"Mmmm, just like that, sweetie, oh yeah, just....like....that," I whispered into his ear as he was slowly, but ever so nicely, fucking me.
My fingernails were raking down his back, leaving claw marks I was sure, but, at that moment, didn't really care. Reaching to his firm butt-cheeks, I dug my nails deep into his flesh and pulled him towards me as I rose to meet his thrusts, our bodies moving faster and faster,
"Mmmm, Mmmm, if you fucking stop, I'll fucking kill you," I heard my voice saying, my climax just about ready to pop. His cock seem to stiffen even more so, filling me, stretching my cunt to the max, as our pubic bones slammed together in our quest for release and satisfaction.
"Ahhhh, shit!" he cried when he could hold back no longer; retaining my finger-grip of his ass, I kept humping, as his cock emptied itself into the condom, and was rewarded with a small, but, satisfying orgasm.
He collapsed on top of me and as I hugged him to my body, I gave my hips a few more rotations which was all it took for me to pop off another little satisfier. I couldn't really complain; Stevie-boy held off an awfully long time to let me grab those first three monster orgasms, so these last little 'poppers' were just icing on the cake.
The thing is, my orgasms with him were peppered with mind-flashes of Marge and me humping each other that night, a few weeks ago.
"So, I guess you'll be leaving and not spending the night, as usual?" Steve said as he passed a joint to me.
"If it's not broke, why fix it?" I replied, smart-assed as usual, for me.
"You keep doing this, and I'm going to feel like a used slut," he said back to me.
"And well you should," I told him as I rolled off of him, and off of the bed to head for his shower.
"I'll be out in a bit," I said with a little wave over my shoulder as his eyes followed my ass into his bathroom.
"When do I see you again? Whenever you get horny, I suppose?" Steve said as I was about to step through his door and leave.
"I suppose; why, is that a problem for you?" I asked with my hand on the doorknob.
He chuckled, shaking his head, before he said, "It really is only on your terms, isn't it?"
"You knew that when we started fucking, Steve; I told you then, it's about the sex, nothing more and if that no longer works for you, tell me, and we'll go our separate ways," I said with a firmness that I meant.
Chuckling again, he smiled, saying, "Call me, Trish."
Smiling back, I left.
****
You see, the thing is, it's hard enough owning a bar, and it's even harder if you're a woman. Hell, it's hard being a woman and being in business, period, whether it's a bar, or a craft store. So, my personal view is that it would only complicate matters more if I was to start fucking customers, so I didn't.
Not males, anyway; but I'll come to that in just a bit.
I'm a healthy, 40-year old woman with a monstrous sexual appetite. In order to satisfy my desire for the occasional cock, I search elsewhere for sex partners, and not inside of my own place.
Don't get me wrong, there are several regular customers that I'd jump into the sack with, if they weren't my customer. But since they are, they're off limits to me, and to my apartment, above my bar.
The only exception to my own rule is with women, such as my roll in the hay a few weeks ago, with Marge. I've had women as overnight guests before, and the reason for this exception to my own policy is simply this; women don't brag about their sex lives to men, plain and simple. Some, but not all, don't really brag to their female friends.
But, in the long run, even if the story got out that I've bedded broads, it would serve my purposes by discouraging my male customers from trying to get into my pants.
And they do try.
I've got a good relationship with my customers and have solace in the knowledge that they have my back, are loyal to me, and watch over me, should a stranger become a bit out of control, or something along those lines.
The bulk of my regulars are from the 'trades'; contractors, electricians, plumbers, and the like, with a nice mix of everybody else thrown in for flavor. I suppose that in the whole scheme of things, my regulars would make a fine demographic stat of the economic-social face of our country.
They liked their beer, or Whiskey, or Scotches, liked watching football and baseball on my TVs, and were, on the whole, a mellow, well-behaved crowd.
And they provided me with a very nice life-style and that's not a bad thing.
I had met Steve a few months back, at a bookstore, nowhere near my part of town; coffee, conversation, and accepting his invite to dinner the following week, we went out.
And yes, we fucked on the first date; I've got nothing to prove by not doing so.
Steve was my newest in a long line of fuck-studs that I have had in my life to take care of my need for cock. He was smart, not bad looking, and good in bed; what's not to like? With him, as with them all, it was my way or no way; no sleepovers, not a hell of a lot of info about me except my first name, and damned sure, not the name of my bar.
No invite to come see me at the bar, no phone numbers except theirs for me to call them when I wanted to see them. Not all liked, or agreed to those ground rules, but many did.
I'm a great piece of ass; I know it, and I use it.
Checking in at the bar, I made my rounds, saying hello to my customers, and having two shots with two tables of regulars. I talked to my bartender, Jon, and checked with Mary, my floor girl and with no problems to handle, I said my goodnights, and walked up to my apartment.
Since I had showered at Steve's, I threw on a sleepshirt, crawled into my bed and was asleep within ten minutes of my head hitting the pillow.
My last conscious thought that night was of Marge going down on me, though, and not of Steve, or his dick.
****
"It's your nickel," I said, smart-assedly, when I picked up my cell phone to answer it as I drove through the city streets, running errands before heading to my bar.
Spring was around the corner, and except for that damned blizzard a couple of months ago, it had been a drier than normal winter season for us.
I had the sun-roof opened and was enjoying the warmth of the sun's rays that reached my somewhat freckled, Irish, face. I had just attended a 'thing' at my liquor distributor that was for select bar owners only.
Absinthe, the real stuff and not the pretenders, had been reintroduced into the American market recently, and my distributor was trying to ramp up interest to sell the product, of course. He had an Absinthe 'fountain' and went through the demos and all, showing us how it's used to make a 'perfect' cocktail as they do in Europe.
