tagHumor & SatireSeven Ten Split

Seven Ten Split


Nathan Kay

"I know two very bad secrets about this situation," the girl said to him, near the entrance of the bar.

"The first is that you're still in pain."

"I'm in pain?"

"Yes, you're haunted by your ex-girlfriend."

"No, no," he lied. "That's been and done. What's the second secret?"

"I can't tell you."

"Tell me," he demanded, with his beer breath filling that small space between their faces.

She looked into his drunken eyes for hope.

"The second secret is that we will have sex tonight."

He knew he was dealing with a woman in want. She wanted more than just sex, but he knew that she would use it as a tool, and that probably it would be good. He didn't care too much for caution at the end of the night, drunk, with a determined girl.

They made too much noise locking up their bikes in the courtyard. A light came on

above from one of the apartments in the block.

"Why are you here?" She said.

"I live here."

"Why?" She pressed. Her eyes were that of a hypnotized pelican.

"What are you really asking?"

"Maybe I should go."

"Do you want to go?"

She locked her bike to his, saying nothing.

"Shhh," he said and led her up the dark narrow side stair of the building.

"How long will you stay in this city?"

"Another year at least," he said, "I don't know."

She said nothing.

He gave her a glass of tap water as soon as they were in the door. Then he

went the bathroom to check that the toilet wasn't disgusting, washed his hands

and balls in the sink, and returned to the kitchen.

"You're in pain." She spoke with her eyes as well as her mouth. "I can see it."

"I'm okay. What do you mean?"

"You're not ready."

Her words were cryptic and intense. Her craziness was making itself known to him.

"Oh, my ex. That was a long time ago now. Since I last saw you a lot has happened."

"You're healing?"

"It's over," he said, getting tired of being on defense.

He kissed her on the neck. Her hair smelled of smoke and skin cream. She responded by pushing him back against the kitchen sink. His cock stiffened, and he knew she liked the feel of it against her stomach.

Shirts came off easily.

He was good at removing a bra with one hand. The index and second finger pull the top side upwards as the thumb pushes the other strap forward and under, creating a natural space for the hook to open in. Although he was left handed, he unbuckled bras with his right. This bra came off instantly, with no lapse in momentum.

Their jeans were not as simple. Hers came off remarkably well, but he had difficulty. Because he was trapped between the girl and the kitchen sink, he had little wiggle room, and so he just let them drop to his ankles. The problem with this is that then he had bunched up jeans, underwear and socks binding him and limiting his movement and stance.

"Take them off," said the girl. He stepped on his jean leg with one foot and pulled the other leg upwards, turning the jean inside out and squeezing the foot within the leg of the jean. This only made things worse of course, because now his balance was compromised. The girl backed up and watched as he crouched down and untangled himself.

He returned to eye level.

"You're sexy," she said. Momentum returned, he thought.

Now naked, they felt each other's bodies and kissed. Sucking on one tit, he could smell her armpit. It wasn't great, so he returned to her neck (smoke and skin cream).

Then the girl put one leg up on the counter and attempted to mount him. It didn't work this way, so she put the other leg up as well.

He helped her out by sitting his ass on the edge of the sink. The only problem as they fucked like this was that there were several dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter. The girl knocked some of them as she moved her body up and down.

"We're going to fuck a lot," she told him.

"Yeah?" Did she mean tonight, or over some undermined future?

He felt a wet saucepan touch his ass. This, coupled with his concern about the possibility of broken dishes, led him to push her back down off the counter.

"Don't worry about dishes! Fuck me!" she hollered at him. He was sure the neighbors would complain the next day. They had before.

He led her to his desk chair and turned her around.

"Oh, you want me from the back," she fluttered.

He felt more and more like fucking and less and less like talking, but he wasn't entirely selfish about that fact. sure how to get that across to her.

"Put your knees up on the chair." She did, and they fucked briefly in this position. The chair rocked and squeaked. Then the girl's arm slipped and she lost her balance for a moment. She stood up, took a few steps to the sofa, laid down and opened her legs.

"Penetrate me," she said. "I want you to penetrate me."

Who said words like this? He hadn't heard this from a woman ever before. It seemed so scientific and methodical like a german, robot. He didn't say a thing, but did penetrate her.

"Do you like penetrating me?" she said. Her eyes were that of a witch looking into a book of potions -- creepy, determined, and with some kind of evil plans.

"Mmmm, yes," he said, "it's really good." He didn't know what to say. He wasn't used to making running commentary while playing the game himself. He knew, though, that he would have to play along.

He fucked faster and her legs flew around. A loud throng banged in the room as something hit the floor. His guitar had been knocked off it's stand by one of her flailing feet. He ignored it for a moment, but then couldn't bear the image of a musical instrument laying awkwardly on the floor. He stopped and put it back on it's stand and then remounted.

