tagMatureNorth Shore Coke Whore

North Shore Coke Whore

byISawYourMommy©

At the request of a reader who was kind enough to offer both feedback and a plot suggestion, I have this to say.

* * *

The engine ticked lightly, rhythmically, having only recently completed a twenty mile journey. Rain dripped from the frame of the car, from the edges of its bumpers. The windows were blurred, save for the two arches where the wipers had recently swept drops from the tempered glass.

The car didn't belong there. Not in that parking lot. Not in that town.

The rain having passed, the titanium gloss of the newly acquired Mercedes S-class gleamed in the setting sun. Next to it, a rusty, seventies-vintage Ford Granada sat silent, its engine having long since cooled; its owner had pulled in hours ago.

Across the macadam parking lot – crumbled in places, weeds sprouting up through the cracks – was the front door of the tavern.

Frank's Tavern. Green Bay Road. North Chicago.

Like the weather-beaten Granada in the parking lot, Frank's owed it style to the seventies. It was dark and dank, some windows clouded from years of smoke and grime, others just simply blacked out. A long, scarred bar ran along one wall. Behind it, an elderly gentleman cleaned dirty, ten-ounce draft glasses, his furtive eyes occasionally scanning the patrons.

A few neon signs advertising alcoholic beverages – some of which were no longer available – along with heavily shaded overhead lighting provided scant light for the tables that were haphazardly arranged along the other walls.

From the rear of the tavern, the sound of a cue ball striking a blue-striped ball emanated throughout the space, somehow penetrating the smoke-laden and alcohol-tinged air.

In a corner, four aluminum-and-pleather chairs were set around a wobbly, Formica-topped table. A handbag – the latest offering from the Florence design house of Gucci – sat atop one of the chairs, and a sweating vodka gimlet floated on a pool of condensation on the table. The table was otherwise unoccupied.

Off to the side of the bar were the bathrooms. Behind a door marked with the universal symbol for 'male' stood Donna Morgan. She observed her image in the small mirror above the wall-mounted sink; the manicured index finger of her right hand traced the outlines of her left nostril before delving between her shiny, crimson-glossed lips.

"Mmm," came the rumbling from deep in her slender throat as her silky tongue slithered around her delicate finger.

She gingerly lifted the rolled twenty dollar bill from the edge of the sink, twirled it to make the roll tighter and bent at the waist, feeling her heavy, bra-encased breasts sway beneath her slim torso. She put one end of the tube to her right nostril and bent further, bringing the other end to the thin white line of powder that stood out against the faded porcelain.

Closing her open nostril with a finger tipped in bright red polish, she inhaled deeply, the cocaine disappearing into the tube, exiting deep in her nostril. She stood upright again, dropping the rolled currency, not caring that it unraveled in the sink. She tossed her head back and savored the sensation of the cocaine sliding through her nasal passage and down her slender throat.

She righted her head and leaned in closer to the mirror. Her bright blue eyes, softened by lightly powdered cheeks, sparkled in the harsh light cast from the bare light bulb above. She brought her left hand to her face, a manicured finger extended, and gently ran the nail along the edges of her right nostril.

The diamonds of her engagement and wedding rings gleamed in the stark light. A decadent sneer masked her classic beauty.

Donna stood upright again, her pink tongue darting from between her full lips and swiping at her still extended finger. She ran her tongue across her gums and gleaming teeth, feeling them go numb, and stepped back from the filthy sink.

Smoothing her palms down her ample chest, the corrupt wife and mother felt her nipples thicken and throb. Her vagina moistened and she rubbed her wool-clad thighs together, hoping to quell – if only temporarily – the smoldering heat building deep within her pelvic bone.

Her lithe body knew what was in store. Shortly, the conservative oxford cloth top that hid the saline-injected breasts would be torn from that lithe, little body, the ivory buttons clattering across the worn hardwood floor of some apartment. The elegant wool pants would be bunched in a ball before being thrown in a dust-filled corner. In all likelihood, the thong that wrapped around her trim waist and hairless crotch would never do so again and the clasp on her overworked bra would be rendered useless.

Donna Morgan was somewhat of a regular at Frank's. Once every two or three weeks, she would trek up to North Chicago from Winnetka, have a few drinks, and buy and eight-ball of cocaine to last her through her next visit.

More often than not, she received a discount for the eight-ball, paying only half-price. She used her sinful body, wicked mouth and utter depravity to make up the difference.

