Bourbon and Neon

Bourbon and Neon

Jack Morrison, a haunted NYPD detective, meets the enigmatic Eleanor Rosenberg in a dimly lit bar. Her bold invitation to her apartment reveals a night of raw, uninhibited passion, exposing both their physical desires and emotional scars.

Loosely inspired by The Hollies 1972 single 'Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress.'

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The neon outside The Albatross stutters in red pulses, throwing the word 'LOUNGE' across wet pavement in letters that break apart and reassemble like something trying to remember what it means.

I push through the door and the smoke hits me first, Lucky Strike and Chesterfield and something sweeter underneath, stale beer soaked so deep into the mahogany that no amount of scrubbing would pull it free.

The jukebox in the corner rattles through some B-side I don't recognize, the speaker cone blown enough to make the vocals swim through the bass like a voice calling from underwater.

I take a seat at the bar, third stool from the end, the one where the vinyl is cracked just enough to let the foam rubber breathe through like a wound.

The bartender, a stocky guy with a grey moustache and forearms like hams, nods at me without asking and pours two fingers of Jim Beam into a glass that has seen better decades.

I haven't slept properly in three days. The Morrison case wrapped on Tuesday, a seventeen-year-old girl found in an alley off Lenox with her throat cut, and the suspect turned out to be her stepfather, who hung himself in the holding cell before arraignment.

Open and shut, the lieutenant said. Open and shut, and I'm sitting here at ten-thirty on a Friday night with a glass of bourbon and a pack of Lucky Strikes that I keep telling myself is my last.

But it's a lie, the booze and the cigarettes are never my last.

I light one. The first drag fills my chest with that familiar burn, the one that feels like company. Familiar company. Around me, the bar carries on in its low murmur, two men in union coveralls arguing about the Mets, a woman in a green dress laughing too loud at something a balding man in a corduroy jacket is saying.

The pendant lights above the bar hang low, their amber glow catching the bottles behind the bar, nicotine-filmed glass throwing colour across the scarred wood like stained windows in a church for people who've stopped praying.

Then the door opens, and a gust of October air pushes through the bar, carrying the smell of rain and exhaust, and for a moment the jukebox seems to skip.

I glance up because the draft hits the back of my neck and I want to see who's responsible, and then I don't look away.

She stands in the doorway for a beat, maybe two, and the red neon from outside traces the outline of her like a sketch an artist hasn't finished.

She's in a black dress, long-sleeved, ending just above the knee with a side slit that shows a length of black stocking when she shifts her weight.

The neckline plunges enough to show the upper curve of a chest that the dress is working hard and losing to contain, she has pale skin, the kind of pale that looks almost blue under the right light, and she's under the right light.

Her hair is black, past her shoulders, with a wave to it that looks like it dried naturally and she didn't bother fixing it. She looks reminiscent of that Murder in L. A. years back called the black dahlia.

Pink eyeshadow. Red lipstick, full lips, white teeth behind them when she surveys the room. She's tall, five-eleven at least, and that's before the five-inch heels that click against the floor as she walks toward the bar with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how much space she takes up and being pleased about it.

She walks towards the bar, smiles at the indifferent bartender.

She takes the stool two down from mine, crosses her legs, and the slit in her dress falls open to reveal the top of a black stocking, a clip, a small stretch of pale thigh. She doesn't look at me. She looks at the bartender and says.

"Jim Beam. Neat. Leave the bottle." She tells the bartender.

Her voice is the kind that carries without being loud, it's low, with a slight rasp at the edges, like she's been talking all night or smoking or even both.

The bartender sets a glass in front of her and leaves the bottle, and she pours it with a steady hand, her red fingernails catching the amber light.

A crystal pendant hangs from a gold chain around her neck, resting in the hollow of her throat, and it catches the light from the pendant lamps and throws a small rainbow across the inside of her wrist, where a gold chain sits loose against her skin.

A gold watch on the other wrist. A gold chain around her right ankle, visible when she shifts her foot. Another around her waist, thin, catching the fabric of the dress.

I look away. I look at my glass. I look at the jukebox. I look at my glass again. I'm trying to look anywhere but in her direction.

I'm a detective. I notice things for a living. I notice that she's left-handed, the way she reaches for the glass. I notice the ring finger on her left hand is bare. I notice the way she holds the glass, not sipping, not gulping, but drinking with intention, like the bourbon is doing something specific for her and she's monitoring the progress.

"You're staring, mister." A female voice says.

I look up. She's turned on her stool, one elbow on the bar, her body angled toward me.

Brown eyes, dark enough to look black in this light, and there's something in them that isn't annoyance. Amusement, maybe, Interest. Her mouth is curved at one corner, red lipstick catching the light like a fresh wound.

"I'm noticing, It's what I do." I say.

"What are you, a detective?" She says it like a joke, like she's heard the line before.

I stare at her.

"Nearly twenty years. NYPD. Six years in Homicide." I say as I take a pull from my glass.

That gets her. Her eyebrows lift, just slightly, and she uncrosses and recrosses her legs. The stocking catches the light again.

"Homicide. So you notice dead people." She says calmly.

"I notice what killed them. Sometimes I notice what was alive in them first." I retort back.

She turns her glass in her fingers, rolling in between her hands. The crystal pendant shifting. "That's a hell of a line. You rehearse that in the mirror, or does it come naturally?" She asks cheekily.

