Authors: Sadie Stranges
I consider bringing Casey to Rev with me so I can teach her to squat and deadlift and do kettlebell swings to build an ass like mine, but rays of jealousy dry up my goodwill when I picture Chad fucking her in the dingy change room.
“I’ve seen better asses,” a man says close to my ear. The faint Australian accent sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.
Shit. I’ve been caught staring. I turn to see who caught me, and double shit—it’s Hunter, the photographer with the jacked forearms. He’s wearing a black linen shirt that clings to his perfect pecs, and it’s open just enough to make me want to pull apart the rest of its buttons.
“It’s you.” It’s all I can say in my increasingly inebriated state. So clever. I should write for a magazine or something.
“Hunter,” he says.
“Right. I remember. I’m Faith.”
Me Faith
.
You Hunter
. My frat boy libido definitely didn’t come packaged with frat boy game.
He laughs, which is incredibly kind of him because I didn’t say anything funny. His white teeth glow against his tanned skin under the club’s trippy lights.
“The fitness models I work with are usually in bed by nine and eat nothing but baked tilapia and asparagus,” he says. “You don’t often see them at a club this late with a bunch of empty glasses in front of them. You know there’s heaps of sugar in that shit, right?”
“So you’re not here picking up models then?”
He laughs again. Maybe I’ve got a little game after all. “Friend’s birthday,” he says. He points to a bottle-strewn table surrounded by collapsed couches. Perched on the edges of the cushions are a coterie of attractive, tanned mannequins. The women are wearing weird amounts of makeup, and the men have overly quaffed hair and inexplicable jewelry. Every one of the guys looks like he could be a photographer who takes pictures of fitness models’ asses for a living.
“It’s getting sloppy already,” he says. “They won’t notice if I slip away for a while.”
A while
? What does that mean? I guess this isn’t a passing hello, which means I’ll have to polish my flirting skills. But fuck it. If I can power clean a barbell with a pair of forty-five-pound plates on it, I can talk to the tanned Australian photographer with ripped forearms for a few minutes.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks.
I scan the bar for Casey. She’s laughing and poking the chest of Izzy the bartender. He’s mock-flexing it for her, and I can’t tell whether he’s being ironic, because he has the chest of a malnourished choirboy.
I tell him to have a seat and then ask what he’s drinking.
“A bottle of frothy, cold cliché,” he says, turning the Foster’s in his hand so I can see the label. He holds it like it’s a product showcase on
The Price Is Right
. “The amber nectar” he says in a deep-voiced Aussie accent that’s too over the top to be real, and he laughs some more.
I laugh too, and not just because I’m trying my best to flirt. Funny and sexy with an appreciation for toned asses is an irresistible combo.
“So when did you come to the States?” I ask. His actual accent is a shadow of his beer-commercial voice, so it must have been a while ago.
“When I was twenty-one,” he says. “I started in San Diego and then moved my way down the coast as my career got going. Then LA started getting on my nerves, so here I am.”
“Here you are,” I say. Shit. Did I just give him bedroom eyes?
This would be a good time to tell him that my husband is in California at this very moment. On business. Through which he makes good money doing fuck knows what. Money that pays for the two-hundred-and-thirty-dollar jeans that are making my ass look outstanding tonight. Money that pays for our stylish town home with its high ceilings and Martha Stewart kitchen and master bedroom with my massive walk-in closet—and the chair that I already know I’ll picture Hunter sitting in the next time I peel off my wet gym shorts.
But I don’t mention any of that. It’s at this moment that I realize I didn’t put my wedding ring back on after my workout this morning. I envision it sitting in its little wooden box beside the coffee maker, and I feel an immediate pang of guilt deep in my belly. I steal a look at Hunter’s right forearm as he grips his bottle of cliché, and I douse the guilty feeling with a long sip of my honeydew martini.
Casey catches me off guard when she returns from the bar. She’s flashing a freshly added contact in her iPhone as she approaches. Hunter’s sitting next to me with his back to her, and she looks his body up and down before shooting me a look that says, “Nice going, you sexy bitch.”
Only it won’t be nice going now that she’s here. Casey’s a good friend, but she’s not used to being sloppy seconds. There’s no way she’s going to sit idly by and watch me clumsily flirt with the most fuckable man in the club.
My heart sinks as she takes her seat across from us. “Hi, I’m Casey,” she says, thrusting her manicured hand in his face.