Not because her dealer required it of her, but because she enjoyed it, yearned for it. There were safer places for her to feed her habit, dealers more discreet and secure. But she came to Frank's nonetheless. Not for the atmosphere or even the blow, really. She came for the discount. For earning it.

Rubbing her thighs together again, feeling her fluids saturate her vagina, the thumbs and forefingers of each of Donna's dainty hands closed around her turgid nipples, pinching them lightly. In the mirror, she observed them elongate, tenting the fabric of her cotton top, casting a slight shadow against the bright white fabric. With a quick flick of each wrist, her lustful eyes nearly rolled into her head, her nipples twisted and deformed beneath the soon-to-be-discarded top.

A shudder having passed through her sexy body, satisfied for the moment, she released her nipples, smoothed the front of her top again, and departed the men's room, the door clanging shut behind her. She sauntered across the room toward the empty, cigarette-blemished table, her heels a barely audible crack against the grimy tiled floor of the tavern.

Looking for her companion, her dealer, she swiveled her head left and right, her lustrous blonde hair whispering against her shoulders, before spotting him leaning against the pool table, talking to another patron.

Donna continued back to the table and sat. She pulled her cell phone from the bag to see if she had missed any calls; she hadn't. She retrieved her drink from the table, crossed her lightly muscled legs, and leaned back. Taking a strong pull from the tumbler, her massive breasts pulled at the fabric of her shirt, her obscenely erect nipples readily apparent to anyone who glanced her way.

After a few minutes, her companion returned.

"Ready to go?" he grumbled, stuffing his wallet back into his grease-stained jeans.

"Where are we going?" Donna responded, a coy look passing across her face.

"You goin' straight home? That what yer tellin' me?"

"So what if I do?"

"Then you owe me another bill, that's so what if."

"And if I don't want to pay you another hundred?"

"Quit fuckin' around, slut. Let's go."

Donna stared at the man, her piercing eyes playful. After hesitating a moment, she gave him a curt nod, drained her drink down her throat and rose. She was a little unsteady atop the three-inch heels as the drug had rendered her joints weak, rubbery.

Her companion moved off, toward the door, and Donna, grabbing her purse, followed.

"Catch ya later, Frank," he called out, pushing the door open and stepping into the humid evening air.

Donna caught up with him then.

"Should I follow you?" she asked. "Where are we going tonight?"

"Don't you worry about where," the young man responded, turning to look at the little North Shore housewife. With no effort to conceal his lecherous thoughts, his eyes traveled down and back up Donna's sinuous body, pausing briefly at her protruding nipples. His cock stirred in his jeans, rubbing roughly against the denim and the cool steel of his zipper.

"How 'bout we just go in your car? You can drop me back here later," he suggested, though it was more of a plan set in stone than a suggestion.

"Okay," she allowed, her voice somewhat meek.

Donna led the twenty-year-old across the parking lot to the Mercedes, fishing the remote control from her purse and unlocking the doors.

"New car?" he asked, barely interested.

"Yes. We just got it two weeks ago." Donna moved around the car to the driver's side door as the young man opened his door and began to slide in.

"What's this 'we' crap, huh? You and your husband buy this thing?"

"Of course," she responded, tucking her sexy body behind the wheel, and inserted the key into the socket.

"He know you have one of his cars in North Chicago?"

Donna laughed, twisting the key to start the car. "I doubt it. I doubt it very much."

"He know you gotta black kid in your car?"

"Of course not," she began, putting the car in reverse and twisting her torso around to see out the rear window as she backed out of the parking spot. "Don't be ridiculous."

The boy's eyes floated to Donna's inflated chest again, to her engorged nipples. He brought his right arm across his muscular chest and closed two thick fingers on her right nipple. "Think he knows you gonna get fucked senseless tonight?" he asked rhetorically, roughly pinching the married woman's nipple and twisting it viciously.

Donna's right foot involuntarily goosed the gas pedal and a moan escaped her throat. The sudden acceleration pulled her nipple loose from the kid's grip and the pleasure – momentary but pleasing nonetheless – passed.

He laughed at her shameless display and straightened himself in the seat, looking out the window. "Take a left outta the lot and then a right at the second light," he commanded her.

