Eleven Seconds in the City Rain

This story was written for the 750 Word Project 2024, below this line are exactly 750 words:

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The taxi hit an ugly bump. I flinched in the cab's rear and turned my head to the passing house. In the tall bay window on the second floor, a man stood naked and dripping with sex. He had pecs like slabs of flat river rock and little ridges of abs that poked out like bone. His dark hair was wet, slicked back behind his tilted-up chin, and the bobbing wedge of his Adam's apple looked so delicious that it made me bite my own lip because I could not bite his.

Wrapped up in his tattooed fingers, the thickness of his cut cock pointed to the window, and he stroked with vigour as, barely out of sight, the soft body of a blonde knelt worshipfully beneath him.

My jaw inched open, my finger tracing the window as if to make measure of him, and audibly I gasped, flooded with the bare thirst of wanting him to fill me.

The heat welled in my thighs, the rhythm of my heart hammering between my legs, and I tucked my knees together as my cheeks burned hotter than wildfire. Around the cab, curtains of rain fell in shimmering, twisting ribbons as they washed the city's concrete like waves on a darksome shore.

We began to pass the house, but my gaze lagged behind, mesmerized as he stroked with a thunderous rhythm. There was a tremor in my leg, a bouncing madness that told me to go to him, to bow before him like his blonde.

Take me, my heart cried. Possess me. Please me. Love me. Fitfully, it begged for all this and more—but the taxi rolled on, and soon we passed them.

I had seen handsome men. I had fucked handsome men. I was in love with a handsome man. Yet the shiver moved from my breasts to my knees, and the outline of that fresh memory lingered behind my eyes with all the black heat of an afterimage of the sun.

Rain pelted the cab windows, the wiper blades crying whick-a-whack, whick-a-whack, whick-a-whack.

My mind lightened like the sky after the storm, and there was an empty ache inside of me for what had been. I had seen a god, haunting and rough and elemental, and what now did the storm's sweet afterglow matter next to his righteous power?

I set my eyes forward, staring blankly and letting the memory hang heavy on me as might his gripping hand hang at the back of my worshipful head.

I would have given anything to kneel before him, to feel the weight of his strokes, to see the curved dangle of his cock, to hear his graceful grunting as he neared release. There is nothing so delicious as drinking up the gruff, pained yearning of a beautiful man whose primal pleas beg for the right to desecrate blessed purity.

And I would take all of him if he offered. He could disabuse my throat of all limits and inhabitions and fill my belly with his every sacred drop. He could splash himself across me and watch me lick it up, or I could spit him out, and he could watch his cum flood my drooling chin, bathing me from glistening chest to aching lips.

In that senseless moment, I would have given him anything had he only asked. But he didn't even need to ask, did he? He could take it—and that was a man who knew how to take it.

I listed left at the hardness of my nipples, then adjusted and took an unsteady breath.

There was a pang in my heart that I would never have him. To him, I did not exist; I was something unknowable, less than air, and I could not even be ignored. And still I could see the image of him and his good blonde. She must have been beautiful and elegant and so many more things than I could ever hope to be, and I crushed my lips together, wishing just once a man like that might groan and say Good girl to me.

My phone buzzed. My fiancé's smiling face appeared, and it roused me from my horny stupor. I grew my own dreamy smile, feeling silly. I didn't need a perfect god to fuck me stupid. I needed a man, loving and decent, and already I had that and more.

I flicked the screen and put the phone to my ear. "Hey, baby. I was just thinking about you."