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Hi Kinky Reader! Thank you for dropping in on my first story. Hope you stick around :)
Dedicated to a certain one-night stand from several few years ago. We'll call him "Rich." He knows what he did. My fantasy spin on how it
should
have gone. His POV is more interesting than mine, because of how I want him to feel about it.
Honestly, I welcome criticism, suggestions, hearing what you like about my scribblings or don't. So plzzzzz drop a Comment, it helps keep me motivated :)))
You'll see, I may be Strict, but I'm sweet,
E.S.
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"Pity (The Pickup-Artist)"
by Emmalee_Strict
When the bartender swings back around, I ask for "same-again" for me and for the lady, Bacardi & Coke for me and another of whatever Emma is drinking. A twelve year-old Glenmorangie neat, it turns out, water back no ice. Classy.
I say, "Sounds like you're particular."
Emma looks me up and down like it's the first time she actually sees me, and says, "Very."
When I got here, she was sitting alone at the bar. I moved in on her cool and smooth. I took a stool next to her, acting nonchalantly unaware of her at first, ordered my drink. After the bartender left, I started chatting her up. She didn't tell me to get lost. So there was that.
Told me her name is Emma. Emma something, I didn't listen to her last name. I don't care. It's not like I'm looking to change it to mine.
So, the second round leads to another, then another, and by now we both pretty much know where this is headed. So, I don't feel crude or stupid about pointing out the pink and gold paper bag on the bar in front of her, which any idiot knows is from Victoria's Secret, and saying, "Is that anything you want to
model?
"
Pickup-Artist tricks: Embarrass her, see how she takes it. Give her a chance to talk about shopping. "Neg" her about it.
But Emma just shrugs and gets up off the barstool. She smoothes out her skirt, picks up her little clutch purse and the lingerie shop bag and squeeze them absently to her impressive chest. Scanning the Friday night yuppie meat-market on display in the bar, she has a sort of melancholy look, idly biting her lip, irritated or bored.
I wonder if I've put her off, if maybe I should say something. My PUA instinct says, If she's insulted, keep "negging" her, gauge how she reacts...
But at the moment, I can't think what to say because I'm captivated by Emma's looks... okay, mostly her boobs. I like how she fills out her black cotton, tanktop-style dress with a mid-thigh length skirt. Tight around her full tits and luscious ass. She's tall for a curvy chick. She wears her long strawberry blonde hair loose, wavy, kind of wild. Her face is more than passably pretty, complexion peaches and cream, lightly freckled, with dark brown eyes for a sexy contrast. A little on the thick side, but I don't mind that; big girls like to bounce, I can tell you that. Looking again, I notice a certain athletic power in her arms and legs. Like she works out, she's fit and all that... just naturally big-boned, I guess.
And again, tall. Almost "Amazonian," I think, which does something for me. I mean, I'm bigger, taller and stronger for sure, but I like the idea of the tussle we could have. And maybe I like the idea of not putting up much of a fight...?
She looks down at me with piercing brown eyes that could cut glass. "I'll stop off in the ladies.' Go out and grab us a cab."
She says it like it's more of an order than a proposition. But I mean, if this curvy blonde hottie wants me to meet her out front and go somewhere else, well, I don't see the need to object to the tone of voice.
I settle the tab and head out front. On my way, I catch sight of my buddy Devin working a slut by the jukebox. I pantomime melon-sized shapes with my hands over my chest, and mouth the words, Great ass. Devin gives me one of those slight back-tips of the head in reply, and turns back to his mark.
It's a hot summer night. I've got a cab running the meter by the curb when she comes out. I'm holding the door, like a gent, but my eyes are down on her shoes -- which are black, strappy and shiny, open-toed, four-inch stilettos. She moves in them with easy confidence. I feel a little stirring in my groin.
As she breezes by, ducking into the cab, she glances up at me. "My place."
I smirk. And it's not even eight o'clock yet. Slut.
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Emma hisses breathlessly into my ear, "Rich!"