"Tell me what you see," she pressed. "I want you to tell me."

"I see a hot pussy, mmmm." He kept it simple, and figured that making it in the form of a compliment couldn't hurt.

"I can see your cock fucking me." Her passion never wained, he appreciated, but it was getting on his nerves.

"Tell me more."

"I'm fucking you. Yeah."

"Fuck me harder."

"Yeah," he added, as he mustered some energy.

"Fuck it deeply. I want you deep."

There was only so far he could go, and he hadn't left anything in reserve. He pretended to plunge deeper than he had before, but really he was at the same depth with slightly harder and slower movement. It was enough to fulfill the illusion: she puffed a deep moan burp in his direction.


She pushed him off and led him into the bathroom. She stood in the bathtub and turned on the water nozzle.

"Shower with me," she said with her eyes and lips.

"Just a second." He took out his contact lenses. His eyes were beet red and burning from the smoke in the bar.

He stepped into the shower. They kissed hard as she held the water on them with a free hand. Both of them standing, she put one leg up on the edge of the tub and he tried to put his cock in her. The angles were off, and it wasn't working. She passed him the nozzle and kissed some more. He could smell her armpits again as they kissed, and tried to aim the water in their direction as best he could, but without soap (it was too difficult at this point to get the soap going) the best he could hope for was a light rinse. Better than nothing, he thought.

Then she put her other leg up and stood high above him. She tried to lower herself onto his cock. He moved to accommodate her position and managed to get his cock in about half way.

6 Almost-empty shampoo bottles rattled onto the floor like knocked over bowling pins. He wasn't bowling a strike here, though -- more of a 7 - 10 split.

He imagined that she could do the slippery splits at any moment and crack her ass (or head) on the tub.

He turned turned the water off and lowered her out. Now that he had good position on her, he entered her from behind. She looked at him in the mirror.

"Fuck me," she bellowed. Her voice came from inside an oil drum.

"Yeah," he managed.

"You're so vain, looking at yourself in the mirror while you fuck me," she said.

"I'm not vain, I can't see anything without my contacts."

"You can't see anything?" He fucked her harder, squinting at the mirror.

"Blurs. I can see moving blurs."

"Fuck me then," she whispered deeply and leaned over to take it.

After a few moments they stopped.

"Let's go to the bed," he said.

She laid on her back. To him she looked like a pool of flesh - a loose sack of bone and fat.

"Do you want me?" she spurred.

"I want you."

"Kiss me," said as she rolled her eyes up in their sockets.

He did as told. Now it was about tricking himself enough to make it to the finish line. The shower had sobered him up, and he struggled in his mind to maintain some kind of blind perverse interest. Her eyes and words were showing the signs of bitter loneliness. That's the problem with uneven levels of desire between two people -- one gets desperate, the other repulsed.

"Penetrate me," she whispered, her eyes closed. He cringed as though he just took a mouthful of sour milk.

"I'm fucking you now," he irked.

"Do you love my pussy?"

"I love your pussy," he lied.

The acting was bad, and he was too sober now not to realize that fact. He could go along with some sincere words of passion on any night, but this wasn't that kind of night. She was acting theater - projecting, embellishing, overdoing it. He hated the theater.

"Do you love my tits? Suck them. I want to watch you sucking them."

"I love your tits," he lied, and then sucked a mouthful.

"They're natural."

"And beautiful." He was now on autopilot, in a trance, lying and playing the game. The end was near.

"Finish yourself!"

The invitation came at the perfect time - he didn't know how long he could maintain the trance. All he had to do now was come.

"Come on me. I want it all over me."

"Yeah," he said, working harder, taking care of business.

"Come on me. Come on my face." This intrigued him, and surprised him. He had seen this in porn, of course, but had never done it. He had tried with girlfriends before, but at that crucial moment hadn't been able to defile them.

Now was an opportunity. He could take out his negative thoughts about her.

He pumped her with power and vigor. She was nothing. She was flesh. She was meat. He came on her. He shot as upwards stream on her chin, cheek, eye, forehead, hair.

Then clarity returned.

He felt awful.

He felt like an asshole for all the thoughts he had been having. The girl. The poor desperate girl had been acting for him, doing what she thought he wanted. He knew this now. He wiped her face of with the sheet, kissed her other cheek, flopped down.

Then, "Taste it. Lick my face. Lick my tits," she commanded.

Holy shit, he thought. The inner rage returned, ....then the guilt. The last laugh was her's and she didn't even know it: The last thing he wanted to do was lick up his own come, but now he had to, out of guilt.

He did it, a remorseful criminal taking his lashes.

Then something extraordinary happened. The girl got up, dressed, and left.

"You're still in love with your ex-girlfriend," she said as she walked out.

"Yes, maybe there's still something there," he said.

It was a good story to the tuck the night in with.

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