Ever since way back in the early days of my incipient teenage hussy-dom, I’ve had a thing for “bad boys.” Leather jacket sporting, chain-smoking, tattoo-covered troubled boys with nihilistic, self-destructive tendencies that always seem “deep” and profound even if they really aren’t. Sound familiar?
Anyway, last weekend I decided to head to a dive bar just outside town alone. I was feeling extra sexy that night and ready to turn up — and knew I wasn’t going home until I got the nasty, filthy, quick-hot-fuck-type attention I needed. I was wearing my favorite cutoff denim jacket, my tightest black jeans, my tallest Doc Marten lace-ups, and the excessive black eyeliner guaranteed to attract my target lay. Before walking in I squeezed my tits together inside the tight, threadbare t-shirt, making sure they wouldn’t pop out. Well actually, more like to make sure they almost popped out just the right amount.
I sat at the bar, crossing my legs and scanning the dim, smoke-filled room for the handsome, doomed-seeming loner type I was craving. I had barely ordered a drink before he walked over. He was tall, covered in dark tattoos, and smelled like a motorcycle. His leather jacket hung low, and I could see a huge bulge in his jeans.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked in a low, burly voice.
I told him I’d make a gin and tonic and smiled at him as we tapped our glasses together. We chatted a little bit, mostly commiserating about the small town we lived in. Small talk seemed increasingly unnecessary as the almost animal magnetism between us intensified. I watched him gulp down his whisky, smelling it on his breath as we leaned in closer to each other.
I leaned into his ear, grazing it with my lips before whisper-asking him if he’d ever fucked in a public bathroom. Before he could answer, I reached my hand between his legs and felt the answer to what would have been my follow-up question. Whether or not he wanted to fuck me in one of those dirty bathroom stalls right now.
I took his hand and led him towards the men’s room, both of us stumbling clumsily as we made our way into the dark, graffiti-covered stall in the men’s room. He pulled me close to him, and I could feel his throbbing cock against my thigh. We tore at each other’s clothes in a half-drunk frenzy until we’d taken them off enough to fuck. He hoisted me on top of the toilet’s ledge against the wall and held me there — a perfect view of his tattoo-covered chest. My panties were fucking SOAKED!
He got on top of me and flicked his tongue around my swollen nipples.
I moaned. He leaned up and lifted my legs over his shoulders. Exposing the cum running down my legs and revealing the messy puddle my cunt had already be-cum. He slid his hand down my pussy, moving my juices around my asshole. Then he leaned forward and inserted his rock-hard dick in my ass. My body flooded with pleasure and my wet pink slit throbbed, desperately wanting action.
“Finger me too” I moaned.
He moved his hand forcefully down my thigh, and slipped his fingers inside, making sure to keep his thumb available to my pulsating clit. The rhythm of his dick in my ass, fingers inside of me, and thumb on my clit matched perfectly with the thrusting of my hips.
My body tensed, and my thighs quivered as I tried to keep myself from cumming yet. I wanted to keep this filthy bathroom fuck-scapade going as long as we could get away with it . . .