sad mafioso
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2007
- Messages
- 3,117
Wake up-Building On Fire
CHAPTER ONE
I didn't notice when she went from consciousness to unconsciousness but I look down at the face of the blonde girl pinned underneath me, her makeup rubbed stained into the mattress sheets, smeared across her cheeks, eyes closed, totally expressionless and I can tell she isn't just enjoying the fuck.
A nice guy with a hint of a conscience, he might stop plowing her. A guy with even the faint remnants of a heart, maybe he'd pull out. Accept the situation and jerk off into a towel like a decent human being.
'You awake there, sweetheart?' I say knowing fully well i'm not going to get an answer. Maybe I do this to make myself feel better. Either way, this is as decent as i'm capable of being.
Pushing, pushing, pushing I say 'yo'. Maybe so that in the morning when we have to spend that awkward time together before we depart and go our separate ways, when she's trying to remember exactly what happened, wondering at what point her lights went out or maybe she's not so sure we even did it. Then, I can at least tell myself that I tried.
The sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka suction sound made by a good, sweaty doggystyle fuck. My abdomen a soaking wet salty slip 'n slide. I say 'You alive down there?' and putting my right hand palm down on the mattress, I put all my weight on it and use my left hand to try and open one of her eyes. I can see her bright blue iris and I think hey, that's probably a good sign.
A man with even a shred of chivalry floating around somewhere inside him i'm telling you, that's all it would take to get him to stop. But me, I sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka so hard the mattress starts to calunga, calunga, calunga against the wall. And really, the first time I met this girl I could have guessed it would have ended up this way. It isn't like somebody should really expect to find their future wife sitting lonely on a barstool somewhere on the outskirts of the nice part of the city.
Looking up from her drink she'd been staring into for a couple of minutes, some sort of cola and booze mixture, she couldn't help but notice me staring at her from the other side of the bar. Truth be told it wasn't as though the bar was packed full of people.
The way it really happened is, the only other paying customer was some older than middle aged sad sack. Some disheveled unshaven drunk, getting his 5th day out of that stained salvation army flannel lumber jack shirt. Get close enough to him and you get that sting in your nostrils from the body odor.
Wearing some light cotton one piece black skirt thing, swishing around the half melted ice in her glass, her eyes stayed on me for a moment then darted around. That thing people do when they pretend like the eye contact was just a coincidence and that if they look around at a half dozen other things the person they locked eyes with won't think anything of it.
Just staring at her there I figured at most she was from another part of the state, a small town girl who just moved to the big scary city. Wanting to meet people, make some friends, so she puts on a nice black number and does her hair, puts on a little makeup. And she figures the place to meet other young people looking to have a good time is at the bar. Only she doesn't know that there's bars you go to and there's bars you don't go to.
Bars like the one we met in, they seem to never have more than a few customers at a time, if any at all. They've been around forever and they're not going anywhere anytime soon. The bartender there is always the owner and there aren't any other employees. If the bartender is sick, the bar doesn't open. If he's on a much needed vacation, the bar doesn't open. If he dies well, then, believe me it won't take too long before somebody comes along and takes his place.
There are two types of people that frequent bars like this and this beautiful girl isn't one of them. But take the gentleman in the flannel shirt. Guys like him. Guys who want to be left alone. They're here because nobody else is. Guys who maybe they don't want to go back to their one room roach infested shithole. For some reason, it just doesn't feel like home. Or after working a double shift at the nickel plating factory just aren't in the mood to go home to their overweight wife still in her bathrobe, still holding a grudge because she always wanted children and she had to go and marry the loser with the dead end job who shoots blanks.
And then there's people like me. Young enough to not yet be on a path I can't get off of. Old enough to know how things work around here. Still in a time of my life where I haven't yet made any decisions that have affected me so much, in such a way that I can't get out of a terrible situation. The guy with the dead end job and the 6th grade education. The guy with the mumu wearing wife who keeps his balls in a jar and still barely acknowledges his existence.
I sit right up at the bar on the far side facing out at the door, to see if anyone comes in and I put down the manilla envelope i'm carrying. I don't have to say anything. I don't even look at him and he gives me my usual bottle of Heinekan and a shot of Wild Turkey. Heinekan cause I like the nice green bottle. In a blind taste test, I wouldn't know the difference between that and a bottle of my own piss. Wild Turkey because that's what my father always drank.