“Hunter,” he says, turning to look at her. And then, as if by some Haitian voodoo zombie spell cast by my hot new body, he returns his attention to me. If someone as socially awkward as me can recognize the cue, I can be damn sure Casey registered it. I watch her expression as Hunter turns away from her. Her smile stays frozen on her face, but it instantly loses its glimmer. To her credit, she doesn’t take it hard. Instead, she looks at me and excitedly mouths the words
He wants to fuck you
.
“We’re having a bit of a girls’ night,” I sheepishly tell Hunter.
“I’m really just trying to get Faith drunk so she’ll do something foolish,” Casey says. Oh my God. What is she doing to me?
“Oh? And what sort of behavior counts as foolish for a girl like Faith?” he says.
“Well, let’s see,” she says. “She gave up wheat, sugar, and alcohol, which all sounds pretty foolish to me. But then again, look at the results.” Casey gestures to my body, inviting Hunter to assess me.
“Pretty spectacular,” Hunter says, showing me his pearly whites. Casey doesn’t know that he already conveyed his appreciation the moment he met me, but that doesn’t stop me from blushing a second time.
“Of course, all of that foolishness has probably left her with some serious cravings,” Casey says.
Hunter’s eyebrows jump. Even he’s lost for words now. Good God, Casey. Why don’t you just pull out his cock and hand it to me?
“So what do you do?” Casey asks him.
“I photograph bodies like Faith’s, actually,” he says. “I work with fitness models mostly.”
“That’s too funny,” Casey says. “Faith was just telling me she wanted to get some tasteful nude shots done. Weren’t you, Faith?”
Oh God. I must be beet red now. I tell him I wasn’t, as if he took Casey’s claim seriously.
“Did you start out in the industry as a model?” she asks him. It wouldn’t surprise me. He has the looks to pull it off. I wonder whether everything beneath his shirt is as toned and tight as his forearms.
“I did some work,” he says. “No covers or anything like that.”
“So just stuff beneath the covers then?” Casey says.
How the hell can she be so quick? Now it’s Hunter’s turn to blush. Or at least it would be if he weren’t so tanned.
Suddenly Casey’s attention is diverted back to the bar. “Is that Caleb?” she shouts. I have no idea who Caleb is. “That’s fucking Caleb. Hold on, that handsome bitch owes me a drink.” And she’s back to the bar, leaving Hunter and me to iron out the tension she deliberately created. It’s definitely a ploy to get us alone. She wouldn’t have given a shit about the drink Caleb owed her if Hunter weren’t sitting here.
“She seems fun,” Hunter says when Casey’s out of range.
“It’s good to have adventurous friends,” I say.
“I’ve found that it’s good to be adventurous in general,” he says. Good God, he’s staring right at me, and his gaze is penetrating. As I stare back, the din of shouting voices and clinking glasses and the flashing lights disappear into the background, and I’m sucked into a world where it’s just Hunter, me, and a muffled electronic drumbeat that mimics my racing heart.
After a long silence, he says, “What’s that?”
I tell him I didn’t say anything. My mouth didn’t even move. And I’m pretty sure he knows that, because he’s been staring right at it. What’s he up to?
“No, I definitely heard something,” he says. He’s leaning in to speak close to my ear now—almost whispering. God it’s sexy. “I couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like you were saying you wanted to dance.”
It’s an adorable technique—I have to give him that. But I smile and shake my head no. I can’t even remember the last time I danced in public. A friend’s wedding maybe? Dancing was always Casey’s thing, and I wouldn’t have a clue what to do if she weren’t there for me to clumsily copy her moves. And aside from the occasional just-for-me strip tease in the full-length mirror in my closet, I’m completely out of practice.
“Yeah, you definitely said you wanted to shake your ass,” he says.
“I said
shake my ass
? That doesn’t sound like me.”
“I don’t know. It sounds like something your ass would really enjoy,” he says.
“Oh would it?”
“It would,” he says, and he shows me that he’s done talking by reaching out and grabbing my hand, which I’ve carelessly left vulnerable on the table. He explores my shaky palm with his callused thumb, and his touch is electric. It sends a charge through me that no workout can match. I stare at our mingling hands and then look up to meet his eyes, and I know in this drunken instant that despite all the good things in my life, I’m going to do something very bad tonight.
With my hand still in his, Hunter guides me off of my stool and away from the bar area to an open space where young, beautiful bodies are gyrating under the spell of a thumping song that I don’t recognize. Swirling lights paint their animated limbs, and bursts of strobes convert their movements into a flickering series of carnal snapshots. The song devolves into a slow, hypnotic groove, and a sultry, electronically manipulated voice coos lyrics that are little more than an invitation to fuck. It’s the exact opposite of my usual taste, but in my inebriated, spectacularly aroused state, it’s intoxicating. I want to move with it. I want to be a part of it. I want to be a part of Hunter.