"Comes natural. The mirror and I stopped talking about two years ago." I reply back

She laughs. It's a real laugh, not the performance kind, not too loud, not too soft, the kind that comes from somewhere below the ribs and uses the whole throat.

"Two years. What happened two years ago?" She asks.

"Wife left. Took the mirror. I got the records." I say sarcastically.

"Records and no mirror. That's a man who's decided what he wants to look at." She says as she extends her hand.

"Eleanor. My friends call me Ellie. Or Rosie. Or El. Depends on the friend." She says.

I take her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin cool, and her fingers stay in my palm a beat longer than necessary.

"Jack. Morrison. No nicknames." I reply.

"No nicknames. Jesus. You really are a detective." She says.

She pulls her hand back and picks up her glass.

"You want to sit closer, Jack Morrison? That stool's got a crack in the vinyl. I can hear it wheezing every time you shift." Eleanor says.

I pick up my glass and my cigarettes and move to the stool beside her. Up close, the scent of her cuts through the bar's ambient fog of smoke, sweat, nuts and stale beer.

There's something floral underneath the bourbon on her breath, and beneath that, warm skin, and beneath that, something that makes the back of my jaw tighten.

Her cleavage is right there, the pendant nestled between the swells of her breasts, the gold chain disappearing into the dark of the dress. The dress is tight enough to show the outline of a bra underneath black with red lace, the edge of it visible at the plunge of the neckline.

"So what brings a homicide detective to a bar that smells like a gym sock on a Friday night?" Ellie asks smiling.

"Killing time. You?" I reply. "Same. Killing time. Killing expectations. Killing the last shreds of a good-girl reputation." She answers as she knocks back a drink.

"I grew up conservative. Jewish. The kind of conservative where they tell you what to eat, what to wear, who to marry, which hand to write with. I'm left-handed. That went down like a fart in synagogue." She says light heartedly.

"You look like you recovered." I murmur.

"Recovered. Flourished. Got experimental." She laughs.

She turns toward me, and her knee touches my thigh under the bar. She doesn't move it.

"You ever get experimental, Jack Morrison?" She asks saucily.

"I eat pork sometimes." I chuckle.

I don't know why I say it. I don't eat pork. But she laughs again, that real laugh, and her knee presses harder against my thigh.

"A man after my own heart. I had bacon this morning. First thing I ate. Felt like communion." She says and reaches into a small clutch I hadn't noticed on the bar and pulls out a cigarette, long, slim, unfiltered. I light it for her with my Zippo, and she leans in, and her fingers close around mine as she draws. The flame catches her face from below, high cheekbones, the pink eyeshadow like a wash of sunrise on her lids, the full mouth wrapped around the cigarette. She exhales sideways, smoke curling past my face.

"You want to get out of here?" She asks provocatively.

I look at her. She's twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, and she's wearing a dress that costs more than my rent and enough gold to fence for a month's salary, and she's sitting in a bar that smells like dead soldiers and asking a rumpled homicide detective with circles under his eyes if he wants to leave. There's a question behind the question. There's always a question behind the question. I've spent six years learning to hear it.

"Where?" I ask, serious but noncommittal.

"My place. Sixty-Eighth. Third floor. Green awning. Buzzer panel, but it's broken, so just push." She says as she stubs out the cigarette and picks up the bottle of Jim Beam, it's half-full, the label intact.

"I'm taking this." She says as her fingers curve around the neck of the bottle.

"We just met." I say.

"That's the point. You don't strike me as a man who needs a long courtship. You strike me as a man who sits in bars and solves dead people and goes home to a quiet apartment and doesn't talk about it. Am I wrong?" She asks almost like she's one of the new fangled profilers the dept has.

I don't answer. She's not wrong. She watches me not answer and her mouth curves again, and she slides off the stool and lands on those heels with a click that sounds like a starting pistol.

I toss a small fold of cash in the bar's direction, and we leave.

The walk to her place takes twelve minutes. The October air is cool enough to see breath, and the rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective, the traffic lights bleeding into the puddles.

She walks beside me in those heels like she was born in them, the bottle of Jim Beam swinging from her fingers, and she doesn't talk.

She hums something, jazz, maybe, or a show tune, I can't tell, and the gold chain at her ankle catches the streetlights with each step. Her hip brushes mine when we navigate around a pile of garbage bags on the sidewalk, and she doesn't correct the contact. I don't either.

The building has a green awning, just like she said. The buzzer panel is a row of dead buttons and name tags with no names. We push through and the lobby is narrow, cracked linoleum underfoot, a fluorescent overhead buzzing and flickering in a way that makes the walls look like they're breathing.

The elevator is out of order, tape across the door, so we take the stairs. She climbs ahead of me, and the slit of her dress opens with each step, showing the back of her thigh above the stocking line, the clip of the suspender belt, a pale strip of skin that disappears into the shadow of the dress. I watch. I'm a detective, I notice things.

The third floor. A door with the paint peeling at the edges.

She fumbles a key from her clutch, and her fingers brush mine when she finds it, and the lock turns with a sound like a bone cracking.

The apartment is small. A studio, the bed against the far wall, a kitchenette to the left, a window that looks out onto an airshaft where someone's radio is playing static and a baby is crying two floors down. The walls are painted a deep burgundy, and the ceiling has a water stain shaped like a question mark. A record player sits on a wooden crate beside a stack of albums, and a single lamp casts an amber glow that turns the whole room the colour of bourbon held up to a flame. There's a nightstand by the bed with a saucer holding two cigarette butts. The kitchen cabinet has a low shelf with a box of Saltines and a jar of instant coffee.