Donna followed the young man's directions and headed north on Green Bay for a few minutes before turning right on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. As she took the turn, she saw from the corner of her eye her passenger raise his hips slightly, tug the zipper of his jeans down, and reach in. A moment later, he fished his fat cock from his pants, letting it flop against his left thigh.

She turned her head, tearing her gleaming eyes from the road for a moment, taking in the length of cock that lay mere inches from her small hand, poised as it was on the car's gear selector.

"Take a left up here," he ordered, and Donna returned her vision to the roadway. Her hand, however, slipped from the gear selector, away from her, her manicured nails scraping along the walnut trim before brushing his knee. Slowly, her slender fingers walked up his thigh, closer to the thickening length of meat.

She slid the pads of her soft fingers lightly over the spongy head, her middle finger incidentally gathering a smear of pre-cum that leaked from the tip. When her fingers cleared the ridge of his cockhead, she dragged her bright red nails lightly up its length.

At her touch, the kid's cock twitched and elongated and thickened. He could feel the heat of it along his thigh, through the denim. He thoroughly enjoyed this woman, this arrogant little bitch from one of those wealthy suburbs south of the blighted neighborhoods of North Chicago. Her body was his playground.

"What do you want?" he asked her, his voice barely above a whisper.

"This," she said, matching his tone, her shiny nails scraping back down the overheated shaft.

"Why?"

Donna's heart pounded against her chest. "Because," she began, swallowing hard. "Because I love . . . I love cock."

The young man pointed in the direction of an upcoming street and Donna flashed her indicator for a right turn.

"Why's that?" he continued.

Donna glanced at him from the corner of her eye as she made the right turn. "Because I'm . . . a . . . because I'm a whore?"

"You askin', or you tellin'?"

"Telling. I'm telling you . . . I'm telling you I'm a whore," she confessed (not for the first time), her cool fingers wedging themselves beneath the heated flesh of his cock. She wrapped her fingers around the girth of him, fingertips not able to touch, and tugged gently at the hardening rod.

"Not just any whore, either, huh? Tell me, what kind of whore are you?"

She gulped hard, clearing a lump from her elegant throat. She knew what he wanted to hear. He always wanted to hear it. She figured it gave him some sense of power over her, a feeling of control. Yet it was the one thing she really detested saying. It lowered her even further than demeaning words like 'whore' and 'slut' and 'cunt.' She pulled at his cock harder now, felt it thicken in the palm of her delicate hand, felt the veins criss-crossing the dark flesh pulse beneath her fingertips as blood rushed through them.

"I'm a . . . a coke whore," she stuttered as the boy extended a thick finger, pointing at an illuminated house and driveway.

"In there," he commanded and she released his cock from her grip.

Following the finger, Donna glided the Mercedes into the driveway and shut off the engine. When he made no move to get out, she looked at him inquiringly.

"You wanna suck me here, or go inside?"

"Inside," she pleaded.

"Why not right here? What's wrong with right here in the driveway?"

She paused before answering him. The car was silent and then the rain began again. A drop then another appeared on the windshield, and then increased exponentially until there was a steady thumping of raindrops against the car's roof.

"I'd just rather go inside."

"Come on. Just one suck. Then we'll go inside."

Donna looked at him skeptically.

After a few moments of hesitation, she shifted her tight little bottom in the seat, took in her surroundings to ensure no one was approaching, and leaned over the center console. With a deft touch, her cool, manicured fingers again wrapped around the semi-soft, thick shaft resting against the kid's thigh, raising it to vertical.

With a last look around, Donna dipped her head. Her warm, smooth tongue snaked from her mouth and swiped across the spongy head of the young man's sweaty penis. His thick fingers entwined themselves in her golden tresses, pulling her full, crimson lips toward the shaft.

Eager to feel the overheated flesh bumping against the back of her throat, Donna parted her lips, dragging them over the smooth, purple flesh of his cockhead. She felt the tube twitch in her wet mouth and clamped her lips tightly around the veiny flesh as they crowned the head, pulling it taut as she slowly, inexorably, shoved her shiny red lips down his length.

When the cockhead slid against the back of her throat, Donna fought her gag impulse, swirled her tongue around the shaft, and pulled back, leaving a shiny trail of spittle in her wake.

Before she could slide the young man's lengthening cock back into her throat, he grabbed a handful of her blonde locks and pulled her sucking mouth off of him.

"Let's go inside, slut," he decided.