The night we met it wasn't that she was too beautiful to take my eyes off of so much as I thought that by burning a hole in her head with my stare i'd get inside and figure out what the hell was going on in there, why she chose this bar of all places to drink at. Just staring at here there, I would have guessed she probably didn't go out much. Most likely, she had a pretty sheltered childhood. An over protected mother who never wanted her to grow up, or a neglectful one who left her with all the responsibilities. Getting her little brother dressed for school in the morning, making sure he has breakfast and does his homework while her mother sleeps passed out, the smell of vodka hanging in the room coming from her hot breath, leaking out of her skin in her sweat. Sitting there across the bar, the blonde girl, her back to the door, maybe that drink she's sipping helps with her anxiety. Probably, she's careful not to drink too much cause of she's on antidepressants. Prozac. Zoloft. Fucking Paxil. The look in her eyes doesn't exactly say 'come flirt with me', but it doesn't say leave me alone either.
Pouring back my shot of Wild Turkey, the bartender comes by and wipes the bar down with a damp rag, slides the envelope away and hides it somewhere beneath the back of the bar. If the chick wasn't here, we wouldn't have to be so sneaky. And while she doesn't exactly look like an undercover, isn't that always the case when they actually are?
By the time my beer's halfway gone he comes back again with the rag and leaves a similar looking envelope. When the last sip of my beer goes down my throat I pick up the envelope and put it in my back pocket, hop off the barstool and saunter over to grab a seat next to the blonde, so innocent looking she could be a virgin.
Sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka.
Calunga, calunga, calunga.
Right now a guy who respects women, respects other people, he'd just tuck her in like a nice guy, go sleep on the couch. Catch the end of The Lateshow. Jerk off into his sock. But as I slam away, scraping this girl raw, her mouth wide open drooling all over the sheets and her eyes snapped shut, instead I put one hand on each ass cheek and spread them apart.
Sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka.
Calunga, calunga, calunga.
Instead of draping the comforter over her and shutting out the lights i'm wondering if there's any Vaseline in this place.
CHAPTER ONE
I didn't notice when she went from consciousness to unconsciousness but I look down at the face of the blonde girl pinned underneath me, her makeup rubbed stained into the mattress sheets, smeared across her cheeks, eyes closed, totally expressionless and I can tell she isn't just enjoying the fuck.
A nice guy with a hint of a conscience, he might stop plowing her. A guy with even the faint remnants of a heart, maybe he'd pull out. Accept the situation and jerk off into a towel like a decent human being.
'You awake there, sweetheart?' I say knowing fully well i'm not going to get an answer. Maybe I do this to make myself feel better. Either way, this is as decent as i'm capable of being.
Pushing, pushing, pushing I say 'yo'. Maybe so that in the morning when we have to spend that awkward time together before we depart and go our separate ways, when she's trying to remember exactly what happened, wondering at what point her lights went out or maybe she's not so sure we even did it. Then, I can at least tell myself that I tried.
The sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka suction sound made by a good, sweaty doggystyle fuck. My abdomen a soaking wet salty slip 'n slide. I say 'You alive down there?' and putting my right hand palm down on the mattress, I put all my weight on it and use my left hand to try and open one of her eyes. I can see her bright blue iris and I think hey, that's probably a good sign.
A man with even a shred of chivalry floating around somewhere inside him i'm telling you, that's all it would take to get him to stop. But me, I sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka so hard the mattress starts to calunga, calunga, calunga against the wall. And really, the first time I met this girl I could have guessed it would have ended up this way. It isn't like somebody should really expect to find their future wife sitting lonely on a barstool somewhere on the outskirts of the nice part of the city.
Looking up from her drink she'd been staring into for a couple of minutes, some sort of cola and booze mixture, she couldn't help but notice me staring at her from the other side of the bar. Truth be told it wasn't as though the bar was packed full of people.
The way it really happened is, the only other paying customer was some older than middle aged sad sack. Some disheveled unshaven drunk, getting his 5th day out of that stained salvation army flannel lumber jack shirt. Get close enough to him and you get that sting in your nostrils from the body odor.