Very crime sceney I think to myself, half expecting a stiff on the floor.

She sets the Jim Beam on the nightstand. She kicks off her heels, one lands by the bed, the other by the crate, and she's still tall, five-nine at least, and the dress settles differently without the heels, the hem falling just above her knees.

She moves to the record player and puts something on. Jazz. A trumpet player I almost recognize, the notes warm and slow, the kind of music that sounds like it's trying to talk itself out of something.

"Drink?" She holds up the bottle.

"Sure." I reply with a broken smile.

She pours it into two glasses that don't match, one has a chip in the rim, the other has a faded logo from the '64 World's Fair.

She hands me the chipped one. Our fingers touch again.

Her nails are red. Everything about her is red and black and gold, and the amber light makes her skin look like cream.

I drink. The bourbon is warm and sweet and it loosens something in my chest that's been tight for longer than two years.

She drinks too, tilting her head back, and I watch her throat work, and I watch the pendant slide to the side of her neck, and I watch the way her lips leave a red print on the glass.

"You're staring again, Jack Morrison." Ellie purrs.

"I told you. It's what I do." I say gruffly.

"You want to know what I do?" She says.

She takes the glass from my hand and sets both glasses on the nightstand, next to the bottle. She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell her again, floral and warm and something darker underneath, something that makes my hands want to move.

"I notice men who notice me. And I decide what to do about it." She says firmly yet seductively.

"What are you going to do about it?" I ask her tauntingly.

Her fingers find my tie. She doesn't pull it, she holds it, running the fabric between her thumb and forefinger like she's testing the quality.

"I had an apartment on West Seventy-Third. Nice place. Tenth floor, view of the park, or the edge of it. A man decided he owned it. Decided he owned me too, while he was at it. So I left." She explains.

Her fingers tighten on the tie.

"I don't like being owned. I like being watched. I like being wanted. But owned?" She explains shaking her head from side to side.

She lets go of the tie and steps back, and the space between us feels wider than it should.

"No. I'm not trying to own anything." I say.

"I know. That's why you're here." She says grinning.

She reaches behind herself, and I hear a zip. The dress loosens at the back, the fabric going slack across her shoulders, and she shrugs one sleeve off, then the other, and the dress slides down her body and pools at her feet.

The bra is black with red lace, heavy-duty but beautiful, holding breasts that are bigger than I expected, full, heavy, the kind that strain the clasp at the back and spill over the cups at the top. Her belly is soft, rounded, the kind of body that takes up space without apology.

She has matching panties, black with red lace, and a suspender belt holding up black stockings that end mid-thigh.

The gold chain at her waist sits on her hips, the chain at her ankle catching the light when she shifts.

Her pubes are visible through the lace, dark, full, untrimmed and unapologetic, a triangle of black against the sheer fabric.

She stands there in the amber light, and the jazz plays, and the baby cries two floors down, and she watches me watching her.

Her chest rises and falls. The pendant sits in the valley of her cleavage, rising and sinking.

"Sit down," she says. And she nods at the bed.

"On the edge. Hands on your knees." She says instructing me as to how she wants me.

I sit. The bed is soft, the mattress giving under my weight.

She picks up the bottle of Jim Beam from the nightstand. It's half-full.

She takes a long pull, wincing slightly, then holds the bottle up and looks at it. The amber liquid catches the lamplight, and for a moment I don't understand what she's doing.

Then I understand.

She sets the bottle on the nightstand and unhooks the suspender clips one at a time--first the left stocking, then the right, deliberate, her fingers working the metal clasps with practiced ease. She rolls the stockings down, peeling them off her legs, and her red toenails are visible now, the gold chain at her right ankle the only thing left below the waist besides the panties.

She pushes the stockings aside with her foot and picks up the bottle again.

"I'm going to show you something, Jack Morrison." She purrs almost seductively.

She takes another drink, then sets the bottle down and hooks her thumbs into the waistband of the panties.

She slides them down, stepping out of them, and kicks them toward the pile that used to be her dress.

The hair between her legs is dense, black, a full triangle that hides nothing and everything, the pink of her is visible beneath the hair, already glistening in the amber light, the lips slightly parted.

"Mr detective, I'm going to show you what I like. And you're going to watch." She says seductively yet also dominantly.

She sits on the bed beside me, close, her hip against mine, the heat of her skin bleeding through my trousers.

She lifts one leg onto the mattress, opening herself, and I can see everything the dark hair, the pink beneath it, the wetness already collecting at the seam of her womanhood.

She takes the bottle of Jim Beam and tilts it, pouring a thin stream of bourbon down over her stomach, the liquid running through the valley of her navel, down over the mound of hair, and she gasps a sharp, involuntary sound.

"Ahh! cold, cold!" She says startled, her stomach clenches, her thigh muscles tightening as the bourbon runs over her pussy and drips onto the sheet beneath her.

She looks at me. Her pupils are wide, the brown of her irises nearly swallowed.

"Now watch." She says.

She takes the neck of the bottle in her right hand, her red nails wrapping around the glass, and she guides it between her legs.

The base of the bottle is wide, too wide, I think, but she presses it against herself, the curved glass catching the wetness of the bourbon and her own slick, and she pushes.

The rim of the bottle resists for a moment, and her jaw tightens, her breath hissing through her teeth, and then she opens.

The bottle slides in, the first inch, then two, the glass disappearing into the dark hair, and she makes a sound that goes straight through me.