He guides me to the center of the floor and pulls me into his body, and everyone else in the club dissolves to nothing. With no one else on my radar to judge me, I’m his to move and manipulate as he pleases. He moves his face toward my neck—nearly close enough to kiss it—and though I can’t hear it, I can tell that he takes a long breath to drink in my smell. I wrap my hands around his back, where I grope and explore the hard, tense muscles behind his shoulders and along his lats as I pull myself into him, giving him my body to feel against his.
He sways, moving me with him, and I press myself against him, pushing my chest into his hard torso.
These are my tits, Hunter
.
They want your mouth on them
.
I push my stomach against his.
This is my hard, flat stomach
.
I’ve worked so hard on it, and it wants to be licked, kissed, and appreciated
.
I press the side of my face into his chest.
This is my neck
.
It wants your strong hands wrapped around it, controlling me
.
I lean back and connect my palms to his.
These are my hands
.
Right now, in this sweaty club—and just maybe for the rest of the night—they’re all yours, and they’ll do whatever you tell them to do
.
I turn my body and rub my ass into the denim that’s holding back his stiffening cock.
This is my ass, Hunter
.
I love it, and I want you to love it too
.
I want you to kiss it, spank it, and make it yours
.
I
can’t remember
the exact moment Hunter and I went from dancing to kissing, and from kissing to leaving the club in a cab together. I don’t know at what point my night went from innocent fun to guilty groping. All I know is that I’m in the back of a cab with his hands all over me while I straddle him and explore his sweet-tasting mouth with my tongue. At this moment, every cell in my body is glowing like the tip of a sparkler on Independence Day, and nothing else matters but his scent and his touch and his lips on mine.
The cab pulls up in front of an old four-story building on the outskirts of my neighborhood, and I recognize it instantly. The Garment Factory, which was an actual factory back when clothes were still made on this continent, sat fallow for two decades until a developer turned it into premium loft-style condos that preserved the look and feel of the structure’s industrial heritage. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of one of the units—I’ve even pitched stories on the building for
Simply Living
just so I could snoop around, but they never flew. I tell myself a tiny lie: my eagerness to see the inside of Hunter’s place is nothing more than a chance to explore the architecture of a city landmark.
Hunter hands the cabbie some cash as I slide sheepishly off of his lap. This kind of exhibitionism is new to me, and I’ve been so lost in our backseat grope-fest that I forgot someone was driving the car.
As I slide my thigh over his leg, I brush it against his cock, which is rock hard beneath the stiff denim of his jeans. God, I want at it. I make a quiet promise to myself not to look too eager or desperate when I finally get to unwrap it—assuming that’s what’s about to happen.
He takes my hand and guides me past drunken couples on the sidewalk and up the polished concrete steps to the massive steel door. It swings open as we approach, as if the heavens were sending me a sign.
The entryway behind the door smells of ancient wood mixed with fresh lacquer, and a lush carpet leads to a wide, wooden staircase constructed of weathered beams. Part of me wants to gawk at the building’s beautiful interior, but I’m too caught up with what’s about to happen. Hunter exchanges nods with a young, dark-skinned concierge sitting behind a desk made of raw steel, and then he guides me up the first step, where I jolt to a stop. Right now, at this moment, I want to fuck this beautiful, strange man more than anything, but I also don’t want to fuck up my otherwise perfect life.
He sees my hesitation. He looks tenderly up and down my body and then stares deep into my eyes with a comforting gaze that says what we’re about to do is perfectly natural—just two people giving in to what their bodies want. It’s all the excuse I need to fashion a second lie: I convince myself that this is just my physical self climbing the ancient wooden stairs to Hunter’s condo—that my mind and heart still belong to the straight-A girl who works hard and who would never step out of bounds. Tonight is just a break for my body to get its way.
We reach the top floor and pass through his heavy wooden door, and before I have time to take in the décor, my legs are wrapped around his waist and my back is against the exposed bricks of his hallway wall. There’s no turning back now. My hamstrings burn as I flex my legs and dig my heels into the back of his thighs, and I rummage my greedy hands through his already tussled hair. He sucks on my ears and kisses my neck and clavicles. He raises his head so that his lips meet my open, gasping mouth, and he sucks on my bottom lip, sending tiny convulsions cascading through my body. We lock lips, and we’re instantly reduced to a passionate, writhing kiss that’s equal parts tender and violent.
He pulls back and, still suspending me against the bricks, looks right through my eyes, deep into my dirty mind.
