Flagrant Hook-up

Something clicks inside you. It’s base. It’s dirty. You start to grind into your chosen guy, face to face, my hips rotating, and my groin through my jeans brushing across his man package. He likes it. I like it even more. I’m randy as hell.

For a guy I met twenty minutes ago, it’s all moved fast. It must be my hormones, my age, twenty-four, a week of work, Friday night, not a sniff of interested cock since last Friday night’s one-night stand. And here I am again.

My leg is between his legs, and the music is upbeat and intense. I look him directly in the eyes. He’s male; he’s enjoying himself too much to realise I want to fuck him now. He doesn’t even have to work for it.

I swing around. I grind my butt unashamedly back into his groin. He’s excited but still male dumb. He must think I’m a big tease. He’s been misled before or is too bloody shy. He’s a reasonable-looking guy but hopeless at reading sexual body language.

I’m bending over beyond what’s decent, even on a crowded, darkened club dance floor.  My hands are tracing over my thighs, and I want to hold my knees. If it weren’t going to get me put in gaol, I’d let him root me in public. I’m beyond the shame of my pussy’s need for cock.

My booty is shaking. My breath is warm. My pussy is moist. My mind is sexually rabid. Man rampant.

Oh, Shite -he’s still not on the same bloody page as me.

I up the obvious. I guide his hands to my hips. I put my arms around his neck. I grind my groin into him, my head back, my cleavage, in my short top, directly in his line of sight. I am slow and dirty.

The frickin sequence of sexy songs stops. A fuckin slow number is on. Romantic useless shit. I want my pussy humped. What’s a girl to do when a guy doesn’t comprehend; that he’s got to home base already?

John wants a drink. He offers to buy me one.

 After fifteen minutes of I’m all yours- take me now- he is back on the starting blocks.

 I want a drink, all right, a cum shot, nothing more, nothing less, filling my mouth.

Short of getting up on the bar, dropping my tight jeans, and rubbing my pussy in his face, I’m not sure what I have to do to fuck this guy-I want his cock right now- from ten minutes ago- for sure.

I excuse myself to the ladies. Not to relieve myself. I have a plan.

John has that happy boy look as I return. He’s just basking in my feminine company.

Not anymore: if I have my way. I need his tongue basting my arsehole.

I’m standing next to him at the bar. He’s happy that he’s brought a girl a drink. Simple male lock-step process that he hopes will work. Ask a girl for a dance after making eye contact. Tick. Dance with the girl for a while. Tick. Buy the girl a drink. Tick. Dance some more. Tick that off. Ask the girl for her number and a date. Put her number on his phone. Go home and wank off over her. Call her during the week. Hope for a date, and see what happens.

John, I’m not femcomplex. I want an uncomplicated fuck. Well, no, I want a good complex climax-generating fuck.

“John put your hand in my back pocket,” I say.

“Pardon Cathy,” he says, “It’s noisy, your back pocket?”

“Yeah, John, now, my back pocket.”

Oh, the look on his face as he opened his hand. As he ferreted and got into my pocket, he knew he had some fabric. A scrunch of cloth. But he had no idea what it was till he opened his hand. He knew then. It was my pink, lacey and incredibly skimpy g-string.

I guided my closing hand around his closed hand up to his face and whispered in his ear, “Sniff, John, sniff deep, baby.”

Suddenly John understood what kind of girl I was. All his Friday night dreams and wishes rolled into one. A sultry pussy snapping tart. A bitch on heat. A promiscuous wanton young trollop.  My musky moist knickers overpowered his senses and aroused his cock.

Nothing left now but to let his primal urges build and dominate my body. Masculine hardness for greedy soft body girly need. My craving for cock was finally caught up by John realising instant new pussy was on offer. Right here, right now.

I grabbed his other empty hand. Oh, my panties could be his trophy. I led him quickly to the toilets. I was thinking of the ladies. I pushed open the door. All the cubicles were shut. Plus, the usual line of waiting girls.

Oh, Christ and all the saints! Where can a girl screw with limited decency?

I retreated but only to the guy’s toilets across the narrow dark corridor. I pushed it shamelessly open. I ignored the guys using the urinal and went into the first available cubicle with John.

