Just One More Drink

It had been a hell of a week, and it was only Tuesday. With the recent loss of a major client, the atmosphere at the company had been tense, to say the least. When my last meeting cancelled, making it possible for me to escape the office in time to catch the sunset, I decided I deserved a drink.

I called Kris, who had worked at the company before and been a big help to me when I started out the year before. She had moved on since, but we had kept in touch and I knew she would be happy to lend a sympathetic ear.

She picked up after two rings, and before I had the chance to suggest a drink she announced that she was drunk. "Get over here!" she said. "I'm just out with Greg and Keelan."

I hesitated. I love Kris's husband Greg, and I like their friend Keelan too. The four of us had spent many nights so immersed in conversation that we had ended up much drunker and out much later than planned. We always joked that the company was so good that we were a danger to ourselves.

In fact, we all got along so well that it seemed only natural that Keelan and I had shared a few nights together after I had ended a long-term relationship earlier that year. He apparently hadn't felt the same way, however, since he had politely distanced himself after a few weeks. He'd been away most of the summer, and I hadn't seen him since the last time I woke up at his place.

Fuck it, I thought. We could still be friendly; we were both adults. I told her I'd be there and hopped on the metro.

As I stood, swaying on the train with the rest of the miserable commuters, my mind drifted to the brief affair we had shared. I'd been attracted to Keelan instantly: his strong arms, piercing eyes, self-assured confidence. He was older than me, 36 to my 24, and just starting to go grey, which I liked. After a respectful amount of time mourning my breakup, I mentioned my crush to Kris and she made it happen. She arranged for the four of us to go out together, and by the end of the night we couldn't keep our hands off each other.

That first night, when we went back to his place, we stayed up talking and flirting and kissing until the point when we were too tired to take it further. It was exactly what I needed in that moment: I felt seen, I felt heard, I felt desired. We shared his bed that night and he kept a hand on me the whole night, even when one of us would shift, half-asleep.

We went out a few times after that, and there was always good chemistry, inside jokes, intense eye contact, but somehow it kept happening that I'd stay over without it turning sexual. I loved the way he looked at me, how we argued about politics and art and social issues, how we teased each other, how he held me all night as we slept, but after a few weeks I was getting frustrated that we hadn't taken the physical intimacy further than kissing.

In the end we only had sex once, a fairly anticlimactic event after so much anticipation. It was another morning after I had stayed over, and I was up early to get ready for work. He watched me from the bed as I dressed, and I'll admit that I put on a bit of a show, all while pretending not to. I stretched luxuriously in the soft morning light of his bedroom, bent over to collect my clothes from where I had tossed them the night before, turned to fasten my bra so that he could see my torso silhouetted in profile. He pulled me wordlessly to him, kissed me, and removed all the clothes I had just put on. His hands explored between my legs and found me to be already wet, excited from my own seduction and the possessive, assured way he undressed me and touched me. We kissed as he took out a condom, then he slid inside of me easily, and I moaned as I took the length of him.

It was awkward in the way that having sex with a new person for the first time in a long time can be, but thrilling for the same reason. I loved the way he gripped my upper arms, thrusting into me, and he grinned when I wrapped my legs around him to pull him deeper into me. When he came, he collapsed on top of me, and we enjoyed a few moments of sweaty, contented panting and cuddling before I had to rush home to get ready for work. The sex hadn't been earth-shattering, but it was satisfying, and I was glowing all day from the thrill of it.

We saw each other a few times after, but fell back into the pattern of talking and kissing and sleeping together without sex. Eventually he distanced himself, finally admitting that he wasn't "looking for anything right now." I was disappointed, and a bit confused—I knew he found me attractive, and I'd had enough experience to know I was good in bed—but I'd seen it coming. I genuinely hoped we could remain friends, since I had come to enjoy his unique brand of humor and the conversations we had shared.

By the time the metro arrived at my stop, I was determined to be confident and casual, to show him that I was fine with what had happened between us and that I was happy to see him again, without expectations. I checked my reflection in a shop window as I walked to the bar and was pleased that I happened to be dressed well for the occasion: a sleeveless white top that accentuated the slight tan I'd gotten over the summer and a patterned skirt that hugged my slim waist and fell loosely to just above my knees. When I walked up and met them at the bar, he caught my eye and I was proud to be seen.