Which is not my name, actually, it's Rick, I told her that... but hell, it's close enough for my present purposes. We were barely in the back of the cab when the necking and groping started. Our mouths and tongues are wrestling while our hands active elsewhere. Me, I'm feeling up her tits, which are large, responsive, and real. She fumbles with my fly, plunges inside the flap, into my tightie-whities, and gets a hefty measure of what she's doing for me. I moan into her mouth, while her free hand slides behind my neck and drags me deeper into the kiss.
She comes away with a sharp pant and a nip of my lower lip.
"Ow!" I touch the lip. I think she drew a little blood.
Emma slumps back into the seat, turns her head and looks away, watching the street scenes fly by along Springfield Ave. Absently, she finds her purse and lingerie bag on the seat, rests them on her lap, and crumples the bag in her hand. I notice, it looks like whatever's in the bag is kind of lumpy, which doesn't seem right.
I look down at my open fly and see the boner inside my briefs half-poking through. What kind of tease is that? Well, I'll show her later, I have ways to tame a tease.
Emma yawns and half-turns toward me, her fingers snaking out to grip my yellow power-tie. She talks to it, not me. "I hate ties."
I try and laugh that off. "What can I say, it's my uniform. I work in finance."
She shakes her head, disappointed, for some reason, tugs sharply just below the knot, then lets the tie fall. She looks away. "Bad answer."
"Hey, I'd take it off," I offer, trying to lighten things up again. "But that's exactly how I tend to lose these things when, uh..." I trail off.
When I shack up at the bitch's place, was I about to say? Which begs the question, You mean on your one-night stands? Ones where you forget your necktie and never get it back, because you were always planning to ghost the anonymous pussy attached to that phone number?
Which begs the further question, So, you have a lot of them? Which I do. But I leave it at that. Anyway, she doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Hey," she looks back at me, refocused and smiling mischievously at me. The sudden cheerfulness is a little unnerving. "Has it occurred to you, maybe you're going to regret you ever met me?"
"Uhh..." I'm stunned at the question, but I recover, PUA-confident. Hand on her leg, I purr, "Baby, that's the farthest thing from my mind."
"Hmm." Ignoring my hand, she turns away to look out the window, the scenery passing by. Finally, she sort of shrugs.
"Pity."
What does she mean by that?
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Emma's house is out in the toney suburbs, set back from the street behind a brick wall, wrought-iron gate and a line of sycamores. As I pay the cabbie, she is well ahead of me, already on her way up the brick path. She disappears inside. When I catch up and enter, she shuts the door and throws the deadbolt.
I catch just a glimpse of the long front hall -- Oriental runner stretching past side doors toward a dim light from the living room -- before Emma grabs and shoves me against the foyer wall and locks her lips on mine.
She's surprisingly strong. I almost think she's trying to push me around, take charge of things... We'll see about that. I put my legs into it and drive her back. We take a couple of spins, and when the dance ends, it's Emma who's got her back to the wall.
"Ooof!" she grunts. "Ahhh, Rich --"
I think she likes that, a little male dominance -- am I right? Her mouth is all over my neck and throat, breath hot and steamy, working her pelvis against mine, hands mauling at my collar. The big slut is hot and bothered and good to go. How far, that remains to be seen.
She likes things rough, I can see that. Maybe she wants to throw in a little kink? I've done that before. Maybe she likes a little restraint, spanking, name-calling, what have you...?
Which is okay, I can swing that way too, if she wants to be a good sport about it.
Her hands drop to my belt buckle, I step back a little to give her room to work, and she whips my belt out of its belt-loops. She undoes my pants and pushes them down over my hips. I feel the fine worsted wool of the Canali suit pants slide down my legs and bunch around my ankles. I try to kick and step out of them, but my Ferragamo loafers are in the way.
Her hands on my shoulders are strong.
She pushes my suit jacket back over my shoulders. With my pants around my ankles putting me little off-balance, it feels like she's got an edge of control over me. I kick and flail uselessly at the pants in my way.
She pushes the jacket down over my upper arms When she's got it down to my elbows -- she stops.
There, she grips the coat tight.
Her hands are strong.
Shocked, I open my eyes. At first, what I see isn't Emma... but a dead-eyed face in the glass-framed portrait hanging on the wall beside her head, and superimposed over that, the darkened blur of my own face reflected in the glass...
My eyes just as dead,
I think for some reason.
And right here, I remember what Emma said in the cab.
