Decisions

"Oh my god, hi, Mr Blakesley!"

Chris shouldn't have had that last drink. Maybe it was the painkillers? Or the anti-depressants? He wasn't supposed to mix them with alcohol, and, well, he had done that a fair bit. It was unlikely that anyone at this rowdy bar would have spiked him for nefarious activities. Not with his greying hair and his rumpled clothes that he hadn't changed from a full day's lecturing. He shouldn't be here, but he'd got to that desperate despondent stage in his tiny little studio flat, and well, he might be pushing forty but he still remembered the fun and freedom of a night out drinking.

So now he was here, head whirling, deafened by music that he didn't recognise, staring like a rabbit in the headlights at the second-year student who had squealed his name.

"Molly."

"Hi!" she said again, sidling closer. She was wearing a shimmering golden dress that made his eyes hurt. "Are you allowed in here?"

That pissed him off, even though morally she was right. "They don't check IDs for 'too old', you know." His voice came out a little unclear. Shit. He had to do better. Pretend better. He should be good enough at that by now, after all.

She laughed. "Okay." She stepped even closer and put her hand on his arm. His entire body prickled at the sensation. How long had it been since someone had touched him? Several weeks, at least. She went on tip-toe and shouted in his ear, "Well, what are you here for?"

The hot rush of her breath on his ear made him shiver. Had she... Was that the innuendo that it had sounded like? He gazed back at her. Just for a moment. Just to indulge. Just to look at the way that her gaudy dress was too short, and too low-cut, pushing her breasts upwards. They didn't need any help, those plump, freckled breasts. He'd already had to look away from them once or twice, if she was on the front few rows in his class.

(Or looked, if she was further back and his direction of gaze might not be as noticeable. Just once or twice.)

Images filled his head, hazy and remote. His dick stirred, but only a little. He could barely even remember what sex felt like. The pills made even masturbation infrequent and unsatisfying.

How long had he been looking at her breasts for? Time was buzzing irregularly between the beats of the terrible music. She was still looking up at him. Her lipstick was a ridiculous shade of ... blue? Colours looked wrong in here.

Everything was wrong, because he was wrong. He shouldn't be here. He tore himself away from her beguiling presence and headed for the smoking area outside.

Or tried to anyway, the floor felt soft and unreliable under his frantic feet.

The night air was cool on his face. It was quieter out here. Gratefully, he let the brick wall prop him up. Just as he was relaxing;

"Mr Blakesley, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he replied, on complete autopilot, and let his head roll to the side to face the persistent Molly. She looked even prettier away from the dim lighting of the bar.

"Are you sure?" She stepped far too close to him, peering up at him with a frown. She smelt like roses. "I thought you might be being sick. Thought I'd come out to check."

"'M fine, Molly." The slur in his words was getting stronger now, but he was losing his ability to give a shit. "You should go back in. Dance, or something."

She rolled her eyes, hard. "Or something. Come on, there's a chair over here."

"What?" She didn't answer. He didn't resist when she grabbed his hand and pulled him along behind her. It was all he could do to stay upright.

Sinking down onto the chair felt like the best thing to happen to him ... possibly in a couple of months? Just the absolute relief of not needing to stay upright anymore. It was a cheap metal chair and probably was supposed to be uncomfortable to drive people indoors again, but he could very happily have passed out like this.

Then a heavy weight landed on his lap, and his eyes flew open in alarm.

"That's better, isn't it?" She grinned at him.

"Molly?" Automatically he steadied her with his hands on her hips. His hands sunk into her delicious curves, and he saw that in this straddled position her dress had ridden up virtually to her waist. Her underwear was white and lacy, puffed out by thick curls of hair underneath. The thought of soft, slippery heat against his fingers and tongue made his dick stir again. He dragged his imagination back from the brink. This was terrible. This was already enough to get him sacked. "Molly, what?"

She leaned forwards, grinding herself against his crotch and whispered in his ear,

"I've seen you staring at me in the lecture hall, Christopher."

Embarrassment warred with arousal. Fear of the trouble he could already be in warred with the hot hiss and snap of her whispering his name like that. He didn't use his full name, but it was on his staff profile on the university website.

"Don't," he mumbled as she drew the zip of his flies down. His lips were numb.

"Why not?" She gently ran her fingertips up and down the bulge in his underwear.

"You're a student." He couldn't bring himself to say 'my student', not right now. Not when he couldn't take his eyes off her breasts, straining forwards at the very edge of the neckline.

"Well done." She rolled her eyes again, then sat back and reached into his underwear. His heart raced as she took him in a firm grip and eased his dick free. Already this felt better than his most stringent efforts recently.

