Quench Me

***Part 1***

I watch you from across the crowded bar, alone with my phone and my untouched drink. My body is turned so that I can see you from the corner of my eye without being caught staring, my legs, clad in purple and orange striped leggings, impatiently crossing and uncrossing. Absently twirling one long pigtail with one hand, I pop the bright red cherry from my drink in and out of my mouth, attempting to appease the ravenous oral fixation that has been slowly eating away at me, and begin texting:

I'm so thirsty!

Please, Daddy?

You prefer to play pool with the guys and let the girls come to you. And they always do. A pair of them and an unaffiliated third are circling now. You ignore them as you make your shot and drink deeply from your glass of sparkling water. You ignore my messages as well, but I know you can feel the vibrations in your pocket.

This drink tastes terrible. I don't want it. I want your piss. Pretty please?

You pull your phone out as the other guy takes his turn. You smirk at the screen and put it back in your pocket. I am frustration incarnate.

It looks like you're almost done with your drink. Is it time yet? Can I have it when you're ready?

Drip. Drip. Drip...

This time you reply.

Patience.

Filthy piss-drinking whore.

One of the pair of girls, the curvy one in the slinky, slutty black dress and heels that accentuate her very fine bottom, demands to play the winner. She can tell it will be you. Everyone can tell.

I want it so bad! Haven't I been a good girl, Daddy? Don't I deserve a reward?

The next game starts and the slut with the butt leans over the table several times, feigning incompetence until you offer to give her some tips. Leaning over her, your bodies meld together and you guide her shot expertly. She squeals with school-girl glee when one of the balls hits the mark and smoothly slides into the dark depths of the hole at the apex of the table. I look on with desperation, not borne of jealousy, but of pure unadulterated thirst.

This glass is dirty. I want to drink from your dick.

I want to be your urinal. I promise to be good and swallow every drop.

Please please PLEASE!

Commas be damned.

You take your shot, finish your drink, and whisper something in the girl's ear that makes her smile like a cheshire cat. Then you take out your phone again:

Now, slut.

With unabashed excitement, I hop down off of my stool and make a beeline for the temporarily empty unisex restroom. I have to get there first. That's the rule. When you enter, you find me already on my knees in the back stall, our usual spot. You lock the stall door and I quickly undo your belt buckle and lower your zipper. I gently remove your cock and assume the position I've been trained to: hands clasped tightly behind my back, mouth open, almost but not quite touching the head of your dick, my breath warm on your foreskin, ready to catch that first drop. When it comes, it is a torrent. My eyes locked with yours, I suck the tip into my mouth so as not to spill any. As I swallow diligently, over and over and over, you describe your plans for the pool girl. She proposed a wager in which she would fuck you in this very stall after the game if you won. You offered up the same in the case that she won. Which she wouldn't.

Your piss floods me with desire. Your words wash over me and wetness pools between my legs. The mental image of you fucking another woman, just a few short minutes from now, right here in this very stall, runs rampant through my mind. Still gulping lustfully, I can picture her pressed up against the tiles on the wall behind me, dress hiked up to her waist, one high-heeled foot on the floor right where my knees are resting now, the other propped up on the seat of the unused toilet next to my elbow, legs spread wide to allow the full length of the cock that is currently pissing down my throat to pound mercilessly into the deepest recesses of her dripping wet cunt. I revel in the scent and flavor of the river flowing into me, my own cunt drooling hungrily, soaking my panties at the thought.

When the stream trails off, I am finally able to take a breath. But you're not finished with me yet. You grab my pigtails and command me to "Suck it." I leap to this second task as enthusiastically as the first. I take you fully into my mouth, licking, sucking, swallowing around your hardening, lengthening dick. I try to relax my throat muscles to allow the head inside, swallowing more convulsively now. It is fortunate that my moans of pleasure are stifled by your engorged cock because I can hear the drunken chatter of other patrons as they enter and move around to piss, wash hands, and apply make-up.

When you're good and hard, you jerk my head back roughly by my hair. One long string of saliva still connects us, a physical manifestation of my insatiable hunger for more. It seems that I have sufficiently prepped you for your conquest. Releasing my hands for their still-clasped position, I lovingly tuck you back into your pants, fastening the zipper, button and belt, and you leave without a word. After a few moments to compose myself and repair my tangled hair, I return to my table to watch the end of the game, waiting with single-minded anticipation for my next drink from you.

***Part 2***

Distracted by my fantasies, I am nearly at my former seat before I realize it is occupied. Looking around the crowded room in alarm, the bartender catches my eye. He is a tall, broad, ginger lumberjack of a man with a full, well-kept beard. He retrieves my phone, purse, and barely touched drink from their place behind the bar and pushes them across the counter at me, not quite meeting my eye. I wonder if he saw the messages, and smile widely at him at the thought. I certainly didn't take the time to close the app before rushing off to my task.

Pleased with myself, I sway contentedly over to the last remaining table with a good view of the game and slide onto the chair. I am too far away to hear the words over the music and babbling voices, but I can see the intensity of the flirtation unfolding to lay its solid girth across the soft, yielding felt of the pool table. I care not for the sticks and balls of billiards. I am here to watch the hunt, made all the more interesting by the uncertainty of the roles of predator and prey.

