Detached

* * * * *

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the result of my imagination or are used within a fictitious context. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, places, or incidents is entirely coincidental.

WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual relations and acts. You must be of 18 years of age or older to continue. If you are offended by the material suggested herein, DO NOT read any further. You have been warned.

* * * * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't have much experience writing in the second person, or in the present tense, so please forgive me any lapses in perspective or otherwise. I am also experimenting with different forms of formatting in my writing, so there may not be a whole lot of consistency among my works. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

~M

* * * * *

You want me.

Your eyes haven't left my body since the second I entered the bar. Your greedy gaze—a starving wolf eyeing a lamb—consumes the curves of my flesh so fittingly. You swirl a tumbler of Jack Daniels absently in one hand, no longer enticed by the taste of whiskey. I am something better for you to devour, to satisfy your appetites, to humble your hunger.

I shift my stare from the slim shards of ice floating in my half-empty glass, turning to focus my attention elsewhere while subtly sliding my eyes over to where you wait. Predator replaces prey, and I take my time to take you in. There is epic masculinity etched in every inch of your body, openly projecting your prowess. Heat flushes my core.

Our gazes meet: mutual invitations. From beneath lowered lashes, I lure you with a look from the corner where you lurk. Your eyes flare with lust, but futility flickers in that desire-fuelled fire: you want what I can't give; I need what you don't have.

I don't let it get to me.



I sip slowly on the straw in my drink, losing myself in the distraction of sights and sounds around me. The bar is packed with people who seem as oblivious to you and I as we are to them. They dance in near-blackness to music—how could I not hear the music?—which pounds rhythmically in such a way that it seems impossible not to associate it with pounding of an entirely different nature.

When the ice eventually clinks to the bottom of my glass, I turn my eyes up to yours. Your once-greedy gaze is now positively famished at the sight of my lips, which remain pursed on the tip of the straw, and the symbolism is not lost on me. I deliberately stroke my tongue up and down its length several times, watching as your eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and a minuscule tick develops in your jaw.

You down the rest of the Jack in a smooth motion and replace the tumbler on the bar with a heavy thunk.

I tilt my head away to hide my smile behind a fall of my hair.

My victory is short-lived. Without warning, you pull me by my waist from the barstool and grind your arousal into the curve of my hip. My breasts press flush against your broad chest, effectively forcing my face upwards, should I still wish to breathe—which no longer remains a problem, since the sudden intimacy between our bodies forces a gasp from my lips and leads me to the realization that you are much larger than I first thought. Cream floods my sex, and I am ready for you in a heartbeat.

I try not to let that get to me.

Your triumphant smile sends shivers down my spine with the promise of more wicked sensuality as you cup my face between your hands, slant your lips over mine, and capture me in a kiss. The five-o'-clock shadow of your unshaven stubble rasps along my cheeks with a delicious friction, and my knees give out from under me, driving me to clutch at your body for support. You take advantage of my momentary weakness to urge my legs up and around your hips as you explore my mouth with yours, passionately probing with your tongue in a way that claims as well as arouses me.

Our passion is wild, fierce. You tangle a hand into my long, tousled hair; I plunge my tongue into your mouth. You nip my lower lip with your teeth; I fist a hand into your shirt. Your immense hardness is impossible to miss as it settles between the junction of my thighs. My panties are slick with my wetness as I unconsciously begin to rub myself against you, searching for release, and eliciting deep moans of pleasure from both of us. The intensity of my need is near unbearable, seeking that instant gratification which is only moments away—

—when the two of us collide with the wall farthest from the bar, jolted out of our kiss. Somehow, you managed to negotiate us through the crowded dance floor and, most conveniently, into the darkest corner of the bar. Fortunately, with the chaotic conditions of the ambience, our erotic entanglement seems to go unnoticed.

My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. We are still clutching at each other enthusiastically, panting with need: your erection strains at the zipper of your jeans, my lips are swollen from your kisses, my panties still soaked through. You spin us so my back is up against the solid brick wall and tug a small silver packet out of the back pocket of you jeans, tearing it open with your teeth.

We exchange brief, final glances, giving each other the opportunity to opt out of what's to come before neither would have the will or desire to do so. And in the relative privacy of the darkness, neither is willing to call it quits.

We eagerly resume kissing as I take the condom from your hands. You reach up my dress and peel off my panties, casting them aside as I unzip your jeans. You're not wearing boxers, and your erection stands rigid from your body. I am somewhat stunned by the size and length of your hardness, and compelled to consider how you manage to fit into your jeans. But your teeth nip at my lips and your hands tug at my waist, reminding me of where we are, and I gently roll the condom onto your stiff manhood.

With the cool firmness of the smooth brick bracing my back and the sizzling heat of your rock-hard cock at my entrance, you once again urge me to wrap one of my legs around your hips as you position the tip of your erection at my centre. I am so slick with my juices; you need no preparation and slide right in to the hilt. The feeling of fullness takes a few moments to adjust to, but you begin moving deep inside me and I am lost to the pleasure.

We settle into a rhythm with the beat of the music playing; the dark, sensuous bass thud-thuds along, becoming a soundtrack for your powerful pumping. We moan together in ecstasy, grunt softly to your thrusts, and breathe in each other's scents as if breathing oxygen.

Your fingers grip my hips tighter as your thrusts become wilder and more forceful, rubbing up against the most sensitive spot inside me. I wrap both my legs around your hips, urging you deeper within me. With every stroke, I can feel my orgasm approaching. My nails dig into the fabric of your shirt as muscles all over my body begin to seize. Biting back a scream of pure ecstasy, I climax violently around you, my inner muscles clenching around your cock.

Just as I'm rolling through another round of post-orgasmic spasms, your body starts to shake as you thrust forcefully once, twice, three more times, and come into the condom with a barely audible groan. I arch my back against the wall, curving into you as your fingers find and rub my clit, and climax a second time, milking the final spurts of seed from your cock, shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.

We collapse against the wall, letting it hold us up like that for a while as we recover from the intensity of our sex. After a minute, you grip around the base of your slowly softening member, keeping the condom in place as you slide out of my body with a soft pop. I slump breathlessly against the wall as you peel off the condom, discard it in a nearby garbage can, and replace your cock in your jeans.

We don't say anything at all. There's nothing to say, really. Our eyes meet for one final time. There is nothing in yours. No flare of lust, no spark. No reaction. I imagine mine look just the same. By the time I retrieve my panties from the floor, you've already disappeared into the crowd.

For a moment, it saddens me to think that if I'd known your name, I'd have been calling it out over and over as I came. And I wonder if you'd have done the same.

But I won't let that get to me. I can be every bit as detached as you.