Kris and I hugged and spent some quality time catching up as the boys talked and I had my first drink. Keelan kept meeting my glance across the table, but his smiles seemed more friendly than coy. Eventually our discussions merged and conversation flowed comfortably, with the four of us getting along as we always had. We debated, we teased each other, we shared drinks. At one point, I was gesturing to make a point and Keelan caught my hand, holding it in his and caressing it gently as he argued with me. I didn't hear a word that he was saying, though I held his gaze.

Somehow, the bar was suddenly closing and the waiter, who knew us as regulars, brought us a round of shots on the house. We laughed at ourselves since this was a common problem: here we were, drunk on a Tuesday night, again. Kris and I protested the shots at first, but we did them, like we always did, and then they tried to convince us, like they always did, to have "just one more drink" at another bar down the street.

I was tempted, but I knew I had just about twenty minutes left to catch the last metro home, and I said so. Kris tried to offer to pay for a cab, but then Keelen leaned in close, his breath whispering along my neck; "You're welcome to stay at mine, of course. No pressure, no obligation. But I'd like to spend more time with you." I agreed, and he took my hand as we walked on to the next bar.

It became apparent as we walked that Kris and Greg were feeling the drinks a bit more than we were as they stumbled and made stupid jokes. They went up to order as Keelan and I grabbed a table, and he leaned in again to be heard over the music, placing a hand on my knee.

"I want to apologize for the way I behaved a few months ago," he said. "It's no excuse, but I was coming to terms with some personal issues and I pushed you away as a result. I'm sorry."

I assured him that he had nothing to be sorry for, that I was fine, that I was over it. I didn't feel quite as over it as I had, though, as he held my gaze with his piercing eyes.

"Let me make it up to you. You deserve better."

I told him he didn't owe me anything, that I was glad to see him. He reached up to run his fingers through my hair, tantalizingly slowly, and pulled me to him for a kiss. His hand moved up my leg, under my skirt, stroking my inner thigh, gently, patiently. He looked deep into my eyes.

"Come home with me."

He kept at least one hand on me for the rest of the evening, casually but confidently claiming me. We were both giddy with renewed excitement in anticipation of what was to come. Kris kept shooting me knowing looks across the table. For possibly the first time in our history as friends, we really had just one more drink. Keelan paid the bill and we began the fifteen-or-so-minute walk back to his place.

I was tipsy by that point, excited and flirty, teasing him and making stupid jokes, but within a few minutes, his mannerism changed. He became quiet, brooding. Finally he stopped me on a street corner, held my hands, and looked at me apologetically.

"You're welcome to stay with me, but I don't think we should have sex. I'm sorry if I led you on."

I was hurt, confused. "Why not?"

"You're a good person. I'm not. You deserve better than me."

"I don't understand. You're a good person. I don't care about what happened before; that's over. I'm not looking for anything serious either."

"Why do you like me?"

"What?"

"What do you like about me?"

I was perplexed. I liked his confidence, mainly, but I wasn't seeing that in this moment.

"I like the way you look at me. The way we talk, and I know you're not interested in me just for my body. I like the way you hold me when we sleep together, how you always keep a hand on me."

He nodded silently, his expression distant, considering it.

"And sexually? Do you like what we've shared so far?"

"Well... we haven't shared that much. No offense. I mean... the first time was good, but it'll get better the more that we see each other. But yeah, I liked it."

He nodded again. I was baffled, no longer sure if he was insecure, or rejecting me.

I tried another tack. "Are you happy with what we've shared so far?"

"I think you're beautiful. And intelligent, and lovely to spend time with. But I also think that you're innocent... You're young. I don't want to take advantage of you."

Suddenly I wondered... the piercing gaze, the controlling touch, his gentlemanly manner, his perfectionist tendencies...

"I liked it when you pulled my hair," I said.

He met my gaze, thought for a moment. He stepped towards me, gathered a fistful of my hair, gently but firmly, and pulled me to him.

"Like this?" he asked.

I nodded, as best I could with my head pulled back.

"What else did you like?"

