It rained all day Sunday. By early evening it was one of those piercing autumn rains, the kind that cuts right though your skin, too cold to wait for a bus on a street corner.Seeking shelter, the only choice for cover that was open past six was a seedy little cocktail bar at the end of the block. I rarely just duck into these sorts of dives. The scene is always the same, a row of old tables on one side and a row of Naugahyde upholstered stools lined up along bar on the other. The usual patronage for these sorts of places is the local neighborhood drunks, the type that have been sitting at those same stools since 1947.
This place wasn't any different, except maybe a little more dingy. The joint stunk of cheap booze and a thick patina of decades of cigarette smoke. The denizens of this particular hole in the wall consisted of a few old men hunched over the bar at the back near the Men's Room, a rumpled bartender with a few days stubble on his chin and a third patron stood at the front of the bar, sipping a beer. In the back corner of the place a grainy old TV was lit up with the dying moments of some football game playing in the background, fourth quarter white noise, only the bartender seemed to notice the game was on. He seemed annoyed when I took up a place on a stool halfway up the bar, squarely in front of him. "What kind of beer do you have?" I asked.
The bartender wrinkled his brow, as though I'd asked him for directions to Paris. "Bud," he said, "You want beer, I got Bud."
Budweiser! Only a wrecking ball and a back hoe could land a beach head in a place like this for the micro-brew revolution. For a moment out of the rain, and a little warmth, I accepted my fate and I motioned my order for the great American swill. It was cheap enough I suppose, a buck fifty a bottle, and a clean glass on the side.
While I sipped my beer, the bartender's attention turned to the football game running endlessly on the TV. My attention turned toward the man at the front of the bar. He seemed interesting enough, not entirely unattractive. I'd guess he was in his mid-forties. He was tall, slim and of a non-descript ethnicity, Latino maybe. He had a thin clipped mustache and his tawny gaunt cheeks were pock marked. His thinning hair was jet black and slicked back. He wore a matching worn set of navy blue work cloths, his shirt partly unbuttoned at the top, revealing an incongruously white undershirt.
He had noticed me too. Though I am used to such things, his searing leer was, in this case, causing me a bit of discomfort. Even so, I found him repulsive and compelling, all the same. I immediately got the feeling from him that he was, in fact, the sort of man who was quite understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for.
Moments later he proved me right. Leaning against the bar, he grasped at himself with just enough subtlety that I could receive the message. Underneath the greasy dark blue cloth, an ample meat roll danced to the keystrokes of his finger tips, ample enough for me to notice it, anyway. After an awkward few minutes of letting me watch him "adjust" himself, he slid down the bar and settled onto the stool next to mine. "Hi beautiful," he said. I smiled. This was hardly the most offensive pickup line. I'd expected something more vile. I began to doubt he was the sort of man I'd figured him to be, but that thought was quickly swept away when he wrapped his long skinny fingers around the inside of my thigh.
Receiving no objection from me, his hand quickly slipped under my skirt until it met his target. "Why don't you let me heat that up?" he offered. This was a little more along the line of what I was itching to hear. "Got a place to go?" I asked. "Well," he hesitated a moment, then added "I work at a shop up the street, we can go there. Nobody's there now, and I got the key."
I nodded my approval, and leaving my half consumed beer behind, followed my new acquaintance back out into the rain.
Fortunately, it wasn't too long a walk, just a few doors down to a little Auto workshop, some little hole in the block that purports to specialize in "imported cars," just a greasy hole off the alleyway. In a place like this one doesn't find too many candles, satin sheets and soft lighting, but then, I've never been the romantic sort. I simply headed for the back, jumped aboard a long workbench along the back of the wall, kicked off my heels and got ready for what we came here for.
He reached up under my skirt and tried to yank down my panties from the crotch, when his first attempt failed he tore them off. Approvingly, I spread out my legs.
He stepped back a moment, to pause, or to look over my exposed split, then spat, ""You cunt! You fuckin' cunt! You fuckin' little cunt"
Cunt? Cunt is such a filthy, degrading word, a nasty word. Cunt, it's so blunt, so raw, it titillates me.
I threw my thighs back and out, so he could get the idea that I was ready to get used for his pleasure.
"Aw!" he snorted, "you're a nasty little fuck toy, aint you, aint you?" He didn't wait for a reply, before adding, "I figured it! I figured you was like this!"
"I hope I'm about the dirtiest bitch you can imagine." I said.
"Yeah, the dirtiest?" he asked. "Show me! Show me how dirty you are."
Just to prove the point, I reached between my legs, slipped my forefingers up and in and stretched it open; pulled it wide open and showed him the hole. "You mean, like this?" I asked.
His eyes got wide as I've ever seen a man's eyes get wide. Then, dipping his fingers inside, he pulled down on the bottom of my pussy wall, to get a better look inside, or just to see how wide he might get it to gape open.
Just a hunch, but I'm guessing I made the grade; the dirtiest bitch he could imagine, the bottom of a man's world.
It was a short lived high point of our "relationship." You can guess the rest. He didn't last too long, only a few long pokes of the dick, but sometimes that's all a man needs for this sort of thing. No matter, it was a filthy enough fuck, just the same, the sort I'd hoped for.
After one last thrust he climbed aboard the workbench, crouched over my face and with a grunt, spewed a thick jet of creamy satisfaction across my face.
