The art of fellatio.

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Lusting over the barman

Sometimes I can't write while I'm sitting in my flat. I packed up my laptop and went down to my local pub. It's a small place on a quiet road, and has the typical fake post industrial look which is fashionable these days. It has a good selection of draught ales, enough malt whisky to satisfy me, and a fish tank which is mesmerising to watch, especially when a bit drunk. But the main reason it's so conducive to writing erotica is the barman who works there.

He's pretty tall, at least six feet, and has two full sleeves of tattoos. His right arm is a has a repeating design, which takes advantage of the negative space on his pale skin. Every time I sneak a look at it, I feel like I'm a child again, admiring  patterns on a Persian rug. His other arm has a single red dragon, coiling all the way from his shoulder to his wrist. Tattoos so large and bold are rare. One statement over so much skin suggests something about his personality, a certain single mindedness. I don't know much about him, what his aspirations in life are, but I know he has them and I know he's serious about them.

His hair is short on the sides but longer and spiky on top, and has red streaks dyed in. I've always had a bit of a think for punky, alternative looking guys. I used to have a book with boys from Kerrang! cut out, for my adolescent drooling pleasure. It's not a requirement, but unnatural hair, ink and metal will always get my attention. He has moderately sized stretched piercings in each earlobe and a smattering of rings on the helices. I wonder what else he has tattooed and pierced, under that damned black tshirt he's wearing. It's tight enough for me to know that I really want to know what it obscures. Around his biceps, it looks fit to snap. Carrying barrels must be hard work. I try not to think about how effectively those strong arms could pin me to a bed.

"So, what's it going to be then eh?" he grinned at me. He had seen me reading A Clockwork Orange once, early in my career there as a bar fly, and had greeted me thus ever since. I  wondered if his personality resembled that of Alex, a brutal thug who worships beauty? Did if he had sadistic tendencies? Would he hurt me just to please me, as males had in the past, or lay into the woman flesh he owned for joy at seeing my blood flow? (There is a difference.) His grin always made my blood rise to my cheeks. I waited a minute before I ordered, in case I stammered. Usually I would order a beer or a whisky, but occasionally, for a treat, I would order a cocktail.

He's a flair bartender. He shows off with the bottles and glasses, making my drink into a miniture performance. When I drink it, I feel like a little spark of his energy is flowing into me. It buzzes through me, making my mind race with the filthy things I want to do with him. For example... I'm sorry to be quite so blunt early on, I'd usually segue into something like this... I would like to rim him. I bet he's the sort of anally perveted boy who would love that, and possibly insist on reciprocating. But I bet he'd moan and grind back into my face, loving having a willing slut to satisfy this dark desire. i sipped my sidecar (try one, they're citrussy and nice) while imagining him bending over for me. Dang. And he had such a nice little ass on him. I didn't really see the point in bums for a long time, but now I have learned the appeal of a slim firm buttock on a man.

Sometimes he disappears into the back for a moment. I wonder what would happen if I followed him back there. If he'd smirk knowingly and stroke his fingers along my sides, dropping a teasingly light kiss on my lips, before viciously using his tongue and teeth on my mouth, making me take him inside me and taste him before we'd even learned each other's surnames? Whether he'd take the few minutes it would need to rub my clit to orgasm, growling at me to meet him out back when he had his break in half an hour? Squirming in my seat, having him ignore me while he served customers and denied me the pleasure of serving him?

God, I'd love to suck that undoubtedly lovely cock of his. I'd take him between my lips, sucking away the precum and sweat and sucking him in as deep as I could, running my fingertips over his full balls and sucking him to a fast orgasm so he'd have time to smoke a fag as well? No, he'd be smoking while I sucked, imperiously blowing smoke into my face as I worshipped his cock. I'm ashamed of my smoking fetish, having been brought up in a vociferously anti smoking household, but I love the sight of a man smoking so much. Thick fingers holding the smouldering stick, the breat beautifully visualised in white vapour. The smell of smoke on a male excites me. And I get the smell from him.

"What do you want?"

I'd been lost in such a reverie that I didn't realise that this angel had asked me a question. I stared at him, blushing. He turned his head a little and smiled at me again, slow and wide. He knew.

"You." I reply, huskily.

"Hey, I'm taking my break now," he shouted to the boss, who barely nodded at him. It was a quiet period. He took my hand, very firmly I noticed, and led me out back.

