Complicit Prey

The club was dark and smoky. I don't smoke, and I don't particularly like the smell when other people do, but I had been here exactly three weeks ago with a party from work, and there was absolutely no way I would not be here again tonight.

I had my Cosmopolitan in hand, tossing the ridiculous straw aside as soon as I'd tipped the bartender, and I'd squirmed my way to one of the long barrier tables adjacent to the dance floor. A big crowd of guys had just abandoned their seats because their number had come up for a pool table, and I grabbed a chair before the thronging mob could devour them all. Crossing my legs and facing the dance floor now, searching for tonight's goal.

The heavy bass sound made which actual song was being played barely distinguishable, if even relevant. It was evident the people on the dance floor were not concerned with lyrics, or melody: the dozens of bodies were here for the pulsing rhythm, to see and be seen moving to it. The clothes were high-fashion; most bars save their heavy dress code for men, knowing that no one cares exactly what women are wearing, as long as it reveals enough for titillation. This place, however, insisted we wear dresses, as well as suit coats for the guys; this assuredly cut into the numbers of their clientele, but they apparently made up for it with their exorbitant cover charge. And the ten-spot I had to throw down for this fucking cocktail. I sip it slower. I'm not rich and should really have accepted that drink from the guy with the bad moustache.

He's not here yet. He's coming, though; I can feel it in my bones.

Of course, that's what I had felt the last two weeks, too, and fat lot of good it had done me. A three-dollar gulp followed that thought, and I shook my head, but I refused to give in to frustration. I was using every iota of karma I had to modify the universe to my liking, and I'd decided that meant he justhadto come back, because if he didn't I wouldn't find him.

I was down to my last dollar worth of the drink, and summoned the waitress to get me another, when suddenly I looked out past the dance floor to the other side of the club and saw him with a group of his friends. Most of them made their way to the dance floor, but he held back, sitting down by himself at the table, and looking directly at me. Predatory.

It was always the innocent-looking ones that got them, of course. I was demure, looking sweet as pie, like the thought of a cock inside me would be frightening. That got them hotter than anything...especiallywhen it was a lie. And it was, because the façade was there for a reason: I was embarrassed by my wants and needs. Whenever someone finally invaded my head deep enough to find out, I was so pent-up and desperate that my gratitude was impressive. Very impressive.

My dress was black, form-fitting, and somewhat short, but nothing outside of the bounds of what I'd wear to listen to the preacher's sermon on Sunday. I held my head high with what I'm sure looked like a self-righteous arrogance when faced with the orgiastic body-tumbling on the dance floor, and only the flare of my nostrils betrayed any difference with what I was feeling inside. My legs were crossed tightly, primly, and I sipped at my next drink slowly and carefully. I had a ring on my finger, although it was, of course, impossible for him to tell if it denoted betrothal or the full deal.

He wouldn't care. Three weeks ago, in a politely brief but nonetheless stunning conversation, I had seen something in his eyes which I'd loved. Something which had called out to me in a voice like a caged animal. Something low.

Now there I sat, again, watching the mob on the dance floor, absently tapping my immaculate red-painted nails on the table as I felt the alcohol start to take me to a dangerous place. He was blatantly staring at me now, willing me to look his way, and I waited precisely three minutes longer than eternity before I finally conceded.

What I saw in his gaze made my heart race. I dropped my eyes back to my drink, my table, anything but back at him.

I glanced back up to him. His smile was... dark.

I looked for something—anything—in my purse. I drank most of the remaining half of the cocktail. I stared at the dancers again.

He'd apparently seen enough. He stood up and walked my way.

I didn't look up as he sat down.

"Hello, Jane."

I glanced into his face, then away. It hurt deliciously to look at him for too long. "Hello."

"You were here three weeks ago."

"Yes."

"Do you remember me?"

A pause. "Yes." I suppressed a shudder.

"I remember you, too."

Silence.

"Look at me."

I struggled with my inhibitions for an instant, then slowly turned my eyes up to his. I tried hard to conceal the yearning I felt.

"I thought so," he commented casually, his lips twisting in a smirk that was anything but casual.

I knew he'd seen past my front. Embarrassed, I looked away again.

"I'm bored here," he continued. "The music is getting tedious. So I'll be walking out that door in three minutes."

I understood and stopped myself from begging him to put that off.I'm not ready yet. I think I nodded.

"See you later, Jane," he said, heading toward the restroom.

I fled, leaving the rest of the cocktail. I didn't want this, ever... except when I did.

At the door, I gave a hurried, almost scared look back as I moved out. There he was, leaving the rest room, noticing my abandoned alcohol. I ran out, turning left once I passed the bouncer and the velvet-roped entryway, and burst out onto the sidewalk where limousines and valet's plied their trade. My pulse thudded in my ears, almost overwhelming theclack-clack-clackof my heels as I moved to the corner and into an alleyway. I heard footsteps behind me, muted, rushed, and I reduced my speed once I'd entered the streetlamp glazed passage between buildings. Not stopping, but slowing.Waiting. This game was ending soon.