At first glance, it would appear that she is hunting you as you studiously ignore her. But I know that to be a strategic ploy on your part. Her frequent blushes at your off-hand comments confirm this. You are keeping her off balance. Luring her in. Penetrating her fertile mind with your words, planting the hypnotic seed of desire so that she will think she is pursuing you. But you are fully in control of the situation.

Casually walking around behind her to line up your shot, her very fine breasts thrust forward with a gasp at the touch of your fingers trailing across her lower back. I can see she is coming undone. Your next ball sinks easily into the pocket. Hers bounces uselessly off the side. She is rattled. Distracted. Breathing heavily, her concentration is clearly no longer on the game. You finish it up quickly and whisper in her ear, confirming your intention to collect on the bet.

You head toward the back first, leaving her to stand awkwardly for a moment, that glazed, thoroughly hypnotized look in her eyes that I know so well.

My phone buzzes at me and I look down eagerly.

Come and watch, whore.

Taking a nervous breath, the defeated slut heads willingly toward the back. I pause at the bar on my way to deposit my purse and phone with the flustered bartender, leaving him wide-eyed and staring after me.

When I arrive in the restroom, the door of our stall is already locked. I enter the one next to it, close the door, and press my face against the hard smooth surface to peer greedily through the crack in the corner, just in time to see you back her up against the outer wall across from me.

Running your hand up her thigh and under the short, tight hem of her black dress, you stroke her gently through the fabric covering her pussy. Her entire body, pinned between you and the wall, writhes elegantly in response. She is purring like a sleek, black cat. I can just barely hear your whispered command in her ear to remove her panties. She quickly complies, tossing them absently onto the floor, just within my reach.

Her eyes lock with yours as you run your strong hand from her hair, across her face and trembling lips to gently grasp her by the throat, letting her know that you are the one in charge now. She is thoroughly engrossed. I silently slide down to kneel on the floor and reach under the bottom of the stall wall to snatch her panties from where she dropped them. Straightening back up, I inhale her scent and turn my attention fully back to the show.

Suddenly, subtly, the roles are altered. You have become the cat, toying with your trapped mouse. Now that she is bare from the waist all the way down to her tall, heeled black boots, you slow your movements. Still touching, stroking, but lacking the urgency of a moment ago. As your breathing slows, hers quickens.

"What's your name, Darlin'?"

This is a trick I've seen you use before. Get them all heated up, beyond the point of no-return, and then remind them that you haven't even been properly introduced. That you are, essentially, strangers. Strangers standing in the locked bathroom stall of a bar, with her half naked. And your fingers already in her cunt. She flushes a very deep scarlet at the reality of the situation and at her own identity as a shameless slut.

Caught off guard, her meticulously manicured hands flutter uncertainly in the air. I almost feel sorry for her. "J-Jessica?" she breathes in a distinctly rising tone, which melts into a long low moan, dripping with helpless desire, as your fingers abruptly plunge deeper between her luscious thighs.

Your chuckle is like soft, dark, crumpled velvet dragged across a tall, straight, solid tree trunk. "Nice to meet you, Jessica." I smile to myself, knowing you will not be returning the introduction. Jessica whimpers in ecstasy as her eyes roll up in her head, beyond noticing such improprieties.

She is quite visibly just on the edge of cumming when you remove your dripping fingers from her delicate, quivering labia. Almost too loudly, she whines, "No! Please don't st--" Your fingers plug her pouty, protesting mouth and she sucks and slurps her own juices off of them like a hungry child in the scorching summer heat, desperately trying to catch every drop of a rapidly deliquescing popsicle. Inhaling her scent from the discarded scrap of lace and satin clutched in my hand, I close my eyes briefly, pilfering a secret share of her steaming rapture like a musty, vicarious slice of pie, hot and exposed on a windowsill.

I open my eyes to see Jessica, fumbling at your belt and zipper in a disorganized fashion, mouth still full of fingers, her wide eyes locked to your lidded ones. You stand, impassive, letting her struggle. I can imagine the phantom of a smile quirking your lips, even with your back to me. Finally, she succeeds in freeing you from the trappings of propriety. Her victorious chuckle is curtailed by a choking, gagging sound as you spring forth and her swallowed gasp is obstructed digitally by the face-fucking motion of your fingers, your calluses scraping brutally across her tender lips. I can see the mental calculations reflected in her widened eyes as she assesses your imposing size.

She flatters herself to think that she is the reason for your arousal (or so I imagine). I smile in satisfaction, her panties pressed to my face, secretly ensconced in the next stall, knowing that I too had a hand in it. Although, I must admit to myself, and to my beloved readers, that her own blatant arousal and complete and willing surrender undoubtedly have also made their contribution. Also, her scent is divine, I think, breathing heavily through my mask of satiny fabric. No matter. We can share that honor.

Entranced, she drops slowly to her knees. You remove your fingers from her mouth, smearing lipstick and saliva across her cheek and down to her jaw as you do so. Fascinated, intimidated, she stares your tall, proud cock in the eye, meeting its impassive, stony gaze for a moment. There is a silent exchange as she licks her already roughly used lips and receives a slight nodding twitch in response. Finally, she closes her eyes in acquiescence and takes the head gently into her wet-and-watering mouth.