Wearing some light cotton one piece black skirt thing, swishing around the half melted ice in her glass, her eyes stayed on me for a moment then darted around. That thing people do when they pretend like the eye contact was just a coincidence and that if they look around at a half dozen other things the person they locked eyes with won't think anything of it.
Just staring at her there I figured at most she was from another part of the state, a small town girl who just moved to the big scary city. Wanting to meet people, make some friends, so she puts on a nice black number and does her hair, puts on a little makeup. And she figures the place to meet other young people looking to have a good time is at the bar. Only she doesn't know that there's bars you go to and there's bars you don't go to.
Bars like the one we met in, they seem to never have more than a few customers at a time, if any at all. They've been around forever and they're not going anywhere anytime soon. The bartender there is always the owner and there aren't any other employees. If the bartender is sick, the bar doesn't open. If he's on a much needed vacation, the bar doesn't open. If he dies well, then, believe me it won't take too long before somebody comes along and takes his place.
There are two types of people that frequent bars like this and this beautiful girl isn't one of them. But take the gentleman in the flannel shirt. Guys like him. Guys who want to be left alone. They're here because nobody else is. Guys who maybe they don't want to go back to their one room roach infested shithole. For some reason, it just doesn't feel like home. Or after working a double shift at the nickel plating factory just aren't in the mood to go home to their overweight wife still in her bathrobe, still holding a grudge because she always wanted children and she had to go and marry the loser with the dead end job who shoots blanks.
And then there's people like me. Young enough to not yet be on a path I can't get off of. Old enough to know how things work around here. Still in a time of my life where I haven't yet made any decisions that have affected me so much, in such a way that I can't get out of a terrible situation. The guy with the dead end job and the 6th grade education. The guy with the mumu wearing wife who keeps his balls in a jar and still barely acknowledges his existence.
I sit right up at the bar on the far side facing out at the door, to see if anyone comes in and I put down the manilla envelope i'm carrying. I don't have to say anything. I don't even look at him and he gives me my usual bottle of Heinekan and a shot of Wild Turkey. Heinekan cause I like the nice green bottle. In a blind taste test, I wouldn't know the difference between that and a bottle of my own piss. Wild Turkey because that's what my father always drank.
The night we met it wasn't that she was too beautiful to take my eyes off of so much as I thought that by burning a hole in her head with my stare i'd get inside and figure out what the hell was going on in there, why she chose this bar of all places to drink at. Just staring at here there, I would have guessed she probably didn't go out much. Most likely, she had a pretty sheltered childhood. An over protected mother who never wanted her to grow up, or a neglectful one who left her with all the responsibilities. Getting her little brother dressed for school in the morning, making sure he has breakfast and does his homework while her mother sleeps passed out, the smell of vodka hanging in the room coming from her hot breath, leaking out of her skin in her sweat. Sitting there across the bar, the blonde girl, her back to the door, maybe that drink she's sipping helps with her anxiety. Probably, she's careful not to drink too much cause of she's on antidepressants. Prozac. Zoloft. Fucking Paxil. The look in her eyes doesn't exactly say 'come flirt with me', but it doesn't say leave me alone either.
Pouring back my shot of Wild Turkey, the bartender comes by and wipes the bar down with a damp rag, slides the envelope away and hides it somewhere beneath the back of the bar. If the chick wasn't here, we wouldn't have to be so sneaky. And while she doesn't exactly look like an undercover, isn't that always the case when they actually are?
By the time my beer's halfway gone he comes back again with the rag and leaves a similar looking envelope. When the last sip of my beer goes down my throat I pick up the envelope and put it in my back pocket, hop off the barstool and saunter over to grab a seat next to the blonde, so innocent looking she could be a virgin.
Sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka.
Calunga, calunga, calunga.
Right now a guy who respects women, respects other people, he'd just tuck her in like a nice guy, go sleep on the couch. Catch the end of The Lateshow. Jerk off into his sock. But as I slam away, scraping this girl raw, her mouth wide open drooling all over the sheets and her eyes snapped shut, instead I put one hand on each ass cheek and spread them apart.
Sthwucka, sthwucka, sthwucka.
Calunga, calunga, calunga.
Instead of draping the comforter over her and shutting out the lights i'm wondering if there's any Vaseline in this place.
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