“I know exactly what you like,” he says in a quiet, sinister voice. It drives me mad, and it’s all I can do to bite my lip and nod my head in obedience. From the way things are going, I have no doubt that he’s about to fuck me the way I’ve been waiting to be fucked.
I’ve barely kicked off my heels when he grasps the hem of my shirt with both hands and yanks my top up to my tits. I hastily finish the job, hoisting the shirt over my head and tossing it on the floor. He looks at my tits, which are propped up by a lacy black push-up from Fräulein, and he smiles like he’s just learned a juicy secret. I feel the cold bricks pressing into my back, and their rough texture gives me a burst of exquisite pain as he jostles me higher in his grip.
He buries wet kisses in my cleavage, and I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra and toss it beside my shirt.
“You have spectacular tits, Faith,” he says before sucking and gently biting each stiffening nipple. I groan in response, and I press the back of my head into the bricks.
He’s still sucking on my tits as I begin unbuttoning his black linen shirt to expose his chest, and I run my fingers over the sinews of his pecs. Oh God, I want to explore the rest of his cut body. Suddenly, he sets me down and, staring into my eyes, undoes the rest of the buttons. He tosses his shirt on the pile of discarded clothes we’ve started, and I take a second to drink in his ripped midsection before leaning in to kiss his pecs and abs. I want to lick every perfect part of this man.
As I work my way down his abs, tasting the faint salt of his skin, he reaches a hand around the back of my head. He wraps my hair into a ponytail with his fist and then tugs on it, sending me into overdrive. I drop to my knees in front of him. I curl my fingers over his brown leather belt and look up, savoring the view of his abs and pecs and his strong jaw as he glares back down at me.
This is it. This is the moment where, if I choose to go on, I become something different. Up until now, everything I’ve done—the dancing, the kissing, the backseat groping—could be written off as a drunken indiscretion. But if I undo this buckle, there will be no turning back. I stroke his swelling cock through the dark denim and then look back up at him, as if for a sign. Or better yet, a command.
“Take it out,” he says with calm authority. He’s not asking; he’s instructing. He smiles down at me. Just as he said, he knows exactly what I like.
I don’t have to be told twice. I tug at the leather and pull the thick strand through his buckle, and the clinking sound reminds me of the clanking iron plates at Rev. Oh God, I want at his cock so badly, but I want to savor this sweet anticipation. Undoing his belt is like removing the ribbon from a gorgeously wrapped gift—one that you’ve wanted for an unbearably long time.
I yank his belt through the loops of his jeans, and it cracks like a whip when it’s finally free. Just call me
Indiana Faith
. I’m about to toss the belt onto our pile of clothing when I have a sudden stroke of genius. Instead of casting it aside, I feed the tip back through the buckle and, calmly staring up at Hunter, place the makeshift leather lasso over my head and lower it onto my shoulders. With my long hair still trapped beneath it and smoothed against the sides of my head, I pull the leather end so that the belt tightens gently around my neck—not to the point of choking, but just enough to feel its secure thickness around me. And then, still staring intently into his eyes, I hold up the strap for him to take. If I’m going to go through with this, I can’t be at the helm. I’m his now. Whatever happens to my body tonight is his responsibility.
Besides, if this doesn’t convey that I want him to be rough with me, nothing will.
Hunter pauses. He narrows his eyes and gives me an unsure smile. He seems shocked by my sudden boldness, but he quickly recovers his composure.
“Good girl,” he says, and I’m happy to have impressed him.
He wraps the leather once around his fist and tugs me a few inches toward him. I hope he doesn’t take this as a sign that I want to be throttled or anything too crazy—I just want to be controlled. Maybe I should have established a safe word, but hopefully
Stop fucking choking me!
will suffice.
Feeling secure in his grip, I return to the task at hand. As I undo his jeans, I lick my lips in a way that I hope is seductive and not silly. I slowly lower the zipper, watching the swath of swollen black cotton widen as the tiny teeth pull apart, and my pulse pounds. I’m still waiting for the grand reveal, but I can tell already that his cock will be more than adequate.
I pull his jeans down, and he steps on each scrunched pant leg to deftly kick off the denim bunched at his feet. I take a second to admire his toned, tanned legs. Good God, he has that little bulb-like muscle popping out right above his kneecap. I want to leave teeth marks in it—until I remember that my mouth has better things to do. I pet his cotton bulge with my palm and give it a few strokes that get increasingly rough. Then, unable to help myself, I tilt my head to the side and playfully bite his cock through his boxer briefs while growling like a territorial Chihuahua.
He chuckles, and I look up at him and laugh back. I can’t remember the last time I was this happy about anything.