As she begins, I see your body straighten. You adjust your shoulders almost imperceptibly, as if a shiver has just passed through them. She's good at this, apparently. Bracing yourself with one hand on the wall above her bobbing head, you look down at her and smile affectionately, wolfishly, capturing her wide-eyed gaze. "Good girl." She moans and redoubles her efforts. A line of drool bounces playfully from the tip of her small, pointed chin.

The two of you are turned to the side at this point, so I have a good view of the whole scene. Her head moves forward and back rhythmically, your hand holding her hair back, guiding her movements and depth. Her heavily mascaraed eyes gaze up at you, puppy-like, adoring. Slurping sounds abound.

As her arousal increases, so does her tempo. You allow it, for a time, thrusting harder, deeper, eliciting sharp, needy, glottal, gagging noises from the depths of her tight, convulsing esophagus which bounce off the walls and around the (temporarily) otherwise empty restroom like an assortment of rubber balls. But this is not how you intend to finish it.

Dragging her abruptly to her feet, you back her up against the wall again. She is off-balance, literally now, having lost one shoe in the maelstrom of ecstasy. She totters precariously on the one remaining tall, black stiletto as you lift the other leg, resting a sheer black stockinged foot on the edge of the toilet seat behind you, and enter her fully with no further warning.

You have chosen the moment strategically. Her cry of pleasure has no audience in the deserted room. Except you. And her. And me. Nevertheless, you cover her mouth with one large hand to quiet her moans as you plunge wetly into her depths. Just in time, too. Several patrons enter noisily, going about their business, perfectly ignorant of the fornicating strangers in their midst, and of the hidden voyeur to the illicit activities.

Nearby voices, flushing and splashing. Intense, barely audible, heaving breaths. The deep thrusting of your cock into the slurping slit of the slut against the wall, her eyes rolling back in her head as she goes limp in orgasmic fury, your hand still covering her panting mouth. It's all too much for me. I drag in a deep breath through her stolen panties and hold it in before plunging the scrap of black silk-and-lace down inside of my own bright polka-dot ones. Silk against silk against soft, sensitive skin. My clit is already swollen and ready, waiting for the slightest stimulation to shatter me, head to toe. The stall wall creaks as I lean heavily against it, my shudders mirroring yours as you erupt into the willing vessel in front of you, her arms and legs clinging tightly to the contours of your muscles like the tentacles of a hungry cephalopod.

Time stops, as if to catch its own breath. Inhale. Exhale. And resume. The sounds and sensations return. Softer, and paradoxically harsher.

You slide out of Jessica. She slides down the wall to the floor, one tentacle searching limply for her wayward shoe, unconscious of the tangled birds nest perched atop her head. Shakily, she dons her recovered footwear and rises, now looking about with growing concern for her discarded underwear. It is crowded and awkward in the stall. Your chest is broad and you tower over her. Her rump in the air, she moves closer to my stall in her quest until it is abruptly brought to a halt by a sharp smack on the ass and a gesture of dismissal. Flustered, she abandons the hunt and hurries out of the stall, pausing to frantically repair her disastrous hair in the mirror before leaving.

The door closes behind her with a thud and I hear the distinctive snap of your fingers. I know that sound. I love that sound. I quickly move from my stall to yours and fall to my knees, already too focused on my next task to bother locking the stall door, Jessica's black panties still clutched in my sweaty fist.

Hands clasped behind my back, mouth open, I notice something from the corner of my eye. Your phone, propped against the wall behind the toilet, in perfect position for filming. I smile into the camera before turning back to catch your stream. Closing my lips gently over the tip, I gulp and gulp and gulp. Your cock is drenched in Jessica's musk, a deeper, more profound, more aromatic version of what suffused her underwear, tinged with the fullness of arousal. It has the scene of a moment ago flashing before my eyes again. My nipples harden sensitively against my shirt and I lose myself in the sacred act of swallowing.

***Part 3***

Now, if you've read this far, my Dear Readers, you may be wondering if I am just a dirty thief, in addition to being a dirty whore, and any other names you'd like to give me. Most of them would be true. But as it happens, I am not a thief. Just watch...

I take the long way to the bar to collect my things, the path that will take me right past Jessica's table where she is sitting with a large group of friends, very tipsy now, her hair still not quite presentable (but hey, what's a girl to do?). I pause briefly beside her. She looks up questioningly, having no idea who I am. "I think you might have lost these." I set her discarded panties on the table in front of her (only slightly sweaty from their time spent bunched up behind me in my clasped hands as I drank from your cock just moments ago) and move on, just barely catching the look of shocked embarrassment on her face as she quickly snatches them from the table and stuffs them in her bag. I can hear the silence behind me as I walk away, rolling off the group like ocean waves. I hate to take pleasure in someone else's discomfort, but I find it very hard not to giggle.

(See? I told you I'm not a thief.)

I hit the bar to retrieve my personal belongings and discover a very shaken bartender.