"I like the way you touch me like... like I'm already yours."

I saw him take a deep breath as a wave of lust swept across his face. He raised an eyebrow and I held his gaze, then he pounced, pinning me to the wall, one hand still in my hair, the other pulling my hip towards him, groping my side, my ass. We kissed feverishly, first on the lips, then I worked my way down his neck and back up, kissing and nibbling up to his earlobe, his free hand still roaming my body...

Abruptly, he pulled back, grabbed my wrists, and pinned them to the wall above my head.

"Did you just fucking bite me?" His eyes were like steel.

I was struggling to focus as I caught my breath, my chest heaving. "What? I... Sorry?"

"Do it again."

"What?"

"I said, 'Do it again.'"

Hesitantly, I leaned in, kissing his neck softly, licking, then bit him gently just below his ear.

He growled, and suddenly his hands were ravishing me, everywhere at once, squeezing my breasts, my hips, my ass, tantalizingly close to my pussy... As I moaned and squirmed against the wall, he bit my earlobe, gently but firmly, pulling back slowly so that my earring came off and fell to the street as he pulled away.

"Pick it up."

He released me, and I knelt down, searching for the earring and its back on the pavement, my heart pounding. I felt him watching me, and once I'd found them, I looked up at him as I fumbled to put them away in my bag until I had the chance to clean them. He took a handful of my hair again and pulled me up, looking at me intensely.

"You like this?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

He looked at me again.

"This is what I'm like. This is what sex needs to be, for me. Are you okay with this?"

I nodded, emphatically. "This is what I want. Not just for you. I want it too."

His gaze finally softened, but his grip didn't. He laughed, shaking his head, and, gripping my upper arm, he began again to lead me back home.

"You need to choose a word, so that I know that what I'm doing is okay. If you say the word, everything stops."

"A safe word. I know. We can just use the traffic light system, right? Red means stop?"

He stopped again and spun me, trapping me with his arms against another wall. His eyes were hungry and pleased.

"What do you know about all this?"

I smiled back, coy and just as pleased as he was. "I've done some research."

He leaned in to kiss me again, and I gasped as his hand roamed between my legs, rubbing my swollen clit through my panties, working his finger around the edge to slip underneath them, grinning to find me dripping wet.

"You're a little slut, aren't you?" he whispered, his eyes delighted and intense.

My cheeks flushed immediately. "Yes... Sir."

He growled again. "Color?"

"Green. Definitely green."

He kissed me again, then pulled me after him down the street. I followed on unsteady legs, the alcohol and hormones and excitement clouding my brain.

We walked in silence for a few minutes, holding hands, my head spinning, thrilled at the turn the night had taken.

"I never would have guessed."

"Guessed what?"

"What a little slut you were. Here I was afraid of corrupting you."

I grinned. "I want you to corrupt me."

He stopped again, looked at me again with his eyes full of lust.

"Fuck, you are naughty."

I smiled.

He narrowed his eyes and stepped back, looking at me. He folded his arms.

"Stand against the wall."

I obeyed, leaning back, holding his gaze.

"Lift up your skirt. Show me your panties."

I glanced around the street. It was late, there were no other people in the area, but it was a residential neighborhood and there were lights on in several of the apartments above us.

"Do it."

I took a deep breath and lifted the skirt, exposing the pink lacy boyshorts I wore. I couldn't be certain, but I was fairly sure he was able to see a dark patch between my legs, evidence of my excitement. I finally looked away.

"You're already wet."

I blushed. I couldn't meet his gaze, my eyes and ears alert for any sign that someone might see us.

"Why are you wet?"

"You did this to me. The way you touch me. The way you look at me."

"Why does that make you wet?"

I hesitated. I knew the answer he wanted. "Because I... because I'm a little slut."

My cheeks burned, but I felt exhilarated. Vulnerable.

He leaned in to kiss me. "Good girl."

His fingers explored under my skirt again, this time pressing into my aching wet slit. I gasped, curling into him as he held me against the wall. He pushed two fingers into me, his thumb circling, pressing my clit. I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning as he fingered me, every sense on fire.

"Do you like it?"

I nodded, too distracted to catch my breath enough to speak.