It is low, guttural, yet oddly smooth.

"Uhhhhn! oh, fuck!" She squeals, her head dropping back, her free hand gripping the sheet beside her, she holds the sheet so tight it turns her knuckles white.

She works it slowly. The bottle is thick, and she takes it in stages, each inch earned with a shift of her hips, a gasp, a tightening of her stomach.

The bourbon inside the bottle sloshes with each movement, the liquid shifting as the glass moves inside her, and the sound is obscene, wet, thick, the squelch of her body accepting something it shouldn't, the slap of her wet flesh against the glass.

I watch enthralled, but I also think and worry if she is going to spill any of the precious amber liquid inside.

"AHH! AH! JESUS! IT'S!" she pants, each word punctuated by a breathless gasp.

Her hips roll, her thighs tremble.

"It's so fucking cold and so fucking, fucking. kel kech anak, sheza mimla uti legamri." She says her tone and volume telling me it's a mixture of pleasure and pain. Even though she temporarily breaks into Hebrew.

She pushes deeper, and her voice breaks into something high and thin. Like she is having a tooth pulled.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!" She screams as most of the Jim Beam is swallowed by her Jewish cunt.

Meanwhile, I'm hard. Painfully, achingly hard, the fabric of my trousers strains, and my hands are on my knees exactly where she told me to put them, and I'm watching, and I can't look away. The bottle moves in and out of her now, the rhythm building, her wrist working, her red nails sliding on the glass. The wetness is running down the bottle, mixing with the bourbon, dripping onto the burgundy sheet in dark stains.

Her chest heaves, the bra straining, her breasts swelling over the cups with each breath, and the pendant catches the light with each breathless heave. Sweat beading on her forehead.

"You like this? You like watching me fuck myself with a bottle of bourbon in this shitty little apartment?" she asks, her voice is ragged, shredded at the edges. She swallows and breathes like she is labour but continues.

"I like it." I murmur loudly.

"Tell me." She demands.

"I like watching you take it. I like watching how wet you are. I like the sounds you make." I say firmly.

"Ahh! say it again! Say it again you filthy bastard!" She demands almost stammering as it occurs to me this is like the reverse of childbirth.

"I like the sounds. I like watching your cunt stretch around that bottle. I like watching you shake." I say in an impolite tone.

She moans, a sound that fills the small room, and her hips buck, and the bottle moves faster, the squelching louder, the bed creaking under her. Her left hand comes up and pulls the bra cup down, freeing one breast.

It's heavy, pale, the areola huge and dark, the nipple stiff and nearly black in the amber light. She pinches it, hard, pulling, and the sound she makes is closer to a sob.

"Ahh, ah, ow, fuck," She stammers.

Her stomach clenches, and I can see the muscles in her thighs shaking, the tension building in her body like a spring winding tight.

"Tell me what you want," I say.

"I want, I want." She stammers. She's losing the rhythm, her wrist stuttering, the bottle sliding wetly in and out, the glass slick with her.

"I want you to watch. I want you to pull your cock out and wank while you watch me cum with this bottle inside me." She says barely holding words together.

I don't move. Not yet. I watch her fuck herself, the bottle moving in long strokes now, her hips rolling to meet each thrust, her breast hanging free, the nipple dragging against the fabric of the sheet. The jazz plays. The trumpet player reaches for a note he almost can't hit. The baby downstairs has stopped crying.

"Jack!" She cries out. Her voice is high, fractured, the words coming in pieces.

"Jack, I'm, I'm going to ah ah." She screams.

Her thighs clamp together around the bottle, her stomach goes rigid, her head thrown back, the tendons in her neck standing out like cables.

" Ahh! ow! I! I! I can't stand it! I'm about to! oh God! Oh God! ah! o! ani! ani! ani le yechul lesbol et ze! ani omed...! elohim! elohim!" She cries and her whole body seizes, her back arching, her heel digging into the mattress, and the bottle is buried deep inside her, and she cums, her cunt clenching visibly around the glass, the wetness gushing out around the bottle, soaking the sheet, soaking her thighs, dripping onto the mattress in a flood that catches the amber light and shines.

She doesn't stop. She keeps moving the bottle, slower now, riding the aftershocks, her body jerking each time the glass shifts inside her.

Her breath comes in sobs, short, sharp,

"ah, ah, ah, " She whimpers and her hand falls away from her breast, limp, and the heavy mound settles against her ribs, the nipple still rigid, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

I reach over and wrap my hand around the bottle. She lets go. I hold it inside her, feeling the pulse of her cunt around the glass, the heat of her body through the bottle, the wetness running over my knuckles. Her eyes find mine. They're glassy, dazed, the pupils blown.

"Take it out, Slowly." she whispers.

I pull the bottle free, inch by inch, and she gasps at each increment, her body clutching at the glass, reluctant to release it. When the rim finally clears, she shudders, and a rush of wetness follows, bourbon and her own slick, pooling on the sheet beneath her. I set the bottle on the nightstand. The amber liquid inside has nearly doubled, diluted, I realize, with what her body left behind.

She lies back on the bed, one arm over her eyes, her chest rising and falling. The bra is half-off, one breast exposed, the other still cradled in black and red lace. The hair between her legs is dark with wet dew, the pink of her swollen and visible through the matted curls. The gold chain at her waist rises and falls with her breath.

"Jack Morrison," she says panting, and her voice is thick, lazy, the voice of someone whose body has just emptied itself.