There is fast sex which is near unmemorable. So badly fast you want to forget it, very quickly. Yet there is quick, intense sex that is mind-blowing. I was in it.

The vitality of fast-forward combined nakedness has to be experienced to be known. It’s excellent stripping off together with sex as the immediate goal. I mean, naked in a cubicle with a naked guy seems a turn-off location, but boy, our bodies were turned on and switched on. The heat between us was instant. The kissing was furious. Our hands were given free rein to explore. We instantly craved each other’s bodies.

An erect cock, after all, only demands a mouth, lips puckered, moistly surrounding. The knob sucked, the shaft, the total length suddenly taken, the balls allowed to slap into my cute chin, his pecker head engaged in a raunchy conversation with my tongue. Fuck I love cock. I loved the cock I had right now.

There was no space, but that was good. We were crammed together. We needed to be close. The closer, the better. John’s inbuilt male sex senses were entirely in action as he, in turn, went down on me. His fingers are in, over and just above my already juiced-up slit. Then he was finger fucking me furiously with intense pressure in my sopping cunt-hole.  He nicely over-prepped me.

I straddled him as I plopped him back on the closed toilet seat. Face to face. Our tongues met in the instance his cock penetrated me. Hard and stiff. I rose up and down off his cock. I only had one tempo: fast. Brisk but agile pussy muscle control. Riding pecker. Accelerated humping. Vivacious combined genital viscosity. Orgasm hurrying. Pure fucking. Rutting. Indecent shovelling of cock into my demanding pussy. Urgent, pressing, unrelenting rutting. Perfect speed rooting.

Then it was like I was raised to the Olympian heights of sex.

 Move over Aphrodite; I was the slut whore of the universe, well, briefly, because suddenly, my shy boy became the beast I needed him to become.

He urged me and rimmed his fem-juiced-covered cock knob around my arsehole. Very quickly. Luckily my girly cum was oozing around my arse crack from my sodden coochie because he stabbed straight up into my arse.

It was brutal, breath-stealing unforgettable anal intercourse. Cock shovelling in my arse. Scooping a path through my tight resistance. My bum excavated deep. I winced. I flinched. I yelped. I groaned loudly.

Outside the cubicle door, I became aware of increased cheers of encouragement. A crowd of guys knew a woman was getting what she needed, how she needed it, and some lucky bastard was getting the express fuck of his life.

The gross smutty encouragements only made me gyrate my arsehole off his cock at meteoric speed as I embraced a head-spinning orgasm and frigged off my clit simultaneously.

“Gouge her,” I heard from a deep voice.

“Push your cock from her arse to her throat,” was yelled.

“Ram her, slam her, jam her,” yeah, there are anal poets everywhere.

“Write her friggin number on the loo wall,” now that was a good one!

“Film it, you dirty cunts; it sounds too good, not too!”

Too late for that one.

My arse was shaped by cock. Dazzled by cock. Yet it was equally strangely harsh and ruthlessly unrelenting. But the bliss. The satisfaction was unparalleled.

I realised I was performing with my arse. For my orgasm. For the cum climax of John driving into me and for the cheering urging mass of guys in the men’s room.

Of course, I frickin screamed at the apogee of my superb climax, which coincided with the groaning jizz release by John jacking into my happy arsehole.

The loo door swung open because ‘the gents’ was packed to capacity. We hadn’t locked the door in our initial rush.

A cheer went through the crowd of appreciative guys like frickin Italians when they score a goal at the World cup.

Then raucous applause for me. I took my bow naked. Then back slapping kudos for John as he made his way out of the cubicle to try and redress.

Yes, I shut the cubicle door and dressed. I was beyond looking presentable, but hell, I felt good.

I exited with John through a virtual virile honour guard as we headed back to the bar for a drink.

Suddenly, I was a trendy girl. Every guy in the club wanted to buy me a drink. Dance with me. Take me back to the toilets—most of it in good humour.

I mean, I was sexually satisfied. I was ready to slow the pace and go home with John, but a handsome dude, over six feet and superb build put his clenched hand close to my face at the bar. I smelt my musky sex still clinging to my knickers which John must have dropped and left in the cubicle.

“I think you should come with me to the loo and put these back on, but only after I….;” said the big guy.

He didn’t need to say anymore.

Oh, tough luck John. I had my panties to put back on, but only after I….