Page 11 of Thug

I searched for my happy place. The smell of his leather vest melded with his manly essence. I drew a conscious breath of the heady scent and closed my eyes. He withdrew his length, and immediately pushed himself back in, slowly.

My entire body shuddered. He was going to ruin me one stroke at a time, and I was going to let him. I gripped the edge of the bar like my life depended on it, arched my back, and opened my eyes.

Standing thirty feet away, Brisco met my glassy-eyed gaze. I offered him an apologetic look and a half-assed shrug only because I couldn’t think of what else to do.

From his vantage point, the countertop in front of me obstructed his view. I suspected it looked like Price was standing behind me, pushing me against the bar. That’s what I told myself, at least. While Brisco and I exchanged awkward glances, I felt Price’s stubble against my cheek.

“Wanna know why we call ourselves the Hard Eights?” he asked.

At that moment I really didn’t give a shit. I wanted his cock inside of me, and I’d agree to anything to get him to put it there.

I let out a mental sigh. “Sure.”

He slammed his entire length inside of me with one thrust of his hips. “It’s hard, and it’s eight inches long.”

“Oh,” I grunted.

The response made me sound like a complete idiot, but at that moment, I was one.

Price commenced to pound his way into my memory bank eight hard inches at a time. His hips rhythmically forced his length into me, repeatedly. Sexually drunk, my eyes fell closed. It wasn’t my dream come true, nor was Price the answer to the question of my many failed relationships. But. Being fucked against the bar for no other reason than to satisfy an argument was an extremely satisfying experience.

A dozen strokes or so later, my leg muscles tensed. After two more, my pussy clenched his swollen shaft like a vise. My sexual self-esteem plummeted. It had been all of ninety seconds, and he was bringing me to climax.

I allowed the feeling of euphoria to encompass me like a warm blanket.

Embarrassed by my lack of stamina, I closed my eyes, hoping doing so would prevent Price from noticing my blissful state. While I relished in his sexual offering, his pace slowed. Then, although I wouldn’t have guessed it possible, his girth swelled.

His breathing became labored and irregular. The thought of him reaching orgasm drove me mad with desire. I bucked wildly, forcing my bare ass against his hips in perfect timing with his predictable strokes.

Then, as if we were connected by much more than our bare genitalia, we reached climax, together.

Giddy with excitement at what we’d accomplished, my eyes shot open. Much to my surprise, Brisco was only inches away, leaning against the opposite side of the bar.

“Jesus!” I blurted.

I felt like I should pound my fist against the countertop and demand that he leave. My eyes came into focus beyond him. It clearly didn’t matter. There were thirty-one others who seemed all too interested in what we were doing.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Brisco said. As if seeing Price fuck the bartender was a common occurrence, he nonchalantly reached over the bar and opened the beer tap. The golden liquid trickled into the pitcher I’d began filling moments earlier. “Couple of the fellas need to fill their glasses.”

“No problem,” I said, my voice quaking beneath the orgasm that was still running through me. “We’re done.”

“Done?” Price cackled a sinister laugh. “That’s got to be the tightest pussy on the entire fucking planet. We’re not even close to being done.”

Being paid compliments like your hair looks fabulous, or something along the lines of you look great, have you lost weight? was heartwarming. No praise, however, was more satisfying than one that placed my pussy on a pedestal. Especially a remark that included comparing it to the tight-pussied competition in foreign countries.

Price McNealy could fuck me any time he wanted to, but I wasn’t going to admit it, especially to him. He’d already proven he wasn’t above paying compliments. I wondered if he was opposed to chasing a woman.

I decided I’d find out.

“Actually, we are done,” I said. “This ride is over.”

4

Price

Carp sat cross legged on the garage floor, yanking on his motorcycle’s fuel line so violently that it looked like he was trying to start a lawnmower. After two or three unsuccessful attempts to free the rubber hose from the carburetor, his bike nearly tipped over on top of him.

“Cock fucking sucker!” He steadied the eight-hundred-pound motorcycle. “This fucker won’t come off.”