I know the old but well-maintained truck parked behind the venue is yours. There's more than an hour before opening, who else would it be? I don't have a plan when I suddenly pull into the parking lot. I know that what I'm doing is stupid as I walk back behind the building, knowing that the front door will still be locked. My heart is almost beating out of my chest as I throw the back door open and walk into the kitchen. There's a gun in my purse, and my hand is curled around it.
You don't even look surprised to see me, much the less scared. You should be. You should be trembling, like I was last Friday, you don't even know it yet. Instead you just smirk in that arrogantly self-satisfied way you have. "I wondered when you'd be back for more," you say.
I see red. The gun comes out. My hands are shaking, but we're only a few steps away from each other in the tight confines of the bar kitchen. Up this close, it would be nearly impossible to miss. I expect this to wipe that smile off your face, but it only gets broader. "So the kitten has claws," you remark, syrupy concern in your voice. That same false concern you used on me in the bathroom, when you held my black hair back and offered me some place private, some place safe, after I'd been so sick. I didn't suspect a thing when you led me into the walk-in cooler.
"Fuck you!" I shout, my finger on the trigger. You'd fucked me first. I was so drunk I didn't even realize what you were doing at first, when you pushed me onto the floor and pulled down my ripped skinny jeans. The band was playing deafeningly loud outside, but in the walk-in even the bass was only a muffled thump. No one could have heard me scream. Well, joke's on you now. No one's going to hear this either.
"If you insist," you finally say with a shrug, stepping towards me. I tighten my finger on the trigger and raise the barrel towards your head. You stop. You'd paused there in the walk-in cooler too, for just long enough for me to wonder what was going on before I felt the cold, thick oil drip down between my cheeks. This pause feels a lot like that. You don't stop because you're afraid of me, you stop because you wanted a better look. "I like the skirt," you say after a moment of this.
I've always felt like a badass dressing this way, that's why I do it. Pleated skirt with chains and silver skull buttons, fitted low on my hips so that my bare belly can show off the piercing with a broken heart charm dangling from it. I'm wearing a black Lamb of God t-shirt that I've cropped short, thin enough you can see my silver nipple piercings glinting through the fabric - I've had the top since high school, since my first big concert. I've been going to major events and to shitty dives like this for over a decade now. You're the first time it's ever gone poorly for me. The same clothes that once made me feel powerful now make me feel very, very vulnerable.
You take another step forward and I yell until you stop. "I don't care what you like," I insist, breathing hard and fast by now. "I should kill you for what you did to me!" It's all I've been able to think about all week. The shock of the cold liquid replaced by the incredibly warm head of your cock as you rubbed it between my plump ass cheeks, getting the oil everywhere. I was so drunk I could only squirm a little, but your hands on my hips held me down. You're well over six feet, I'm barely over five in my Doc Martens. I never stood a chance.
The pressure of you trying to force yourself inside me was uncomfortable. I just kept asking what you were doing, why you were doing it, but you didn't answer. You just kept pushing, kept adjusting until you got the angle just right. My anus was on fire when the head finally popped in. Felt like I was being split in half- your cock was thick as a beer can, and I'd never taken anything more than a finger back there before. I screamed, but no one heard. No one came to save me.
"You're not going to shoot me," you say. "You've never cum that hard in your life." I can feel my cheeks burning even behind my usual coat of makeup at that statement. You'd forced your cock in inch by burning inch with me crouched on the floor, but you hadn't fucked me that way. You'd pulled out, then pulled my pants off entirely, and flipped me over. You wanted to see my face. You pushed my legs up until I was folded over, and the second time you entered me wasn't any less painful.
I could feel every ridge, every vein, feel your cock pulse and twitch as you fucked me like an animal. But none of that was the worst part. The worst part was when your fingers found my clit, and it was swollen, engorged. Alcohol always makes me horny. I don't know how many times I came, pain and pleasure mixing as my asshole spasmed around your shaft with every wave of unbearable ecstasy, until I finally felt your own orgasm. Those final strokes had been brutal. I could still feel the prickle of your pubic hair against my anus as you buried yourself in me, balls-deep, unleashing your seed into the deepest part of me.
You're forcing my hand again now, walking towards me. There are only three steps between us now. I squeeze the trigger, looking directly down the sights at your smug face.
Nothing happens.
You grab the gun before I have a chance to question what's going on. "You forgot the safety," you chuckle as you wrestle the firearm out of my hands, setting it down on a nearby counter. "But I like this game. The danger makes it feel more real," you say as you grab my wrists. I didn't even notice the zip ties among the takeout containers and saran wrap on the shelf next to me, but you clearly know they're there. My wrists are bound together before I even have a chance to say no.
Why don't I say no? It's not like I want this. My heart is racing as you spin me around, pushing me over a counter a little ways away from the gun. Just far enough I can't reach it. I feel the rush of cold air as you flip my skirt up, and hear you whistle as you admire my black lace panties. You yank my panties down and spread my cheeks, and I brace myself for what comes next - but instead of cold oil, I feel your hot tongue.
I yelp, startled by this. How can someone as tall and broad as you kneel down without me noticing? Somehow your face is now buried between my cheeks and you're lapping at my pucker like a dog in heat. Your beard scratches at the sensitive flesh between my cheeks, but squirming does me no good. You wrap your arms around my legs to keep me still as you go to town, and I feel the tip of your tongue press against the tight ring of muscle. I squeeze down as tight as I can to keep you out, but it's a losing battle. After a few seconds of pushing, your tongue bursts through into my ass. I hear a lusty moan and I'm shocked to realize that it's come from my own throat.
I've never let a man do this to me. Not even one who's talked real sweet and bought me nice things. How did I wind up here now with you eating my ass like alt girl booty is some rare delicacy? There's no denying your enthusiasm, the little noises of lustful appreciation you make as you tonguefuck me in a way I never knew could feel so good. It isn't long before my pussy is dripping, and this doesn't escape your notice. I jump when one of your hands runs down my slit, but you're still holding tight enough that I can't go anywhere.
I can't keep track of how long the eating and teasing goes on. Your tongue goes in, you tongue goes out. Your fingers run the length of my snatch, from clit to taint, spreading my juices around so that I'm thoroughly sodden. I'm on edge the whole time, squirming, but you don't relent. Not until you're ready to. You finish up and rise to your feet; I can feel you looming behind me, the weight and heat of you not quite but almost touching me.
"Say that you want me," you growl in a low tone of voice. I hear your belt, your zipper.
