I was on acid and she smelled like whiskey, which was probably why I liked her so much.
“I would really like to kiss you,” I told her. We stood side by side, looking at each other’s reflections in the mirror as we washed our hands.
“Oh,” she said, and then: “Really? Why?”
I shrugged. “I dunno,” I said. “It just seems like I ought to.”
And she said “Okay. Kiss me, then.”
The lingering fragments of my sobriety told me that I hadn’t really planned for her to say yes. But I was high, impulsive; all my nerve endings were vibrating on a level of caution-to-the-wind spirituality that had suddenly focused all sensation to my lips, both those above and those below. I was already wet, and it occurred to me that in that moment, I had great power– I could make her wet too.
I cradled her jaw in the palms of my hands, feeling it’s delicate weight. When I get drunk, I grow hardened, heavy, but she was as soft and sweet and light as a dove grey raincloud. Her hair was like a cold wind, icy blue all around in the Melbourne heat. Her lips were like biting into a sun-ripe nectarine, all juicy and sugar against my mouth.
I picked her up by the waist and spun her into a bathroom stall, locking the door behind. Her breath was humid, boozy and vanilla as she pulled away from me, and for a moment, I thought she might have changed her mind. But we were both lost, both slaves to our lack of inhibitions. I bit into her neck and felt her tense, cry out against me and buck her hips against mine. There was perfume on her collarbone: roses. She wore a black Beatles tank-top, so tight her breasts were nearly spilling out of it. A single tug downward on my part sent them tumbling out. Full, rounded teardrop tits and pale pink nipples; I had my mouth on them immediately, teasing each with my tongue and my teeth. They were pierced. As she whimpered and trembled, I withdrew, pulling down the neckline of my own dress. So are mine.
Her eyes were wide as I settled my hand against the back of her head and applied pressure, forcing her to lower her mouth to my breasts as well. Her irises were the most intriguing color of blue, a pale aquamarine with a burst of green just around the pupil and flecks of gold all through. Her skin was surprisingly milky pale, the kind that’s hard to attain under a hole in the ozone layer that lets in so much hot Australian sun.
She sucked at my nipples like they’d been coated in honey, flicking her tongue against them until I was moaning too.
Soon it was over, just as quickly as it started. I remembered my boyfriend, waiting for me outside; she remembered her friends, waiting for her at the train station. She slipped her number into my hand, written on the back of a credit card receipt. I set my mouth to her nipple one last time, the left one, biting down on it with slowly increasing until she was thrashing against me and grinding her cunt against my leg.
And then she was gone, walking on weakened knees outside of the bathroom and into the night. There was nothing more for me to do but to follow at a distance, watch as she turned down a tunnel and out of sight.
“What took you so long?” he asked, an eyebrow quirked in suspicion as I straightened out my dress and returned to his arms.
“Her name’s Cherry,” I said, flicking the receipt at him. The smile on his face as he studied it told me two things: firstly, that he was already hard, and secondly, that I was going to get one hell of a spanking when we returned home.
This post is part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday. This is my first time participating, but we’re on week 25 (featured here)! I’ll be updating every Monday from here on out with sexy scenes from my own crazy life. For submission rules and former weeks, check out Kayla Lord’s blog: A Sexual Being.