"Please don't." He pushed fruitlessly at her waist. She seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and his limbs felt like spaghetti. And anyway, what would happen if he did that? If he shoved her off his lap? Accusation of assault, for certain.

"Ssh. It's okay." Molly patted his cheek. "You're really drunk. You're not in your right mind and I'm very sexy. It's okay."

"Yeah, 'm drunk. It won't ... it doesn't ..." He waved one hand clumsily at his crotch. Maybe that would put her off?

"Seems to be doing all right so far." She stroked him again, nice and firm, then rubbed the tip with her thumb. He shuddered. "See? You're loving this."

Any inclination to fight seeped out of Chris with each delicious pull of her hand. He was long past risking his job, and it wouldn't matter that he'd been incapacitatingly drunk and she'd made all the moves. Who would believe that, when he'd come to this stupid student bar in the first place?

"I said stop," he said, so weakly that he wasn't even sure the words had made it from his brain to his mouth.

"Yeah, you did, but like, I don't believe you. Look at what your pretty cock is doing." Molly held her hand in front of him. It was wet with precum. Automatically, he stuck out his tongue to lick that away. She laughed, loudly enough that a jolt of alarm burned through his blurry consciousness. They were alone outside for now, but that couldn't last forever. "Kinky bastard, you like your own cum." She pushed her fingers into his mouth, hard enough that he choked. She laughed again, but patted his cheek with her sticky fingers. "You men. Never know what you ask for when you demand we shove your cocks down our throats."

Chris, who had never made such demands and was actively turned off by choking sounds, found himself slurring, "Sorry," regardless.

"You're so polite. I always wondered what you'd be like. So fucking buttoned-up at the frot of the room with your laser pointer." She rubbed his cock against the lace of her underwear and moaned like a porn actress. "I'd do it, you know. I'd give you the blowjob of your dreams, but it's harder to hide. But I think I can ride you here. Do you agree? You're hard enough now, and fuck knows I'm wet enough."

"Are you?" The question came out before he could stop it. Her gleeful face danced in front of him like a succubus from his darkest dreams.

"Oh definitely. Do you want to feel? That's so cute. Here." Molly grabbed his hand. Two of his fingers met confused sensory inputs; dress-lace-skin-lace-hair-soft-skin-WARM until at last his fingers slid inside with an audible squelch. Dazedly, he moved his fingers around in her wet, silken channel. She moaned again. "See? I knew you liked me, Mr Blakesley. Christopher, I mean." She laughed breathlessly then took his wrist to remove him. "Clean your fingers up. Don't get my dress all mucky."

He missed his mouth on the first try, smearing her juice over his cheek and lips. She smelt musky and sexual. His dick throbbed. No way out of this now.

"Come on, then. Let's go." She shifted forwards, and he made an embarrassing strangled sound as his dick pressed against the warm hairy heat of her. Lace scraped him on one side. Maybe that would hurt tomorrow. Then she was rearing up just a little, and then, fuck, his dick was encased by her tight, wet core.

His senses splintered after that. The sound of the metal chair creaking and scraping as she rocked on his lap. His hands, dangling uselessly by his sides, knuckles knocking against the metal legs. The feel of her breasts engulfing his face, smothering him every time she leaned forwards, pressing against his helplessly gasping mouth. Her words, scattered and breathless, washing against his ear. Most of all, the constant feel of her tight around him, teasing him with movements not meant for his pleasure. The tightness in his lower regions winding unbearably but never cresting. Worse than any unsuccessful session with his own hand.

"Please." That came out like a whimper. He didn't care. He felt like weeping. Like punching something.

She made an ungodly sound and collapsed forwards over him again. He had lost count of how many times she had come.

"Please what?" she panted.

"I want to come." Wanna come, that sounded like. Incoherent.

"Hm. Well, you have been very useful, definitely. It's probably fair." She shifted backwards and he slid out of her. Wet dick, cold in the night air. He cried out, a wordless animal cry of unhappiness and loss. But she stopped it with a kiss. Sticky lipstick, her tongue pushing into his mouth like a whole new invasion. "Shut up, you idiot."

Her hand closed around his dick and started a punishing pace. He cried out again and bucked his hips. Her lips descended again, biting, tongue-fucking, muting his desperation.

It didn't take long for the pressure to finally blow.

When Chris woke sometime later, he was slumped over a table, head pillowed uncomfortably on his arms. Had the table been there before? He had no idea.

His flies were still undone, and his limp cock lay shrivelled and damp. He tucked it away. Went to tuck his shirt in too, and realised that it was covered in his own cum.

She must have caught it there.

She. Molly. He shuddered. A stone of pure terror dropped into his already roiling guts. She could ruin his life. One stupid decision. He didn't deserve that.

He had to get home. Maybe in his flat with the door locked, he could convince himself that none of this had happened.