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The door to the bathroom squeaks on its hinges when it’s opened, followed by the click of heels on the cracked tile floor. You can tell before he opens the stall that it’s him. The distinct sound of his exclamation of your name at the door. The smell is thick, cigarettes and beer and molded moisture that clings to the walls.
It isn’t a sexy place to hook up, but it’s the only place. At least it is right now. You’ve fucked him in worse places, to be frank.
Bob kicks the door so hard that it almost hits you in the face and it forces you to back up further into the tiny stall.
“Jesus Christ!”, you exclaim.
He saunters in, all leggy swagger despite his short stature that lands him a few inches shorter than you, especially in these heels you’re wearing.
Whistling, he smacks the door closed once more with his elbow.
“Damn, damn, damn, baby…lookin’ real sexy today sugar.”
“You almost hit me.” You say, matter-of-factly.
In truth, you aren’t really all that mad. You’re relieved that he’s still alive, after his myriad of extremely close run-ins with death and the law.
“Aw, I wasn’t gon’ hit you. Wouldn’t dream of it-”
He closes in on you in the corner where you huddle up, but you press your palms to his chest and slam him back into the door of the stall and the force of it makes the hinges rattle.
“I don’t have much time.” You keep him pinned there, though he’s likely strong enough to push back if he really wanted to.
“Ohhhh baby…” He whines, squirming against the door and licking his lips. “ You know just what to do t’rile me up. Get my motors goin’.”
You slip your hands underneath the shiny jacket he’s wearing. The lining is dotted with a chain pattern and you’re pretty sure he bought the suit from some snazzy department store in the city just because of that.
“Hey, hold on.” he drawls.
He fishes inside of his left jacket pocket, brushing your hand, and pulls out a small velvet bag. Inside of it are two tiny glass vials of coke and he waggles his eyebrows in excitement.
“Oh, babe…you shouldn’t have.”
“For you any damn thing you want, baby. This is the best shit in the damn county.” He slips the velvet bag back into his jacket pocket.
“You know I can’t, Bobby…I gotta go back to work.” Your hands make their way down to palm at his crotch and the spot where his tight-ass pants barely hide the fact that he’s getting hard already.
“Well shit.”
“Here.”
You snatch the baggie from his hand and slip the top of your blouse down. Cupping your breast, you tap out a bump. He shivers, ecstatic; it runs through his scrawny legs and the top of his lip curls in a dangerous grin.
“Mmmhm-hm-hm good Lord…”
He fishes a bill out of his pocket and dips down to press the end to your skin and snort.
Once the powder is gone, he licks the rest off and it sends a quiver down your spine.
When Bob stands back up, nose dusted in a coat of white, his head hits the door with a resounding thud.
“Shhh-” You place your hand over his mouth and he chortles into your palm. His pupils are wide and his face is flushed. You feel him place his hands on your hips, grabbing at your ass and pulling your bottom half close to him.
“Ain’t nobody turn me on like you do, you know that darlin’? Fuck, might make me lose my goddamn mind.”
“You already have, baby.”
He hasn’t shaved, your fingers run along the underside of his chin and feel short hairs prick their tips. Further down you move, to his neck, nails scratching lightly. It reminds you of how many times you’ve dug them into his skin hard enough to tear red, mark him up.
For all the showboating and hip-swaying and loud hollerin’, he’s always your little bitch.
You shove him down by the shoulders and tell him, “Make me cum, baby. Then, I’ll let you.”
He wastes no time yanking your shorts down and shoving his coke-covered nose into your crotch. He takes a long hard breath in, licks the outside of your underwear. He grabs handfuls of the back of your thighs.
“God I just wanna collar you up Bobby…make you my little puppy dog.” You say, as he moans into the skin of your lower stomach.
You have to pull him away to get your underwear down; he has the temperament of a collared wild animal, bucking his head and snorting when you pull him away.
He is relentless and imprecise, and each time he finds the right spot and you let him know, he ruins it by moving; slobbering all over you, wet, sticky, and sloppy. He’s nothing if not enthusiastic.
“You like this baby?” He smiles, crooked teeth and beer on his breath, wet mouth and hair on his upper lip.
“No.”
He pouts.
“C’mere baby. Stay still.”
You both know damn well that making him stay still is next to impossible, but he said he’d do anything for you. He looks up at you intensely, tongue lolling out of his mouth and panting.
He really is a dog.
You cup the back of his head and feel the sticky, thick texture of his hair gel between your fingers. It would make you sick if you weren’t already in a dirty-ass bathroom.
“You must not wanna cum, baby.”
“‘Course I do, sugar!” He says it in a mock-pouty tone, one that would be grating if it were anyone else but the two of you. “I just get a little-” he shivers, then hollers like a coyote, “-excited, is all.”
“Gotta do better than that if you want me to touch you, baby.”
His chin is slight, much like the rest of his face; uncharacteristically soft curves of his nose and lips underneath the hair and sweat and product and cocaine dust that still clings to him.
“Mmmm…” He palms the back of your thigh and you lift it up over his shoulder and lean forward so that he gets a faceful of you.
“Lemme help you out.”, you say and take a fistful of hair, digging into his scalp so hard he winces. “Make me fucking cum.”
You hitch your hips slightly, rubbing yourself against the texture of his tongue and his hairy face between your legs. Your right hand grabs the top of the door and your left hand the back of his head, threading sticky strands between your fingers, and you yank.
“This is where it feels good.”
He pants beneath you, licking at the spot that you directed him to; you know he thinks the idea of being used as a sex toy is the least of his more concerning turn-ons, as if yours are any better. The stall door creaks harder with the motion of you grinding against his tongue, leg hiked up and gripping the stall door for dear life. It is, quite possibly, the most awful place and uncomfortable position to be in, but you’re too turned on and wet on his mouth that you forget for a moment where you are and who you’re with, and all you can think about is how good making him get on his knees in this nasty bathroom in that overpriced suit feels.
When you can finally cum, the end of your elbow hits the stall door a bit harder than you might’ve wanted, but the discomfort gives way to the feeling of your orgasm sending electricity up your spine and through your bones to the tip of your fingers as you grip hard on the peeling laminate door. You breathe, leaning your head against it, and letting him lick up the patches of wet dripping down the inside of your thighs.
“Oh…god…”
He pops up from under you and licks his lips. They’re glistening in the harsh fluorescent lights of the bathroom. As he begins to wipe his nose again, you lean forward and press up with a palm to the bulge in his tight pants and the half-unzipped front.
“You were touching yourself?”
You ask, brows furrowed.
He laughs like a hyena.
“Only just now started baby…I waited for ya, long as I could-”
His sentence is cut off by you pressing hard on the outline of his cock in his pants. He arcs back onto the door and lets out a choked groan, followed by another laugh, this time a bit more guttural. You run your hands up and over, teasing him. He probably isn’t even wearing underwear; the goddamn manwhore. His hips buck into your hand, but you pull away and he grunts.
“Fuuuuuck, baby”, he draws it out, slow and groaning, “Shit…Goddamn…”
He’s as loud as ever, but there’s no one else here to hear him.
It only takes a moment after that of your hands rubbing on the outside of his pants for him to jerk back against the door and for you to feel a wet spot form on his trousers.
“Damn, I didn’t even get to touch your cock!”, you laugh.
Instead of a response, he pulls you in by the back of your neck and kisses you, tongue licking into yours with the taste of your cum, the cigarettes, and a bitter flavor.
You make out sloppily against the stall door, then the wall when you drag him to the side to kick open the stall door.
“I gotta get back to work.”
You pull away from him, but he tugs at your belt loops.
“Don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want to, baby.”
“And what I want is to work my ass off ‘till I can buy the fuckin’ place.”
You pull your clothes up, slip the shoe that fell off in the throes of passion back onto your foot and step closer to him, whispering in his ear and feeling the sides of his very thin waist.
“But later…if you want…” you say quietly into his ear, “...I can show you what you taste like.”
“Oh lord, sugar, that’s the hottest goddamn thing I think you ever said to me.”
He’s writhing again, but you stop him still by smacking his ass hard with two hands and swiveling, shoving him out of the stall and locking the door in his face.
“I’ll see you later, baby.”, you say as the clicking of his shoes disappears into the bar and you giggle to yourself thinking about him walking around with a cumstain on his pants and the smell of you all over him.