"You still have your clothes on." She quips.

"I noticed." I comment somewhat flippantly.

"That's getting to be a problem." She says as she lifts her arm and looks at me.

"Stand up." She commands.

I stand. She sits up, her feet on the floor, and her hands find my belt. Her fingers are still shaking. She works the buckle, the zipper, and pushes my trousers down over my hips. My cock is straining against my shorts, and she looks at it the way she looked at the bottle assessing, calculating.

"Well you aren't Jewish, Uncut, I love uncut." she says, and there's something in her voice that sounds like satisfaction.

She pulls the shorts down, and my cock springs free, the foreskin still covering the head, the shaft thick and dark and curving upward. She wraps her hand around it the same hand that held the bottle, and I can smell the bourbon and her own scent on her fingers and she strokes, once, twice, the foreskin sliding back to reveal the head, already wet at the tip.

"Ahh!" I'm the one who makes the sound now. Her hand is cool from the glass, and the contrast with the heat of my cock makes my hips jerk.

She leans forward, her lips parting, red lipstick glistening, and she breathes against the head.

"I like bourbon on a cock, But maybe next time." she murmurs.

She looks up at me, and her mouth curves.

"But right now, I want you inside me. Not in my pussy, that one's done for the night." She says Her hand slides lower, past my cock, and her fingers brush the space behind my balls, and lower still.

"I want you here. In the tuchus." She says as her finger indicates that she wants me in her ass.

She stands, turns, and bends over the edge of the bed, her hands flat on the mattress, her back arched, her ass raised, almost poised for display and acceptance.

She reaches back with both hands and spreads herself open, and I can see the tight pink rosette of her asshole or Tuchus, surrounded by the dark hair that continues from her pussy, already glistening with the wetness that ran down from her orgasm.

"I've been told I'm accommodating," she purrs, and there's a laugh in her voice, even now, even with her face pressed into the sheet and her ass in the air.

"Come on, Jack. Notice me. Accommodate me." She purrs, suggestively giving her ass a ever so slight wriggle as she does.

I notice her. I notice the way the amber light falls on the pale curves of her ass, the way the gold chain at her waist hangs down, swaying, the way her asshole twitches slightly when I step closer. I notice the wetness still running down her thighs, the dark patch on the sheet, the bottle on the nightstand with its amber liquid and its label and its shape that was inside her.

I reach for the bourbon.

The bottle is warm in my hand. Jim Beam, half-gone, the glass still slick where her body gripped it.

I lift it to my mouth and take a long pull. The bourbon burns down my throat, sharp and immediate, cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and her scent. I wipe my lip with the back of my wrist and set the bottle on the nightstand next to the saucer with my crushed Lucky Strike.

My fingers find the loosened tie first. I pull it over my head and drop it on the floor. The tweed jacket goes next, shrugging it off my shoulders, letting it fall where it wants.

My shirt already half-undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, unbuttons fast.

Each button through its hole, my fingers steady despite the way my pulse drums in my ears. I strip it off and toss it on top of the jacket. The undershirt underneath is thin, sweat-damp, clinging to my chest. I peel it over my head and add it to the pile. My trousers and shorts are already shoved down to my hips from where she pulled them, so I step out of them entirely, kicking them aside. Socks last. I roll them off, one foot, then the other.

The whole time Eleanor is on her hands and knees, her ass or Tuchus higher than her torso, her ass giving small wriggles like a worm on a hook, She is looking back over her shoulder, smiling and watching me.

I stand behind her naked. My cock juts forward, uncut, thick, the foreskin already peeled back from the head, flushed dark with blood. It curves upward and outward like it's reaching for her.

She hasn't moved. Still bent over the edge of the bed, palms flat on the burgundy sheet, back arched so deep her spine is a valley of vertebrae. Her ass is raised high, the cheeks spread by her own positioning, and between them her anus is a tight pink rosette, surrounded by dark untrimmed hair still glistening from the bottle she fucked herself with.

The muscles in her thighs tremble. Her breathing comes ragged, shallow, her ribs expanding and contracting under the black and red lace of her bra.

The one cup still pulled down exposes her left breast, the huge dark areola pressed against the mattress, the nipple stiff and crushed beneath her weight.

The gold chains on her body catch the amber lamplight the pendant at her throat swinging slightly with each breath, the chain on her right wrist glinting as her fingers grip the sheet, the thin gold chain around her waist catching shadows in the curve of her hips, the one around her right ankle warm against her skin.

I pick up the bourbon bottle again. I hold it over her, tilting it slowly. Three drops fall from the lip of the bottle, catching the lamplight like honey landing directly on her exposed asshole.

The bourbon runs in slow rivulets, pooling against the tight rosette, seeping into the creases, dripping down over her perineum and into the matted wet hair of her pussy. She flinches at the burn. A sharp intake of breath, her shoulders tensing, her fingers clawing into the sheet.

"Ahh!" she hisses through her teeth.

"Shtut, that's cold, it burns." She mentions.

I let another drop fall. Then another. Each one hits her asshole and spreads, the amber liquid mixing with her own wetness, running down between her thighs.

I press my thumb against her anus, smearing the bourbon over the tight ring of muscle, pushing in gently.

Her asshole gives, just barely, the pad of my thumb sinking in to the first knuckle. She gasps, it is a raw, throaty sound and her back arches deeper, pushing herself onto my hand.

I withdraw my thumb. I line myself up. The head of my cock presses against her bourbon slicked asshole, and I feel the heat of her even through the sting of the booze.