His fingers stopped their deft ministrations. "Say it."

I opened my eyes. He was looking at me, patiently but sternly.

"I like it," I said.

"Say what you like."

My voice was soft, but I was honest. "I like how you're fingering me. Your hands inside of me."

"Where are we?"

"I like what you're doing to me... in the street."

"Anyone could see."

"Anyone," I agreed.

He kissed me again, passionately, my knees almost giving out as his fingering became faster, rubbing my clit furiously and thrusting into me.

"I am going—to take you home—strip you naked—and do terrible things to you," he announced between kisses.

Half-delirious with desire, I mumbled, "So do it already." The walk from the bar should have taken fifteen minutes, it had already been about twenty, and we were only halfway there.

Abruptly, he pulled away. I caught my breath and opened my eyes to see him glaring at me.

"I—sorry. I was joking." I reached to stroke his arm. "I just want to be alone with you."

His gaze didn't soften. "Turn around. Lift up your skirt."

I did as he said, bracing myself against the wall, very aware of my own juices smeared all over the inside of my thighs.

Silently and without ceremony, he slapped my ass—once, twice, a third time... he grabbed the stinging cheeks in his hands, rubbing and squeezing them. He leaned in close, and I felt the bulge in his pants pressing against me.

"Color?"

"Green."

He leaned back again. "I decide when we go home. Understood?"

I nodded. "Yes Sir."

He tugged my shoulder to turn me to face him.

"Good. Now take off your underwear."

I obeyed, stepping out of my ruined panties and balling them in my fist, aware of what a mess I was under the skirt.

"Give them to me."

He stuck them in his pocket and leaned in to kiss me again."You have a great fucking ass," he whispered. We kissed again, until we heard the laughter of some other drunken stragglers making their way towards us. He put his arm around me, his grip firm on my shoulder, and we began walking. The skirt was long enough that I knew we would appear innocent to any passerby, but the slipperiness between my legs wouldn't let me forget how exposed I was, his grip on my shoulder was sending bolts of electricity to my core, and I could barely walk straight with how turned on I was.

We walked in silence, Keelan steering me, my breath finally calming as we neared his building. My mind raced ahead, imagining everything he might do to me when we arrived.

Suddenly, when we were just around the corner, he pulled me in the opposite direction. I opened my mouth to say something but a swift glance from him kept me silent. He led me to a dimly lit alcove, a sort of entryway to a building that appeared to be permanently closed. It lent us some privacy from the street, but was still very much public.

He pushed me up against the wall and attacked me again, kissing me, biting me, mauling me, one hand filling my wet slit and the other ravaging my breasts. I surrendered to his touch, moaning softly, thrilled to finally be experiencing the same intensity I had seen in his eyes in a physical way.

After a moment, he pulled away. He looked at me, still moving inside me, his other hand moving down to cup my butt. "You have a great fucking ass," he repeated.

I grinned, proud to know that he was enjoying this as much as I was. "Thank you."

His fingers, which until then had been softly pushing in and out of my slit, began to gently explore my cheeks, my crack, teasing and tickling my third hole.

He looked at me again, this time gently. "Have you ever had anyone up there?" he asked.

I answered honestly, "I've had fingers but nothing else."

"Color?"

"Green."

He kissed me again, pulling me to him. His finger, lubed with my juices, pressed against my rosebud insistently, rubbing at the same rhythm as his hips against mine. As I relaxed, he pressed harder, entering me. My breath caught as he sighed with pleasure. He began to push further up into me, gently but firmly, his bulge stiffening more with each millimeter he gained.

I felt thrilled and deliciously full, dirty and pleased to be pleasing him. But as he began to work his finger in and out, fingering my tight asshole, it began to hurt. I whimpered a bit and he slowed his movements, bringing his other hand down to massage my clit. My juices hadn't been enough, and my asshole burned with every movement, I squirmed, wanting to accommodate him but I couldn't relax.

He read my body language and pulled out, kissing me softly to show me that it was okay. He pulled back and took a breath.

"Turn around."

I couldn't believe he would spank me again for not being able to take him. But his eyes were kind, and I decided to trust him. I turned to face the wall, still not totally relaxed.