Those that laugh eventually will cry for one precedes the other as sure as autumn heralds winter and daylight foretells night. I see the tears in eyes that twinkle like diamonds, recognize sadness in faces brimmed with joy, I am the canker slowly creeping, for even as I gift happiness the seeds of misery are germinating beneath fragile skin.
The bar was well lit, clean, full enough to be welcoming yet empty enough to whisper without being overheard. I had passed the establishment several times and wondered, considered making a stop for food, or drink, or work. Tonight perhaps all three would be successfully combined. I sat upon a stool and perused the menu, watched with peripheral vision as a glass of iced water appeared at my place, with cutlery carefully rolled in a beige printed cotton serviette.
I delight in aiding innocents transpose to wanton harlots, forever doomed to feed their whetted appetite for worldly pleasure yet never fill the cavernous gulf of their need. It is no cruelty to cage the songbird when she is young, for never knowing freedom and having all her meager needs fulfilled she is happy to sing and thrive within the confines of the tiny universe inhabited. Evil comes from he who frees that seeming content creature, illustrates that all she ever saw or tasted was but the tiniest glimpse within the endless azure of unmeasurable sky. Watch her soar as if to touch the sun, flying free and unfettered as meant to be then smiling, always smiling, lure her back with soft coos and precious tasty treats, emboldening promises of ever expanding vistas till she is entrapped anew, never more allowed release from confining bars. So the devil, the antichrist, the prophet, the visionary snares the unwary but ever willing in his web of golden strangulating strands. So I, the most unfortunate and unworthy of adventurers, through the subtleties of will and selfishness alone, mold beauty into a form that only true practitioners can recognize and enjoy.
I lifted my chin and gazed into her eyes, drank their wine of loneliness and need and with a gentle knowing smile and slight inclination of my head cast my lure embellished line across the narrow space between us certain in the knowledge that momentarily she would nibble, bite then swallow hard and inescapably.
Golden hair loosely tied in French plaits. Golden hair, sweet smelling and glistening in the artificial light, needing to be touched, pulled, held tight and controlling in my fists. Golden hair framing pale skin, wide open eyes, piercing blue, begging me to dive to taste their depth and have them melt into pools of moist desire. Golden hair, pulled back just enough to show an ear, a ring, no two rings, gold and small, just enough for teeth to grip and tease with gentle nips before biting hard and feeling sanguine joy. Golden hair, swept back from cheekbones high and proud, framing a full lipped mouth that smiled innocently enough but teased with subtle abandon, begging to be taken, filled deep and hard. Golden hair, promising the equally soft touch of a perfumed downy caress from wanton labia, waiting swollen and parted.
She was no ballerina. Her hips were wide enough to have passed a child or two, breasts rounded as only milk will make them and moved with a catlike naturalness that suggested athleticism in carnal exercise. So easy to imagine her bent over the bar she manned so happily, thighs spread and ass thrust out to be rutted as she moaned gutturally. A virgin drink ready to be sullied with a touch of olive juice around her not previously taken sphincter to make the plundering easier, or at least more probable without splitting her asunder.
Conversation is easy with barmaids, they ooze joviality whilst their eyes absorb the essence of those who give them more than cursory attention. Like waitresses they oft are made invisible by their patrons, just beasts of burden dutifully fielding and delivering casually thrown orders and almost always unacknowledged except for the accepted annoyance of some pittance in false gratitude. I have always been a sponge for good service, the little things that others might expect as normalcy from those they perceive as in some way lower on the pecking order, endlessly smiling, thanking, praising if only for the delight of exposing their molten core to my gaze.
The fast clearance of a used plate, the attention to my desire for clean cutlery, even that little extra sparkle a clean cloth gives a glass before pouring all make me inwardly feel special and treasured and equally make me want to reciprocate in any and every way I can. If indeed this small interaction might lead to something of larger consequence I will double down to bring the participant to unforgettable completion. True this is to a degree unfair, to open a person to the possibilities of extraordinary pleasure is a journey to a realm they will probably never visit again but who am I to deny them one ascension to the magical summit of physical bliss. Does such honesty sound boastful? Is it too direct to say that most woman have never truly been loved? Does it tear at the psyche of average male participants in the games of Eros to find them guilty of being seekers of only marginal and normal relief as opposed to the comets tail of sublime copulation?
Golden hair was enamored. She began to move with that particular motion that shows her body was totally aware of my eyes as they feasted on her every breathe. Her scent took on that particular essence that no perfume can cover, the tell-tale involuntary release of estrogen that quickens heartbeat and hardens pricks. Her hand touched my shoulder as she passed behind me, a momentary contact but enough, sufficient time for untold sparks of lust to jump from one to another and seal the inevitable consummation that fate obliged to follow.
The soup was good, the bread fresh baked even better. The slight salt taste of butter on my tongue bought saliva flooding and the pureed asparagus puckered the inside of my cheek. My mouth was watering for cunt, I knew it, she knew it, the time was upon us and nodding tellingly I made for the restrooms. She entered but a step behind me, hands outstretched as if to fend off the inevitable event but with a glazed expression that told she was already wet and wanting penetration. Her shift dress, worn more to imitate a blouse than anything was short enough that my hand found her pelvic bone with no hindrance, the thick grey cotton tights she wore giving evidence to her heat and without a thought began to grind her vulva against my open palm. The yoke of her dress covered too much shoulder for my liking and pushing the wide strap to one side I sunk my teeth into her flesh. She whimpered momentarily then leaning back against the enclosed sink began to shudder and ripple like a fragile flower stem in a spring downpour.
Romance is not a bathroom phenomenon. Lust exists there, depravity almost certainly, decadent carnality always but love has little or no place to foster or grow. The purpose of our congress was simple, to join two bodies in frenzied physicality till exchanges of bodily fluids had both pleasured and expunged the raging storm that was upon us. She turned to face the mirror and gripped the utilitarian faucets tightly in sweating palms. I pealed down the tights, akin to flaying living flesh to expose both bare legs to the knee and the rather slutty leopard print briefs she was wearing. I caught a momentarily almost apologetic expression reflected in the mirror and indicating as best I could from over her shoulder that the underwear was not totally inappropriate peeled them down as well. Her ass was well shaped, gladly the mounds held their form nicely without support and quivered slightly as she breathed. I slapped her right ass cheek hard, the sharp contact echoing around the small room. Just one was sufficiently stimulating for me to smell the immediate release of a rush of juices that would lubricate her openings satisfactorily.
The moment arrived. She was braced, open, her ass cheeks splayed, eyes tight shut in readiness for penetration and I was suddenly filled with the overwhelming weight of boredom. Fucking itself is mere physical exercise, the result of a far more meaningful psychological interplay than sweat or ejaculation can express. Countless times I had seduced, convinced, manipulated to this point of taking and long realized it was the journey, the process that excited me not the act. Beasts rut from pure animal need, to procreate, to obtain power through physical domination, I was perhaps more subtle, less easily satisfied by such basic sublimation. The meal was too easy, too laid open and agreeably accepting of my appetites. I needed something more.