My eyes widen as I grip the thick, white elastic band with its
Calvin Klein
branding and tug it downward along his rigid shaft. I move as slowly as possible, savoring the suspense of not knowing when I’ll reach the tip and his cock will spring toward my lips.
Just when I can’t take another second of waiting, his cock escapes and recoils upward from the elastic cotton. It grazes my lips, causing me to giggle, and it bounces under its own swollen weight before settling to point straight at me, waiting with faint throbs for me to suck it.
I stare up at him and smile and then reach with my tongue to taste the sugary bead of precum that’s glistening on the tip of his pulsing cock. I give his tip a teasing lick, and when I take my tongue away, a clear strand connects us.
I use my tongue to trace a wet circle around his head and then guide him into my mouth, which is watering in anticipation. Feeling its fullness as I slide it back toward my throat makes my pussy so wet that I’m worried I’ll soak through the delicate black silk of the matching Fräulein panties I’m wearing, but it doesn’t stop me from driving his cock as deeply into my mouth as I can. If I’m going to be the bad girl who sucks a strange man’s cock, I’m going to make it a memorable endeavor.
After a couple of minutes of sliding his stiff, wet shaft past my suctioned lips while he groans and grips the belt around my neck, I release his cock. It makes a loud smacking sound as it leaves my mouth. I admire it again—it’s even bigger and harder now, and it’s glistening under the lights dangling from the wood ceiling high above us. I wrap my thumb and forefinger around the tip and lift it so I can lick the underside of his shaft. Gripping its rigid thickness in my hand makes me wet. It feels so good to know that I’m capable of making a man throb like this.
I give him my mouth again, this time taking him deeper, pushing his cock as far into my throat as I can stand. My eyes begin to water, and I hear rhythmic gurgling sounds emanating from my throat. Nearly every blowjob I’ve seen online has included these throaty sounds, so I assumed all men are turned on by them. But I had no idea that such an intense blowjob would turn me on too.
This is not my repertoire of X-rated cock-sucking skills
.
Watching him press his head back against the bricks and tighten his abs, I feel completely in control of this man. But just when I start thinking I’m in charge, I feel a hand on the back of my head. With my makeshift leash still wrapped around his other fist, he grasps a handful of my hair and jerks my head back like I’m a puppet. I gasp with an open mouth and gaze up at him as he leans down and gives me an intense, almost scary stare.
“I’m going to fuck you against this wall,” he says. “Do you understand?”
I’m so excited that I can’t speak. With my mouth still agape, I fight against his handful of my hair to nod yes. I want him to fuck me so hard that the weathered bricks behind us crumble.
“Good girl,” he says, and he guides me up to my feet by gently tugging my hair. The pain, combined with the utter lack of control, feels exquisite.
Without waiting to be told, I unbutton my skintight jeans and begin shimmying my hard, round ass out of them. The denim clings to my calves, so I have no hope of stepping out of them without looking at least a little awkward. I place my palm on his chest for support and reach down with my other hand to peel them over my feet. I have only one leg free when he pulls my face toward his to resume our sloppy kiss. My mouth is still wet from sucking his cock, and I can feel his sticky, sweet lube coating my lips and dripping down my chin. Back in college, you couldn’t have paid Jason a million dollars to kiss me after I sucked him off. I know it was just his typical frat boy fear of doing anything that seemed gay, but it always weirded me out that when I blew him, I was swallowing something he wouldn’t let near his own mouth. And the few blowjobs I gave him weren’t even close to as sloppy as this one. It’s incredibly sexy that Hunter doesn’t recoil when he tastes himself on my lips.
As he’s kissing me, he lets go of my leash and shifts both of his hands to my hips. Then he spins my helpless body so that I’m facing the bricks. He pulls my hips back toward his cock and then, taking my hands in his, raises them and places them on the wall so that I’m supporting myself as though I’m being frisked by a boundary-ignoring cop. The belt strap settles between my tits, and my nipples are so close to the bricks that I can sense the coldness of the ancient clay. His hands trace slowly from my hips to my ass, and he digs his fingers into my firm cheeks. The sensation makes me quiver, and my pussy gets even wetter as he gropes and massages my ass so ardently that I start wondering whether he’s planning to tear it off of my body.
So he’s an ass man. This bodes well for me.
After he’s finished kneading my rump, he forcefully spreads my legs, and I feel his long, hard cock intrude between my slippery thighs. His proximity to my pussy drives me wild, and the anticipation is killing me.
“Please fuck me,” I hear myself beg.
“What’s that?”
“Please fuck me,” I say, this time with more confidence.