As he passed the edge of the building I saw him in the yellowed sodium light, paused on the brink of decision. I looked at him, looked at the alley entrance, and made my choice. He saw it on my face and entered.

He pursued me confidently, at ease, not betraying any burning of his blood. He didn't want me to see that, but it was palpable.

I stopped at the back of the club we'd just left. He came on. There I stood, lips trembling in the warm evening, defiant... but pretenses beginning to thin. Facing him head on, finally able to meet his eyes in the darkness. Knowing what was finally going to happen, and fearing it, and wanting it, too.

And then he was there, his arms around me, and I was kissing him, eyes full-wide, staring at him in lust and in terror. I was not tender, and I wasnotinnocent.

He turned me to face the wall, crushed my face against the cinder blocks, and pressed himself against my backside. His teeth were on my bared neck and shoulder—not biting, just establishing the ownership, the right to use my flesh with his body. I panted, near-sobbing, as he wrapped his arm around my midsection and cupped my breast through the thin fabric of the dress. The nipple flared into his palm. I pressed backward against him.

He hiked up the back of my dress, caressing downward as he did so. As he had no doubt suspected, my hose stopped at the upper thigh, garter-straps holding the thin material taut. Moving the thin flap of fabric up still further revealed that the panties were conspicuously missing; my bare ass was exposed to the reflected light. He pressed that ass up against the solid bulge in his pants, and wrapped his other arm around to my nether regions, now exposed to the night air by his explorations. His hand sampled me and found me hot and drenched, and using both his fingers on my clit made me gasp, cursing and pleading.

His breath was in my ear, now, the day's growth of stubble on his cheek rough on my neck. "You want this, don't you?"

"Unh-hunh..." I moaned, as he thrust both fingers inside me, pressing on the clit with his palm.

"You've wanted this for a long time, haven't you? Do your friends know how much of a slut you are?"

"No. Just—please!"

"In a minute. I want to know how much you need this. I wantyouto know how much you need this."

"Can't you.... ummm... can't you feel how much I need it?" My voice, pleading,Don't make me say any more.

"I can feel a cunt that needs filling, yes, but I don't know why it's so greedy. Why?"

He pinched my nipple between his fingertips in time to the finger-fucking he was providing me—strokes sometimes slow and drawn-out, more often fast and urgent. "Why, huh?"

"Please..." My face was parallel to the block wall, now, my eyes staring off to the side, sometimes turning to view what he was doing. He removed his hand from my tits and undid his fly, releasing what I wanted more than anything, but he only let it rest, vibrating, cradled in my ass. I moaned. "Please..." I reiterated.

"Does he know?" he demanded, holding my hand in front of me, ring obvious. "Does he know what a whore you are? That you look fine and pure, but bare your ass for strangers?"

"No... it's not like that.I'mnot like that." Then why was I grinding my cunt onto his fingers?

"Very provocative lingerie, and no panties? That takes planning. Self-deception, if you don't know what you are. But what are you?" Digging his cock into my ass, teasing.

I was silent except for my fevered breath.

"Whatareyou?" he spouted through gritted teeth.

It was too much for me.

"I'm a slut, I'm your filthy little whore, is that what you want to hear? I need you to fuck my hungry little pussy. Now will you please fuck me, you bastard? Please, just take me..."

And he was glad to oblige; my cunt lips were slick with my moisture, and when he pushed inside there was no resistance, just smooth, juicy compliance. I grabbed him with my internal muscles, beckoning, and he responded by impaling me on his length. My breath came in spurts as he started plunging in and out with power.Yes,I whispered inaudibly.Oh, God, yes, my cunt...

He pressed me up against the wall harshly, and abused fabric cried out; this was one dress that would not be worn outside the home again. Although I knew I would put it on again, hiking it the way he had done, checking out my ass in the mirror, and fantasizing about this moment, when this cruel, cruel man was fucking me in the alley. I knew I'd finger myself and come, and he made the picture complete: he spread the fuck-fingers he'd used, and one by one forced me to take them in my mouth.

I resisted their wet flavor, at first, but as he pounded me insistently, gradually I began to grow more eager, slowly beginning to suck them dry. Excited by the taste, the smell. I was moaning, then... at my own juices in my mouth, or at his cock (and did it matter?). I felt him tighten and draw back, and he ripped his hand away from my mouth so he could hold me about the waist and thrust all the way to my limits as he gushed his hot come into my folds. His loss of control pushed me over the edge, too, and his orgasm was made that much more delicious to me when I ground my ass back at him in needy climax.

He cupped my breasts, now, gently but firmly, as I collapsed to my knees against the wall, my carefully-applied makeup smeared with pussy, eyeliner running from my tears.

And a satisfied smile on my face.

"Go home. Lie to your friends. Sleep withhim." His voice held derision. "But I know what you are. And you know what you are, too." A pause, then: "You will come back here, won't you?"

And as he redid his trousers, I nodded my head in compliance.