I grip her hips with both hands, my fingers digging into the soft pale flesh, and I push forward.

The head of my cock breaches her asshole. The ring of muscle resists, clenching hard around me, and then it yields. It is a slow, yielding surrender that makes Ellie cry out, her voice cracking upward into a register I didn't know she had.

"AAAHHH! YOU'RE SO THICK. SO GODDAMN THICK." Ellie wails.

Her voice splinters. Her fingers twist the sheet into white-knuckled fists.

"Your cock is so thick, Jack, ah!" Ellie cries.

I hold there, just the head inside her, letting her asshole adjust to it.

The bourbon burns against my skin too, a hot, tingling friction that makes every nerve ending in my cock sing.

I can feel her sphincter pulsing around me, clenching and releasing in rhythmic spasms, her body trying to decide whether to accept me or push me out.

I push deeper. One inch, Two inches, three inches and then more.

The tight heat of her asshole grips my shaft like a fist, the ring of muscle sliding along my length, and the bourbon makes the passage slick enough to move but still tight enough that every millimeter feels like work. Work but pleasurable work.

She's making sounds now, guttural, animal sounds that don't have words, just vowels and breaths, her face turned sideways against the mattress, her red lipstick smeared across the burgundy sheet.

"UHHHN! AHHH! YOUR COCK IS IN MY TUCUS!" She gasps, each word punched out between thrusts.

"IT'S SO DEEP AH YOU'RE SO FIERCE, AH, AH!" Ellie moans breathlessly.

I bottom out. Every inch of my cock is buried in her ass, my hips pressed flush against her cheeks.

I hold there, grinding in slow circles, and she moans it's a low, sustained note that vibrates through her whole body. I can feel her trembling, her asshole clenching around the base of my cock, her thighs shaking.

My hand reaches around her hip, sliding over the sweaty, damp skin of her belly, down through the dark wet tangle of her pubic hair.

My fingers find her pussy. She's wrecked. The bottle left her swollen, distended, gaped for want of a better term, the inner lips are puffy and tender, her cunt gaping slightly where the glass stretched her.

I push two fingers inside and she screams a raw, shredded sound, because she's so sensitive that the pressure of my fingers makes her whole body buck.

She's drenched. Her own wetness and the bourbon mixing together, soaking my hand, dripping down my wrist.

"Jesus, Ellie. The bottle fucked you up." I comment.

My voice comes out low and rough. I curl my fingers inside her, feeling the swollen walls of her cunt, the tenderness of everything she did to herself.

She laughs,

It's a ragged, broken laugh that turns into a moan as my fingers press deeper.

"I told you, I wanted you here instead, don't stop, please don't stop." Ellie moans.

I pull back. My cock slides out until only the head remains inside her asshole, and I thrust forward, hard, decisive, burying myself to the hilt in one stroke.

The sound it makes is obscene the wet slap of my hips against her ass, the squelch of bourbon and sweat and her own juices, a wet sloppy sound that fills the apartment.

"AHHH!" She cries.

Her scream hits the walls and comes back. The baby crying two floors down goes quiet, as if even that sound was drowned out.

"Ken oti! Ken oti babotach," She cries in Hebrew now, her voice high and desperate, the words tumbling out between gasps and moans.

"Atah kash, atah kasheh." Ellie moans nonsensically in Hebrew.

I don't know what she's saying. I don't need to. The sound of her voice, the way it cracks and rises and breaks, that's enough. It tells me all I need to know.

I fuck her with long, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in, each thrust met with a wet slap and a gasp or a scream.

Her asshole grips me, tight and slick, the bourbon making obscene squelching sounds with every movement.

"Shtut, shtut, shtut." She's panting.

"Titen li ode, give me more harder." She squeals.

I give it to her harder. I pull out and slam back in, my hips pistoning, my hands on her waist pulling her onto my cock with each thrust.

The bed frame knocks against the wall a rhythmic thud that matches the jazz still playing from the record player, an arrhythmic percussion section.

Ellie's body rocks forward with each thrust, her breasts swinging, the exposed one dragging across the sheet, her gold chains swinging and clinking with each thrust I take into her Jewish ass.

"AH! Ah! Ah!" Ellie cries. Each thrust punches a sound out of her.

"Kach ot kach!" Ellie screams softly. She's lost in it, her Hebrew breaking into fragments, her body arching and bucking.

Her asshole clenches rhythmically around me, the muscle working involuntarily, milking my cock as I fuck her tucus

I reach forward and grab a fistful of her hair, all black, wavy, sweaty and damp And I pull her head back.

Her throat stretches, the crystal pendant lifting away from her chest, her mouth open, her red lips wet. I lean forward and bite the side of her neck, and she screams a raw, feral sound again as I continue driving into her asshole from behind.

"Talk to me," I say against her ear.

"Tell me what you want," I whisper to her.

"ANI ROTZA, AHHH." Ellie cries.

She's struggling to form words, her voice shuddering with each thrust.

"I want you to fuck my ass until I can't, ah! until I can't walk!" Ellie tells me breathlessly, each word a gasp.

I release her hair and grab her hips again, both hands, and I pound into her. The pace changes, it's faster, rougher, the wet slap of skin against skin becoming a continuous staccato, the bed frame banging the wall like a drumbeat.

She's moaning continuously now, a sound that rises and falls with each thrust, punctuated by sharp cries when I hit deep.