The couchsurfer.

He had that look on his face. You know, that look a man gets when he's just realised he's getting his oats. The softly curving smile, the long lashed eyes openly downcast at your body, the flush in the cheeks. It showed a boyishness  in the features that might not be noticed before. The face of an excited teenager. Even the most grizzled dilf looks that way, before he leans in and kisses you.

I delicately returned his kiss, running my fingers through his hair and down his neck eliciting appreciating groans, before squeezing his shoulders and rubbing down his spine.

We continued kissing, sometimes sliding our tongues into each other, sometimes delicately caressing just each other's lips. I scooped my fingers up under his shirt to touch his bare skin with my fingernails, moving lightly over his back. He grabbed my bum, almost too hard, and ground our hips together. I can feel his hardness through our clothes; he won't be satisfied with just kissing. Excellent.

He leaned back a bit, and pulled me onto his lap. I unbuttoned his shirt, and squeezed his waist with my thighs, strong from cycling uphill to work every day. His torso was lean and pale without a pinch of flesh on it, and a heart shaped patch of hair on the chest. I relished the sight of his muscles exposed like in an anatomy textbook, but there was something a little unsettling about the jutting bones and white skin. There was a tattoo on his lower sternum, a bull’s skull.

"What's that?" I asked, stroking it.

"It's the symbol of Dionysus" he replied, lying back even further and pulling me on top of him. Dionysus indeed! It suited him though, with his cat like hedonism. I leaned down to kiss him. He continued frotting against me in his tight jeans, his hard cock aligning between my lips and exerting a delicious friction. I moaned, my fingers travelling to his dark nipples, tugging on the rings. He lifted the hem of my top up over my head, then scooped my tits right out of their polka dotted bra cups. He sat up, taking my left nipple into his mouth and began sucking hard, between little squeezes of the teeth. I moaned encouragingly, adoring the sensation of his lips and teeth on my exquisitely sensitive nipples. He reached down, undoing the snap of my jeans and sliding his hand inside my underwear.

“God, you’re so fucking wet for me. I’d slide in and fuck you senseless right now, but it’s so much more fun to tease.” He looked at me mischievously, smirking at how my face was glazed over with lust. He slid his long fingers over my clit, swirling around the swollen nub and stroking down to the opening of my cunt. I gasped as he slid a finger in me, curling it up to touch my g spot, pushing the heel of his palm down on my aching, hard clit. As I bucked against his hand, he bit sharply on my neck, eliciting a gasp of shock and pleasure. I couldn’t believe this innocent seeming young man had turned into a mean, tattooed dominant. I opened my bedside drawer, and pulled out a condom. Our eyes met.

He rocked back on his knees, pulling his jeans and underwear off in one. His cock sprang up: despite his blasé act, his hardness belied how horny he was. My back arched primordially, inviting him in. He slid the tip up and down my puffy lips, which were wet with arousal, before sliding into me, slowly, making me feel every inch. I moaned, then gasped at the gradually increasing sensation of fullness. He grabbed my legs at the knees, pushing them back as though trying to get them behind my head, pushing himself even deeper until I moaned in delighted anguish. He leaned over and fucked me. I wove my fingers into his hair and bit his neck.

"Fuck yeah bitch, I like it when you bite," he snarled. He pulled out sharply, and arranged me on all fours. The feeling of his cock slamming back into me from behind was almost painfully intense. He leaned over me, grabbing and squeezing my tits, reaching back down to my tortured clit. His teasingly slow movements on it contrasted with the roughness of his onslaught on my tits and pussy. I endured this combination until the sensations overwhelmed me. I nearly blacked out as my cunt spasmed around his thick cock, gasping with the intenseness of my orgasm. He supported my body until I finally went limp in his arms, then increased his rhythm again, working towards his own orgasm. His hands squeezed my shoulders painfully, and an almost wolfish sound came from his throat as he came inside me. He collapsed backwards onto his knees, gasping, with his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. I embraced him, and he kissed my forehead and hugged back. We pulled the covers up over ourselves and drifted wordlessly into sleep.

When I woke up, he was already in the shower. We said polite goodbyes, but we lingered a little in our friendly goodbye hug. We both knew that we wouldn't necessarily see each other again. But we had enjoyed what time we had had together.