if I take six steps forward. Right there.
I stare for a full minute at the white plastic card calling my
name.

I turn back to Shades,
sprawled on the floor. He took me places I didn’t even know
existed
last night.
Imagine where else we could go now that we got violating his
bunghole out of the way…

Funny thing is, despite what I did to him,
he wasn’t submissive in the least. He was in total control, and we
both knew it.

My pussy aches for round two.

I
did
promise to return the favor on
his birthday. I always keep my promises.

Maybe I should leave my number or email
address…

No strings attached, Letty.

Forced apathy fills my heart and hardens the
muscle into steel. Pressing my lips together, I turn away from
Shades to keep from caving. I grab my shit and walk out the door,
leaving behind the best dicking—physical and mental—that’s ever
happened to me.

The elevator ride down is uneventful. I
stride to the sliding doors in the lobby and rush into the cold
brightness. Thank God we returned to downtown after last night’s
trip to the toy store on the West Side. The hotel is only a few
blocks away from where I’d parked before hitting the bar.

A hot shower and breakfast, and I’ll forget
about the hook-up by lunch. And if that fails, there’s always work
tonight to throw me off Shades’s track by putting me in a royally
foul mood. Slinging barbeque for fat rednecks with accents so
thick, they sound like they’re speaking another fucking language is
so inspiring. Jesus. Just thinking about work sets off my pretend
angina.

I chose angina as my medical condition for
calling-in-sick purposes because it sounds like vagina.

Clunk…buzz…buzz…

Damn it, who’s calling me at—I whip out my
raggedy-ass phone and check the time. Goddamn. Eleven thirty
already?

“
Hello.” I head down
Clayton Street toward the College Avenue parking deck where I left
my car. I think.

“
Where the fuck have you
been? I’ve been calling you all morning.” Jillian. The band’s
manager, aka Hard-Ass Bitch.

“
You know, up, down, all
around.”

“
Two questions. Did you
get drunk last night? And are you sober now? ’Cause I’ve got
some
shit
to tell
you.”

“
That sounds promising.
Let me guess. Blanko cancelled our gig for next Friday.” Because it
would be so fucking typical of that dickhead. Can’t I have just one
day of non-suckery where the band is concerned? One damn day? I rub
my eyes.

“
Nope.
I
cancelled your gig for
Friday.”

I stop in the middle of
the sidewalk. “What the
fuck
, Jillian?” The asshole
pedestrian riding my heels runs into me. I huff and flip him off as
he walks past.

Jillian pauses. “I found you something
better.”

“
What’s better than a
Friday night at Vertigo Palace?”

“
December, January,
February, and March in every small-sized venue in the
Southeast.”

“
Fuck. Me.” I drop to the
concrete. Business people in suits, college students toting coffee
cups, and red-and-black-clad tourists frown and step around me,
shaking their heads. “Are you telling me you booked us a…” I don’t
want to say the word too loudly for fear of jinxing it, so I
whisper, “tour?”

“
Yep.”

“
Fuck me.” I jump up.
“Fuck me.” I dance across the crosswalk, shaking my ass to a brand
new celebratory bass groove in my head. “Fuck me!” More bemused
stares from passersby. Fuck them too.

“
Happy belated birthday.”
Jillian never smiles—she claims it causes wrinkles—but I picture a
teeny-tiny
Mona
Lisa
grin on her face.

“
Whose dick did you have
to suck to get us booked?” I can’t fucking believe this.