"Slicha, slicha." She's moaning in Hebrew, her face pressed into the mattress now, her muffled screams soaking into the burgundy sheet.

"Atah chayak. Ahhh!" She cries as I go particularly deep.

I slow down. I pull out, and her asshole gapes pink and raw, the ring of muscle still open, clenching and unclenching around nothing. I spit on it. The saliva mixes with the bourbon, running into the gap, and she shudders.

"Get up," I say.

"Against the wall." I continue in a demanding tone. The tone I used to use when I was in uniform, telling miscreants what to do.

She pushes herself up from the bed, her legs unsteady, her body trembling.

She crosses the small space to the wall, the burgundy-painted plaster, and presses her palms flat against it, her back to me, her ass pushed out.

Her gold ankle chain catches the light as she widens her stance.

The crystal pendant hangs from her neck, swinging.

I step behind her. I place a hand on top of each of her shoulders. I line my cock up with her asshole again and I push inside, in one long, slow thrust that buries me to the root.

She cries out, her voice echoing off the wall in front of her, and her fingers claw at the plaster.

"Uhhhnn! so deep, so deep your cock is so deep in my tucus." She moans deeply.

She's whimpering now, her voice thin and high.

"You're so firm, ah, ah, ah." She whimpers, sounding almost like she is going to sneeze.

I fuck her standing up. My hands on her hips, pulling her back onto me with each thrust, my hips driving forward to meet her. The angle is different, tighter, the pressure concentrated on the head of my cock, and she feels it too because her moans shift pitch, climbing higher with each stroke.

I reach around and grab her left breast--the one still exposed; the huge dark areola is hot under my palm, the stiff nipple pressing against my fingers.

I squeeze, and she gasps, her asshole clenching around me.

"More! Harder! Please!" she pants.

I give her more. I slam into her, my thighs slapping against the backs of her thighs, my cock driving deep into her asshole with each thrust.

The wall shakes, a framed print rattles above her head and her moans become continuous, a stream of sound that breaks into Hebrew when she can't manage English.

"Ken! Ken! Ken! Yes! Yes! Yes! Ahhhh! ka'asher hi!" She cries in a mixture of pants, gasps and shouts.

I pull out. She makes a sound of protest, a small, almost lost whimper and I turn her around by her shoulders.

Her face is flushed, her red lipstick smeared across her chin and cheek, her brown eyes glassy and unfocused. The pink eyeshadow is creased, smudged. She looks wrecked.

"On the bed, On your back." I snap, almost like a drill sergeant.

She moves to the bed and lies back, her legs falling open.

Her bra is still on one cup up, one cup down, the lace and black fabric framing her exposed breast.

Her pussy is a mess swollen, wet, the dark hair matted, the inner lips red and distended from the bottle.

Her asshole is pink and raw, gaping slightly, slick with bourbon and spit.

The gold chain around her waist glints against her pale skin, and her crystal pendant rising and falling with her rapid breathing.

I climb onto the bed and position myself between her thighs.

I hook my arms under her knees, pushing her legs back toward her chest, and I press my cock against her asshole again.

She reaches down and grabs her own thighs, holding herself open for me, her red fingernails digging into her pale skin.

"Look at me," I snarl.

Her eyes meet mine brown, wet, desperate and I push inside.

Her mouth opens, a soundless cry, her eyes widening as my cock slides deep into her asshole in one long thrust.

I bottom out and hold, my weight pressing her legs back, her ankles beside her ears, the gold chain on her right ankle cold against my shoulder.

"AHH!" She screams it directly into my face.

"You're so deep, I can feel you in my ahhh, ohhh!" She wails.

I start moving. Slow at first, grinding deep, my hips pressed against her ass, my cock moving in tight circles inside her.

Then faster pulling back, thrusting forward, the rhythm building.

Her asshole grips me differently in this position, the angle pressing my cock against the front wall of her rectum, and she responds instantly arching back, her mouth opening, her hands releasing her thighs to grab my arms.

"Your cock is in my asshole." Ellie cries but she's babbling now, her voice breaking.

"It's so deep I can feel it ah ah right there ah." She breathlessly moans.

I lean down and kiss her. My tongue pushes into her mouth, tasting bourbon and cigarettes and her and she kisses me back hungry, desperate, her teeth catching my lower lip.

I fuck her asshole with deep, measured strokes, and she moans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest.

"Ani mitga'aga'a" she gasps between kisses.

"Mitga'aga'a la'ze" She continues to gasp.

Her hands slide up my back, her nails digging in.

"Don't stop al tishbor please." She moans swinging from English to Hebrew and back.

I speed up. The bed creaks beneath us, the burgundy sheet bunching and sliding. Her asshole is looser now, loose but still tight, still gripping, but the muscle has surrendered, accepting my cock with each thrust, the ring of flesh sliding smoothly along my shaft.

The wet sounds are obscene, squelch, slap, squelch, slap and her moans match the rhythm, rising and falling, punctuated by sharp cries when I push especially deep.

I pull out. Her asshole gapes again wider now, the pink rosette stretched open, the muscle slow to close. I lie back on the bed, my cock jutting up, and I look at her.

"Ride me." I demand as I point to my cock.

She doesn't hesitate. She climbs over me, straddling my hips, her thighs spread wide. She reaches behind her and grabs my cock, guiding it to her asshole, and she sinks down. The head breaches her asshole and she moans, in a long, descending note and she keeps going, lowering herself, taking my cock inch by inch into her ass.