Stuffing his cock back into his jeans, he opened the car door and sauntered up the sidewalk, ignoring the rainstorm. Donna was quick to follow. He keyed the door, held it for the North Shore whore, and followed her in, the enticing scent of her perfume lingering in his nostrils. Closing it behind him, he took off the worn leather jacket and tossed it on the arm of the ratty couch that was pushed up against one wall of the bungalow's front room.

"Get me a beer from the fridge. I'll be in in a minute," he commanded, emptying his pockets.

Wordlessly, Donna stepped into the kitchen, her heels cracking along the scarred hardwood planks beneath her small feet. Approaching the refrigerator, she pulled the door open and bent at the waist to survey the selection. Mickey's Big Mouth, or Olde English 800. She had heard of neither.

As she straightened, she felt his presence behind her. Before she could turn, he stepped close to her, his sinewy arms snaking beneath hers, wrapping around her trim waist.

"How do you want it?" he whispered in her ear, his hot breath sending tingles up her spine. Awaiting her response, his hands slowly rose over her taut stomach and bulging breasts, his palms brushing against her aroused nipples, pausing there, enjoying the feeling of them rubbing against his calloused flesh.

Donna set the beer bottle on the counter and braced herself, one hand on the countertop and the other against the fingerprint-stained refrigerator. Her eyes eased shut as the young man's strong fingers closed on each of her meaty nipples; his grip was light.

"The same as always," she grunted, her mouth parched.

"You sure? Had a bad day today." As he said this, he suddenly increased the pressure he was applying to the married woman's swollen nipples. He twisted first one in a clockwise direction, then the other in the opposite direction.

Donna gasped at the abuse being levied upon her aching nipples, her body going momentarily rigid. "Yes," she whimpered, her head falling forward, resting against the freezer door.

"One last chance," he offered, savagely twisting her nipples in opposite directions.

Donna grunted as the pleasure-pain shot through her breasts and into her brain's pain receptors. She turned her head to look at the kid standing behind her, her piercing eyes alight with lust.

"I said yes!" she hissed. "I want . . . it . . . rough! Abuse . . . my little . . . body!"

The words had barely spilled from Donna's sensuous lips when the young man's thick fingers curled and gathered the fabric of her oxford in his fists. Quick jerking motions with each hand sent the buttons of her top flying. The man yanked the tattered top off her tanned shoulders, allowing it to drop to the filthy kitchen floor.

He pushed the older woman hard against the refrigerator, jamming her soft cheek against the freezer. He slid his hands between her heaving body and the cool, burnt-orange aluminum and found her bra-encased breasts. Ignoring the triple-clasp between her lightly freckled shoulder blades, the young man gripped the top edges of her bra cups and ripped the bra downward, causing her inflated breasts to spill over the tops.

"We off to a good start?" he taunted the woman. "This rough enough for you, Donna?"

"Mm-hm," she whimpered, the coolness of the refrigerator door soothing her throbbing nipples.

"Want me to call you 'Donna'?" he inquired in a low voice, again gripping the older woman's hardened buds – now bare to the stale air that permeated his little-used kitchen – between his fingers.

Pinned to the refrigerator, she remained motionless, silent save for her ragged breath.

The kid tugged at her left nipple, pulling the augmented breast to which it was attached form between her trim torso and the door of the refrigerator. She sobbed at the assault on the now tender teat.

"I said, you want me to call you 'Donna'?"

It was barely perceptible, but she shook her head.

The young man brought his lips to her ear and inhaled her scent. "What should I call you then?" He knew the answer; he was simply taunting the woman, appealing to her prurient desires.

While she hesitated yet again – he figured it was all part of her game, creating the ability to deny her own debauchery – he sunk his fingers into her overblown right breast and pulled it, too, to her side. He kept his waist at the upturned cheeks of her bottom, holding her there, and lightly ran his fingers along the sides of her bulging breasts, reveling in the exquisite sensations of her soft, supple flesh.

"Mrs. . .," he heard between pants. "Mrs. . . . Morgan."

"What!?!" he intoned, feigning shock. "You want me to call you by your husband's name?" As he spoke, the young man's hands slid down her torso, over the ridges of her rib cage, to the waist line of her wool tweed pants. He wedged them between her crotch and the refrigerator, finding her belt buckle and pulling it loose.

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byISawYourMommy© 9 comments/ 130312 views/ 15 favorites

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