Sara wasn't sure where to go or what to do. It was quarter past seven on a Tuesday night and she had to work in the morning. She still had to find her fuck of the day. She knew she could go home and masturbate and it would count towards her goal, all that mattered in her rules was that it was a different partner/technique/position/location each time and that someone had an orgasm. Masturbation still fit the bill. The only problem was that it would rule out using that exact same masturbatory technique later and she needed to save as many of those up as possible for the times she really needed them.
She pulled to the side of the road, didn't even bother lining up in a spot, just put the car in park, and stared out the windshield. She was worried about Rob, but more so, she was angry at Josh. How dare he be so callous, so uncaring? What was he thinking? He knew how Rob felt, knew what was going to happen. It was almost like he purposely created drama, like he wasn't happy unless he was in the midst of conflict. For someone who affected a nonchalant attitude, he seemed to always be in the midst of controversy. The more she thought about it, the more she realized he was possibly the worst choice of all her friends for that particular arrangement.
Now what? Sara stared absently at the world outside. What am I going to do now? One of my friends called me a whore, and another thinks I'm a dirty slut but is in love with me. How could I have missed that? Her mind raced around the subject, wondering who Josh was going to tell, how Rob would act around her next time they were together, what her friends would think of her when they found out about it. They would definitely find out. Josh would make sure of that. If he hadn't already told half his friends, he would by tomorrow night. She needed to take her plans outside of her circle of friends, outside of her home town.
No more friends, she decided. No more people from work, no more people I talk to, no more acquaintances, no more friends of friends. Strangers only, except in rare cases. But what now? It's late, I have no one around, who do I turn to? One of my emergency backups? Already? Rebecca if she's in the mood? Another stranger? She didn't want to go back to Rebecca again so soon, but she was also leery of strangers, especially after that guy in the parking lot last night. Maybe a completely random stranger, someone she didn't even talk to, someone she could meet, fuck, and leave. No small talk, no getting to know each other, just pure, animal lust, the heat of the moment, then their eternal absence.
She decided that was the best bet; meet someone who just wants to fuck. Guys like that were everywhere; do it and get out. No names, no phone numbers, no contact after the act itself. But where could she go now, on a Tuesday night, to find someone like that? She fixed her gaze on the world outside her car.
Rob didn't live in the best section of town, and she hadn't driven far before pulling over on the side of Portland Avenue. Everything here looked decrepit, old, used up, abandoned by man and fate. Cracked bricks partway up buildings, broken windows, litter everywhere, spray paint marking territory, proclaiming hatred or undying love. This was a wasteland, and as much as Rochester claimed to be cleaning up its image, that clean-up never touched these particular streets. She tried to think of a place she might find someone.
If she turned around, went north back up Portland, then right on Norton, a few blocks up at the corner of Goodman was a place called Norton's Pub. She'd only been there once before, and couldn't remember what kind of crowd usually filled the place, but it might work. Then again, if she cut left down Central Park, right onto Union Street, then a quick left down Railroad Street, jog across Main to Goodman, she could pop into the Barrel of Dolls, a really gross strip club. Or she could just keep going south on Goodman and hit any one of the bars on Monroe, or before that some tiny place on Park Ave.
Turning around was out. Sara hated turning around; it felt like admitting a mistake. The Barrel of Dolls was also most likely out; if she strolled into a strip club and tried to pick up a guy, she'd only piss off the dancers, the bouncers, and the owner, and that couldn't have good consequences no matter how she looked at it. So it was off to Park or Monroe. She pulled out into the street and headed south, through downtown, and back out on Monroe Ave. One of these bars would have just the guy she was looking for: decent looking, narcissistic, and not too bright. She would find him, fuck him, and leave him.
The bar was called Oxford's; Sara had been there a couple times before. Wednesdays used to be five dollar beer bash night here, and several of her friends used to drag her out to drink as much as possible for only five bucks. She knew as soon as she walked in that she'd picked the right spot; the place was a sausage factory. At this hour there were about fifteen guys and three women, perfect odds. Inside it was larger than it looked, the music was excessively loud, and she instantly felt eyes upon her when she walked in. What did I expect? she thought, the heels are a dead giveaway. Every guy in here thinks he knows what I'm looking for. Luckily for me, they're right.
She walked straight to the bar, moving slower than normal in the outrageously high heels; the last thing she needed was to trip or even slip when she was trying to be sexy. That would be the wrong kind of attention. She sensed the stares boring into her from behind, she knew at least a couple of the guys were checking her out, and her outfit was a good part of the reason. The crimson dress she was wearing was tailored to her curves. It stretched taut in all the right places, hung just below her knees, had long sleeves and buttoned tight from the hem up to her neck, black buttons that matched her stockings and heels. She figured her look was something akin to sexy schoolteacher, with the reserved dress and exotic heels.