Her head falls back, the crystal pendant swinging between her exposed breast and the lace-covered one, her mouth open, her eyes closed.

"Ahhhh, oh, oh." Ellie moans.

She's trembling. She bottoms out, my cock fully inside her asshole, and she sits there for a moment, just breathing. Then she starts to move.

She rides me. Her hips roll, her thighs working, her asshole sliding up and down my cock. She reaches up and pulls the other cup of her bra down, freeing both breasts huge, pale, bouncy the dark areolas stiff and crinkled, the nipples jutting out.

She grabs them, squeezing, pulling at her own nipples, and the sight of it her hands on her tits, my cock disappearing into her asshole, the gold chains catching the light makes me throb harder inside her.

"Yes." she pants.

"Yes, your cock feels so, ah, so good in my ass." She says.

She's grinding now, her hips moving in tight circles, my cock buried to the root.

"Kacha, kacha tov." She moans in Hebrew.

I grab her hips. I thrust up into her from below, meeting her rhythm, driving my cock deeper into her asshole with each stroke.

She cries out with a sharp, high sound and her hands fall from her breasts to my chest, her nails raking down my skin, leaving red lines.

"AH! OW!! I! I CAN'T! I'M GOING TO!" She cries out. She's getting louder, her voice climbing

She climaxes and I feel it. Her asshole clenches around me, a vicelike grip, sudden and fierce and she screams. A loud blood curdling scream which is most probably heard in Jersey.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs locking, her back arching, and she squirts. Not from her asshole from her pussy, her ruined, swollen cunt releasing a gush of fluid that splashes against my stomach, soaking the sheet beneath us.

She screams through it, the sound raw and shredded, her body convulsing, her asshole milking my cock in rhythmic spasms. As she climaxes.

"AH! OW! I! I CAN'T! I! HELP! AH! AH!! AH!" She screams. But she's lost, her voice is fragmenting, her body jerking

I grab her and flip her. She goes willingly, limp, trembling, and I put her back on her knees, face down on the mattress.

Her asshole is still gaping, still clenching and releasing, and I line myself up and push back inside.

She screams into the mattress. I fuck her from behind doggy, the position we started in and I don't hold back.

My hips slam into her ass, my cock driving deep into her asshole with every stroke, the wet slap of skin loud in the small apartment.

She's making sounds that aren't words anymore just moans and cries and guttural noises, her face pressed into the burgundy sheet, her hands clawing at the fabric.

I reach forward and grab her hair again, pulling her head back, and she screams a raw, primal sound as her face is no longer pushed into the mattress and her asshole clenches around my cock.

"Ani rotza et zera shelcha" she gasps.

"I want your cum b'chadodi ah." She mutters in Hebrew.

I'm close. I can feel it building the tightening in my balls, the pressure at the base of my cock, the heat spreading through my groin. I pull out of her asshole, suddenly, quickly she gasps at the sudden emptiness and I grab her shoulder, manhandling and turning her around.

She knows. She drops to her knees on the floor, her face level with my cock, and she opens her mouth. I step forward and push my cock between her lips the head sliding over her tongue, the taste of her own ass and bourbon mixing in her mouth.

She takes me deep, her throat opening, her lips wrapping around the base of my shaft, and I groan.

"Fuck! Ellie!" I groan loudly.

She looks up at me brown eyes wet, mascara smudged, red lipstick smeared across her chin and my cock and she sucks.

Her head bobs, her tongue working the underside of my shaft, and I feel my cock thicken, the pressure building to a peak.

I cum. Hard. My cock pulses in her throat, shooting thick ropes of cum, and she swallows the first spurt, then the second but the third fills her mouth, her cheeks bulging, and the fourth overflows.

Cum spills from her lips, running down her chin, dripping onto her exposed breasts, white and thick against her pale skin.

She pulls back, coughing, and my cock pulses again, another rope landing across her lower lip and chin.

She gasps, her mouth open, cum pooling on her tongue, and she swallows again throat working but there's too much. It runs down her neck, onto the black-and-red lace of her bra, soaking into the fabric.

She looks up at me. Her mouth's a mess cum and spit and red lipstick, her chin dripping, her chest heaving.

She swallows one more time and licks her lips, her tongue dragging across the white mess, and she smiles.

"Whew. That was." She quips, Her voice is raw, wrecked. She doesn't finish.

I reach down and help her up. Her legs are unsteady, her thighs trembling, and I guide her to the bed.

She sits on the edge, then lays back, and I lie down beside her.

The burgundy sheet is soaked, soaked with bourbon, sweat, her own fluids, my cum.

The jazz record has ended, the needle lifting and dropping repeatedly in the run-out groove, a soft clicking sound. The baby two floors down has gone quiet.

She curls against me, her head on my chest, her wet hair cold against my skin. Her gold chains press against me the pendant, the wrist chain, the waist chain small points of cool metal against my warm skin.

Her breathing slows, deepens. I reach for the nightstand and find my pack of Lucky Strikes, pull one out, and light it. The match flares, illuminating her face eyes closed, lips parted, cum still drying on her chin.

I smoke. The cigarette burns down, ash falling onto the sheet. Her breathing evens out, her body is heavy and still against mine. Outside, the October rain taps against the window, and somewhere in the building a pipe clanks.

I stub out the cigarette on the saucer. My eyes close. The last thing I hear is the record player clicking in the silence, and then nothing.

As I fall asleep in a strange bed, in a shitty apartment next to a woman who is hard to describe, hard to explain.

But she was a Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress.