The Filthiest of Strangers

For a Wednesday night, the bar was quiet. I sat atop my barstool, nursing my martini and staring blankly off into space, mindlessly considering my questionable life choices.

"You look like you're getting low. Can I get you another?" inquired the bartender, noticing that my glass was nearly empty.

I nodded and set back to work. The words flowed easily with all that I had on my mind. The week had been hectic as usual. I was a bit overwhelmed in the office, yet under-whelmed in my personal life.

My sex life was less than fulfilling. I hadn't been in a serious relationship since my boyfriend of six years and I split up months earlier. I missed him, despite the fact that it was I that had pressed for the break up. I thought perhaps I was missing out on something infinitely more exciting and that parting with him would allow me the freedom to see what else was out there. Now he was the one in a committed relationship while I chased cheap thrill after cheap thrill.

There had been a string of meaningless dates and clumsy fumblings in the crowded bachelor pads of a handful of anonymous clods that I had mistakenly lent by body to. It's not that I regretted those encounters, but they were pointless, so perhaps I should have considered them a waste of my time.

My friends were all committing themselves to others, beginning to marry and have children. Jealously occasionally gnawed at me, when I witnessed their contentment as I continued to struggle with my restless spirit. I found myself all too often, sitting at that bar, or cozied up in one of the overstuffed lounge chairs, furiously typing naughty stories into my laptop. My laptop was getting more action than I was.

On this particular Wednesday night, though the lounge was quiet, or perhaps because it was quiet, my eyes settled on an older gentleman seated across from me. He wasn't especially good looking. His brown eyes were wide set and they sparkled and danced beneath the dim bar lights. He was a man of mature age with a thick, well-set body. The outfit he had chosen was understated, yet well tailored. I was drawn to the sense of confidence that radiated from him.

I heard him order a Johnny Walker Blue Label, straight up. These drinks sold for thirty-five dollars a glass. Clearly he had expensive taste. As he spoke, I found myself quivering with a delicious sense of attraction. He had an accent, which sounded either Australian or New Zealander. It lent him an exotic appeal that made me want to hear more from him.

I'm not sure how long I sat studying him, but when our eyes finally met, I felt embarrassed, as if I had stared too long, like an obvious, desperate woman.

He must have assessed the situation differently because he smiled, raised his glass and took a sip while staring straight at me. In that moment, his gaze was not the only thing I wanted boring into me. A thin smile crept across my face as I contemplated my wicked little secret. My smile must have provided an invitation, because he asked the bartender to refresh my drink at his expense. When my third martini arrived, I knew I was in trouble. I could typically handle two without starting a buzz but three would make me more than a little tipsy, and four would turn me into a complete slut, hence the earlier reference to the clumsy fumblings in all those cramped bachelor pads.

I smiled and raised my glass toward him, mouthing "thank you."

He picked up his scotch and ambled toward me. I saw the hint of a knowing grin on the bartender's face, as he pretended not to notice the relationship that was budding under the influence of his liquor.

"So," he began as he approached, sliding easily onto the stool next to me, "what did I just buy you?"

"A martini." I smiled shyly.

He wrinkled up his nose. "I'm a scotch man, myself," he added, wrapping his thin lips around the rim of his glass and taking a long sip. He closed his eyes, as if savoring every drop that slid down his throat.

"What's your name?" he asked, his hushed voice ripe with discretion.

"Claire. Yours?"

"Marcus."

Oh come on. He's got to be full of shit.

"That's an unusual name," I offered, hoping not to offend. "Where are you from, Marcus?"

"Australia, near Melbourne. Are you a local?" he asked.

"I am now," I smiled, sipping my martini. "I was born and schooled in Illinois, but I came here for work and it just kind of stuck."

The typical questions followed. "What do you do for a living? Where did you go to school? What brings you to Madison?"

Then he asked me the question I'd been waiting for.

"What do you do for fun, Claire?"

"Well, right now, I'm getting to know you," I answered, grinning seductively. I'd always wanted to use that line on someone.

"Here's to getting to know one another," he smiled back, raising his glass to toast our meeting. I tipped the rim of my martini glass into his while maintaining deep eye contact with him.

You're coming home with me, Marcus, I thought mischievously. For some reason, this confident man was spinning a web of desire around me. Perhaps it was his naughty, flirtatious nature, or his appearance of wealth. Perhaps it was my third martini getting a jump on the fourth, rendering me a bit horny. Whatever it was, I was determined to fuck him.

The early evening was surrendering to the darkness, and the bar lowered its lights at exactly six o'clock. The music that had been barely detectable in the background became a bit louder, thumping around us suggestively

.

"Do you dance, Claire?" he asked.

I felt a bit awkward. Was he asking me to dance, or was he merely curious about whether or not I do dance?

"Doesn't everyone?" I answered, leaving the door open for him to clarify his meaning.

"Well then, how about giving this stranger a turn on the dance floor?" he held his hand out to me and slipped off of his stool.

My heart fluttered apprehensively against my chest.

"When I suggested that I dance," I smiled nervously, "I meant alone. Naked in my living room under the influence of a few glasses of wine."

Marcus leaned in closer to me and brushed his lips against my cheek.

"I'd pay to see that," he said in a gravely voice as he slipped his arm around my waist, swaying with me right there beside the bar.

Jesus. He is a master of seduction.

I felt him motion toward the bartender. He's trying to get me drunk, as if that will increase his chances of getting laid. I smiled in spite of myself. He's getting laid anyway. Maybe I should open the door for him.

"I'm not sure another drink is a good idea." I flirted. "I tend to get a bit reckless after awhile."

"Then it's definitely a good idea." His grin was absolutely devilish and it made me quiver again, just like I had when I first laid eyes on him.

"Tell me Claire, are you a bad girl?"

Oh good fucking god, this is the sexiest thing that's ever happened to me.

"Do you want me to be?" I queried. "It's all relative anyway, isn't it? I mean, what do you consider bad?"

He pulled me closer, until my breasts were flattened against his chest.

"If you're willing to let me, I'll show you things you've never seen. Then you could judge for yourself."

Oh, this is dangerous, I thought, instinctively knowing that I should pull away.

"I think I could do that," I replied softly. What am I doing?

We collected our drinks and I followed him through the deserted service corridor. Marcus peeked into the women's room to assure that it was unoccupied and when he was satisfied, he pulled me inside, and locked the door.

Holy fuck.

"What are you doing?" I asked, somewhat tentatively, almost afraid of his answer, yet exhilarated by the adrenaline that was coursing through my body.

"Trust me," he said, pushing me up against the counter. I set my martini glass beside his scotch and he lifted me up onto the counter. My legs wrapped around his waist and my arms found their way around his neck as our lips met for the first time. The taste of scotch on his mouth was delicious and inviting. My head was swimming now, perhaps under the influence of the drink, perhaps under the weight of my growing desire.

I was suddenly aware of my incredibly full bladder. If I was about to get laid, I needed to empty out first.

"One minute baby. I need to pee." I hopped off of the counter, but he blocked my path.

"I was hoping you might say that," he whispered, pulling me into the handicapped stall. "I have to pee as well."

Um...does he really expect me to pee in front of him? I might fuck him, but come on. Really? Marcus didn't budge. I could see that he expected me to hike my skirt up and urinate right there in front of him. He began unbuckling his pants to await his turn.

Oh well. I've peed in front of people before though it has never been a sexual thing. I raised my skirt to my hips, pulled my panties down to my knees and sat down.

"Farther," he said in his husky voice, motioning to my panties. As I let them fall to my ankles, a victorious smile erupted across his face.

"Spread your legs," he commanded in a gentle yet certain voice.

I did.

"Lean back."

I did.

The cold, knobby pipes dug into my spine. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. This was the most surreal, yet surprisingly erotic encounter I'd had in my life. My bladder was so full that it was throbbing inside of me, yet I found it difficult to get the stream started with him watching. I reached behind myself to tickle the skin just above the tip of my ass crack, which always ignited my urination. The stream began, hesitantly at first, then with more fullness, until it was as if a faucet had been turned on. I sighed with a great sense of relief as the bright yellow rain poured out of me.

He reached into his trousers and pulled out his cock. It was large, and already rock hard. I had had other lovers, but suddenly realized that I really didn't pay any attention to their cocks. I couldn't tell you if they were straight or curved, white or brown, rippled with veins or smooth. I stared at Marcus's cock as if it were a completely foreign object, amazed that he was pulling it out in front of me. Then he did the most unexpected thing.

As I sat there in amazement, draining the last of the piss from my greatly relieved bladder, a forceful stream of mostly clear urine flowed forth from the head of his cock and hit the water in the toilet bowl. He was pissing between my legs! I thought he wanted me to open my legs so he could watch me pee, but he had wanted them open so he could pee between them!

This is really too much!

His aim was pretty good, as if he had done this a million times before. Then he began to shift his position so that the stream of urine, which he must have been holding for hours, dribbled over the inside of both of my thighs.Oh good Christ. This is unbelievable.

Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, his stream stopped. He sucked in a sharp breath, as he adjusted to the discomfort of having forced himself to stop pissing. His face was twisted with a complicated mixture of pain and pleasure.

"Give me your hand," he commanded.

Oh, ick, I thought silently, but I held my hand out anyway. What black magic this bizarre man possessed that would make me surrender all good judgment and decorum, I'll never know.

When his stream had rebuffered, I felt him drizzling my palm with his warm, steamy fluid. He grunted as he shook the last droplets of his urine onto me. Without saying a word, he pulled a piece of paper from the roll, wiped the head of his penis, and tossed the paper between my legs. He handed me another piece so I could dry my hand, and yet another so I could dry my legs.

After he stepped out of our stall, I was overwhelmed with the combined urge to have a good cry and a good orgasm.

"Thank you, Claire," he said, lifting his glass to his lips and walking to the door. "I'll meet you back at the bar," and with that, he slid back into the corridor and out of view.

I relocked the door, so I could clean myself properly. The last thing I wanted was to smell of a man's urine.

I can't say I was angry, though this man clearly took liberties that I would never have extended to anyone else. I was really more confused and surprised that I had allowed myself to engage in such an illicit act.

Four martinis. I shook my head. Perhaps my limit should really become three. I smiled to myself before heading out the door and back into the bar.

Marcus was seated on the same stool beside my own, perusing the bar menu.

"Anything look good?" I asked, hopping up beside him.

His eyes traveled up my calves, over my knees to the hem of my skirt, which rested at mid-thigh. My shoe dangled off the tip of my toes, and my perfectly arched foot hung dangerously close to his own leg.

"Your legs are quite lovely, if you don't mind me saying so," he mentioned casually.

I just let you piss on me and you're wondering if it's okay to comment on my beautiful legs?

I had to smile at his incongruous nature. It was almost as if he were improperly wired. A socially retarded man that while not adept at the art of human contact, was still somehow so enormously desirable. As my eyes traveled over him, studying the nuances of his face, I felt an ache deep inside of me like I'd never felt. He made me want him, without trying, by simply sitting there. I wondered if he could feel my desire. Did he know how wild he was making me or did he assume that I made a habit of letting strangers piss on me in public restrooms?

I sensed that while he was willing to have casual, sexual encounters with strangers, he was nevertheless, unattainable. I knew after that night, I'd never see him again. He would return to Australia to resume his quiet, suburban life, and I'd go back to work still feeling his piss on my thighs. If I played my cards right, I'd feel so much more. Just thinking of it made my pussy tighten and twitch. It wanted him. I wanted him.

We spent the next hour enjoying appetizers and a couple glasses of red wine. I had become completely intoxicated, trying desperately, and perhaps in vain, to appear even half sober.

"Marcus," I started cautiously, lowering my gaze toward the bar, "if you don't have any plans this evening, would you consider coming home with me?" It was then that I looked into his beautiful brown eyes with slightly more confidence. I wanted him to sense that I was certain of what I was asking.

"I thought you'd never ask," he replied, swallowing his last drop of wine, and taking my hand in his.

Within twenty minutes we were headed up to my apartment, overlooking the lake.

I had done well for myself, purchasing a prime piece of real estate that could make most locals swell with envy. Perhaps Marcus would see me as something more worthwhile than a whore that he picked up in a bar. Perhaps he'd view me as a more sophisticated, successful woman.