She ordered a vodka gimlet and leaned her elbows on the bar while it was prepared. Bawitadaba by Kid Rock faded into Sure Shot by the Beastie Boys; the DJ was spinning some choice old tunes tonight. It didn't take long for someone to approach her at the bar, exactly as she'd hoped.
He was large, both in height and width, wide shoulders and a slightly flabby belly, paunch hanging over his belt, but his arms spoke of physical labor or too many hours at the gym. He wore a grey polo shirt with some sort of logo over the left breast, and a giant watch that looked entirely too expensive. His dark hair was shaggy, with that unkempt look that takes hours to perfect. His face was rounder than she usually liked, his cheekbones high, eyes a little too close together, small and dark. Beneath his beak of a nose, a black goatee concealed his chin. He grinned as he leaned on the bar, sizing her up, a beer dripping condensation over his hand.
"Nice shoes," he practically yelled to be heard over the thumping bass, "wanna fuck?"
It was a horrible line. On a normal night she'd lambaste him, verbally rip his monstrous ego to shreds and leave a husk of a man in the wake of her righteous indignation. But tonight she needed a man just like him. He was perfect.
Sara grabbed the front of his shirt, twisting it in her fist and yanked him towards her, catching him by surprise. His eyes popped wide as she shoved her tongue into his startled mouth, then licked across both of his lips, tasting beer and cigarettes. She leaned her face away from him and smiled, her fist still knotted in his shirt. It was not a friendly or even sexy smile; it was more a baring of teeth, like a wolf ready to pounce for the kill.
"Can you handle me?" She dropped a ten on the bar, slammed down her vodka gimlet in three gulps, and dragged him forcibly towards the back room.
There was a small wall that separated the entrance from view of the bar, and as she turned around the corner, the only person who could see her was the DJ. The guy followed her; he didn't have much choice as he was hauled across the room, bewilderment evident on his face. He must have tried that line or similar ones enough times that the negative response was expected. This was most likely a completely new experience for him.
In the back of the place was a second bar, which was only open during the busiest hours of Friday and Saturday nights. It was separated by the rest of the establishment by two sets of pocket doors, one facing the restrooms, one facing the pool tables. Tonight it was closed, but Sara let go of the guy and pulled open the doors facing the bathrooms, letting them slide back into the recesses in the walls. It was dark beyond the opening, the only light whatever filtered in from the main room. In the dim illumination, she could see the bar, the stools, and an open space nowhere near as big as the rest of the bar. She strode beyond the doorway, hoping he'd follow.
He did. She stood near a bar stool and began unbuttoning her dress, her fingers working quickly to get things moving as fast as possible. He pulled the doors closed behind him, leaving a crack that let in a small amount of light, enough that they could still see each other, and advanced across the small space. She had her dress wide open down the front, her fists planted firmly on her hips, the black bustier and stockings she had put on for Rob and Josh now bared before this slob of a stranger.
"What do you think?" She ran her fingers around the curve of her breast and down her side, the soft touch of her own nails sending shivers across her body. Showing off for him was undeniably turning her on. Her fingers traced down over her tiny waist, and finally settled back on her hip.
"Jesus." The guy just stared.
She felt his eyes roam over her like a jeweler appraising a diamond ring, taking in the entire outfit, every fold of satin, every thread of silk, every square inch of flesh. She felt a little self-conscious at his mental cataloging of her assets, as if he would find the slightest imperfection; he was taking far too long to stare at her.
"Well?" She let a note of command slip into her voice. "I thought you wanted to fuck?"
She stared him down, her eyes challenging him to make the first move. Part of her wanted to stop. This wasn't normal, wasn't right, and she didn't want this pudgy loser looking at her, much less touching her or inside her. But she knew this was the kind of man she needed to use, the kind that had no compunction about asking a girl he'd never met if she wanted to fuck. She knew that to make this work for her, she had to think about him the same way he thought about her, she'd have to act as dirty and slutty as she'd ever acted and use him. She reached out and grabbed him by the waistband, yanking him towards her.
"Come on, big boy," her voice sounded like someone else in her ears, "let's see what you've got."
She pulled on his belt, unfastening it as she stared intently, uncomfortably into his eyes. He just stared back at her; he looked scared. Desire, anticipation and apprehension swirled in the pools of his eyes. Once his belt was unbuckled, the button fly and zipper were easy, and she had him in her hand in no time, slowly moving up and down, priming him methodically, as if she were oiling a tool she needed to use for a simple mechanical job. He was shorter but thicker than average, not ideal by any standard, but hard enough to be functional. His eyes glazed over as she fondled him and a low moan escaped his throat.
She released him and he rocked back on his heels, his face still registering bewilderment. She pulled down her g-string, let it fall to the floor and stepped out of it. She took a condom from the front pocket of her purse and let that fall to the floor as well. She offered the condom to the dazed man before her. He took it, and held it in front of himself as if uncertain of what to do with it.
"Wrap it," she said, and waited.
He did, slowly rolling the rubber down until he was covered.
Sara wanted to fuck this idiot senseless, but not for his satisfaction, for her own. She wanted to belittle him, to fuck him so hard he would wish he'd never said those four words to her. She raised herself up onto a bar stool and spread her legs, offering herself to this oversized chauvinist, letting him think he was going to have her, but knowing that she was going to own him, to have her way with him and leave him unsatisfied, wanting, feeling inadequate.
She grabbed him as soon as he stepped near and guided him directly into her, let him thrust inside, the rubber rough against her inner walls until she got lubricated. She wrapped her legs around him, let him push a few times, the look on his face said he was enjoying himself. She looked at him with disdain, felt disgust rise inside her. He was a pig, he was insufficient, there was no way he could satisfy her.
"Come on," she said through gritted teeth, "I thought you were gonna fuck me."
The taunt worked. He doubled his efforts, thrusting madly into her, his hips banging against her inner thighs, his face contorted in concentration. He grasped the bar behind her and rammed her with the force of a small car; she felt his body pressing against hers, his flabby gut flopping against her pelvis.
"Fuck me." She made it a command, one she could tell from the look on his face he thought he was already fulfilling. "Fuck me." She got louder each time, "Fuck me!"
He was giving her all he had, pumping into her as fast and furiously as he could manage, his breath ragged, like a runner winding down after a marathon, his face red, teeth gritted with intensity.
"Is that all you've got?" she let her loathing flow down over her face, and anger crept over his.
She unwrapped her legs from around him, and he pulled out.
"I'll show you what I've got," he grabbed her rough around the waist and pulled her off of the stool, spinning her around and bending her over the seat. She grabbed the edge of the bar as he jerked her dress to the side, baring her ass and forcing himself between her legs.
"Show me, baby." She wanted to get in one more taunt. "Take charge."
She felt him press against her lips from behind, then he forced his fumbling way inside her and began to pound into her. She loved being taken from behind. She loved the feeling of being under the control of someone else, the feeling of submissiveness, the feeling of helplessness against an onslaught. He slammed into her, shoving himself inside, grunting and moaning, her hips bumping against the hard top of the bar stool, her head almost ramming the edge of the bar with every prod.
"Come on," she let disappointment into her voice now, "is that all?"
He wrapped one hand tightly in her hair, pulling her head back like he was pulling the reins of a horse he was riding into the ground.
"Take it, bitch!" He almost yelled the last bit, frustration and anger rising within him.
He was actually getting her excited, taking charge, pulling her hair, slamming her from behind, everything she liked, but she could tell he was too distracted, too irritated with her constant comments to come anywhere near climax. She could feel her orgasm building within, the total control she had over him, though masked by their position, heightened her arousal. She reached down and placed two fingers on either side of her clitoris, letting the force of his banging generate all the friction she needed.
He was saying something now, but she was so close to climax she wasn't listening. Something about "like that, bitch, don't you" floated past her ears as the world exploded in a blast of orgasmic energy. Waves of pleasure rippled through her as her fingers stimulated her, and she cried out, the fingers of her other hand digging into the wood of the bar. Her whole body writhed as she came, the lovely feelings undulating through her stopped short by the unpleasantness of his laughable presence within her.
She reached behind her head and shoved his hand away, pushing herself off from the bar. He faltered, his merciless yet ineffectual pace broken by her sudden movement, and she felt him slip out of her, the sudden lack of him like a void.
Sara spun on him and looked him straight in the eye. He moved forward, hands on her waist, his still erect penis pushing towards her. She held him at bay with both hands on his shoulders and continued to stare him down.
"That's all?" She spat the words.
"I'll show you..." He never completed the sentence.
"Nice try." She pushed him back and began buttoning up her dress.
"Hey!" He moved forward again, still aiming himself at her, still wanting his fulfillment.
She placed one hand on his chest, he wrapped his fingers over hers.
"You had your shot, bucko." She shook off his hand and bent, grabbing her purse from the floor and starting towards the doorway.
"Wait a minute," he moved to block her way, but she shoved past him and pushed the doors open.
Light spilled into the tiny room, exposing him and his tiny cock to the three men that had been peeking through the door. His face fell, his hands rapidly working to push it back into his pants and zip himself up.
Sara strode past the onlookers, crossed the bar quickly, and shoved through the door into the street. She jumped into her car as fast as she could manage, tossed her purse on the passenger seat, ignited the engine, and pulled out into traffic.