The apartment was decorated with an eclectic mix of African art and middle-eastern tapestries. There were plants everywhere, making it feel as if I had brought a bit of the outdoors inside. The vaulted ceilings made the rooms feel a great deal larger than they were. The wide screened, high-definition television in my bedroom betrayed the wanting in my sex life, however, there was a small wooden chest at the foot of the bed that contained a plethora of sex toys. I guess my sex life wasn't so much lacking, as lonely.

I was pleased with the impressed look on his face. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted to leave an indelible mark on this stranger, making it impossible for him to forget me.

As he toured the condo, I poured him a glass of Yellowtail Shiraz.

"I'm not sure if you like this stuff, but it's Australian." I smiled.

"Thank you Princess."

I melted and my knees turned to jelly at the sound of him calling me 'Princess.' I'd never experienced such a strong, visceral reaction to a man. The unexpected nature of this reaction awakened something in me that, to this day, is quite indescribable.

We set our wine glasses on the table beside my bed and I reached for him, unbuttoning his shirt in agonizingly slow fashion. Each button popped open to reveal a toned chest, coarse with dark hair. I reached in to run my palms over his pectorals as I reveled in the feel of his warmth and the sight of my hands against his skin.

As I leaned in to place my lips on his, he took my face in both hands and tilted my head down so that he could dot my forehead with his tender kisses. His hands traveled down from my face over my neck and shoulders, barely brushing over my ample bosom until they came to rest on my forearms. He turned me around so that I was facing away from him and I could feel his erection pressing along the crack of my ass. It nestled snugly there and throbbed against me, leaving me aching to be penetrated by him.

He pushed my skirt up along my thighs, and pressed against my upper back, half forcing me, half guiding me to bend over, so that my ass was now peeking at him through my sheer, navy blue panties. He was clearly aroused at the hint of my crack as it teased him from beneath the silken underwear. A spontaneous, throaty moan escaped his lips, driving me into even greater heights of ecstasy. I wanted to feel him inside of me in the worst possible way.

My sex was fully engorged, anxious and painful, begging each time it pulsed, for him to penetrate it, yet he remained fixed, pressing his rigid cock against me, and riding the waves of pleasure that were coursing through his body. I leaned back slightly to press myself harder against him, and flexed the muscles of my ass tightly, until I was gripping his cock just inside my sweet, taut rear end.

Marcus's hands gripped each hip and pulled me back even farther, until we formed a united mass of hot, pulsing desire. One of his hands dropped behind me and I could feel him fumbling with his belt and fly.

Thank god, I silently prayed, as I sensed that he was about to fuck me. Oh god, I want him so badly. All I could think about was the feel of his cock pressed deep inside of me. I was in an incredibly vulnerable position, with a man that I really didn't know; a man whom I was sure hadn't even told me his real name. It was the sexiest damn thing I'd ever experienced, full of illicit, dangerous tension. It was wrong and filthy and I loved it.

He tugged at my panties until they slid down my thighs, and dropped to the floor. They were moist with my juices and I could smell my sweet fragrance. I'm sure Marcus could as well, and he inhaled deeply, savoring it.

"Oh Princess," he sighed as he exhaled.

Again, I swooned.

"I want you to ask me to fuck you," he whispered.

"Yes, please," I responded.

"No. You have to say it. Say, Marcus, please fuck me in the ass."

Fuck me where?! Shit, oh my god. I was speechless and motionless. My body tensed. I had never had anal sex with anyone. I wasn't an inexperienced lover in general, but this was something that had never been introduced into my repertoire. I was scared and I could feel my body begin to shudder.

Marcus felt it too, and ran a reassuring finger down my spine. "It's okay, Princess. When you're ready, ask me. I want to please you."

His words were like magic, and they put me at ease. He had convinced me with that one sentence that his pleasure would be borne of my pleasure. While it had never occurred to me that I might want to be fucked up the ass by a mysterious stranger, it suddenly seemed very possible that this might be exactly what I wanted.

Jesus, how did I get here?

And without further deliberation, I heard the words fall from my lips as if they had been spoken by someone else.

"Fuck me up the ass. Please, Marcus, I want you to."

My body instinctively started to lurch forward as I felt the head of his cock press against my tentative, virgin ass.

"Lube would be good. I recommend lots of it," he said. "It'll definitely make this more pleasurable for both of us."