One Night Only (17 page)

But letting him fuck her would be going too far, wouldn't it? These Italian people didn't have to come back here next week. She'd been coming here for fifteen, sixteen years. She
had
to come back here. She couldn't just…
fuck
here, under a table.

Or could she?

 

As she drove Molly to greater heights of hunger, Ilaria's other hand reached up and—probably because she could not get purchase if she reached above Molly's shoulder, Ilaria tucked her hand through the loose sleeve of Molly's dress—slid up smoothly under her lacy, laundry-soft, too-old, too-well-worn bra.

Her hand felt warm on Molly's tits; the air conditioner had started to blow, and she was right in the vent. Her goose bumps made her crave the warmth not only of Ilaria's hands on her, but of Jeff's crotch all over her face. He caressed her hair and gently stroked her face. It was weird not to be able to see him, but he was leaning forward.

Ilaria's fingers worked her nipples. She pinched and stroked,
gently digging her nails in, tentatively at first—and then more firmly.

Molly moaned around Jeff's cock, opened wide and slid down till her lips were around his cock's base. She hadn't done that in forever—deep-throating, something she used to totally like. Or had she just liked it because Carl liked it?
Academic, purely
, she decided. She liked it
now
. She liked it because not only did she have a hot Italian stranger's cock down her throat; she had his girlfriend pinching her nipples while she finger-fucked her deep and thumbed her clit. Goddamn, she was fucking hot.

She wanted to fuck.

She really, really,
really
wanted to fuck. If she'd been anywhere other than here, she would have done it, without question. She almost wanted to do it here. Well…maybe not just almost.

Molly realized that was, of course, ridiculous. She didn't have a condom. She wasn't on the pill. Not to imply, for an instant, if she
was
on the pill, she would have fucked an Italian stranger in a bar without a condom. That would be bad. She wouldn't do it. She was about 98 percent sure. No—99 percent. 95. Maybe 90. That 2 or 1 or 5 or 10 percent made her feel so drunk and crazed and horny and very scared for a second, until she felt the creaking of the table above her and felt a stab of panic that banished her sense of
I'm about to do something bad
.

Jeff and Ilaria were kissing.

Fuck, that was romantic. Molly's heart swelled nigh to bursting. She wasn't having sex with some weird Italian swingers; she was exploring her sexuality with a couple that totally loved each other. She was making love to love itself, right?

On her knees. On a sticky bar floor. Half drunk on sickly sweet Pink Earthquakes and—okay, she was a fucktoy. A sleazy little kneeling fucktoy. Was that bad?

She slid her mouth off Jeff's cock, panting and drooling,
realizing her makeup was ruined and her eyes had been running. She must look a total mess, she decided.
Hot
.

The table creaked some more, and Ilaria slid down half under the table—a feat that would have been completely impossible in the tight confines of the bench, if she hadn't been one of those Italian bitches who apparently crave nothing but salad and cigarettes.

Well…almost nothing.

Ilaria's hands plucked Jeff's cock out of Molly's mouth—like a nanny taking away a naughty girl's toy. Molly began to think she'd gone too far—was this jealousy? She'd read the guidebooks. Jealousy was guaranteed in any threesome, even with Italian strangers.

Then Ilaria leaned down deep under the table. They couldn't have kissed, crammed under the table like that—but Molly wanted to.

Ilaria's mouth was wet and warm against Molly's ear.

“Do you eat my pussy?” she asked.

Molly breathed hard.

“What about him?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse. Her throat was thick from cock and lust.

Ilaria said, “Let him fuck you as you do.”

Molly felt a hot wave of excitement.

Was she really going to do this?

She said, “Do you have—”

The condom was already in Ilaria's hand. She tore its package delicately. It wasn't some shady Italian brand; it was a Kimono. An instant later, Ilaria had it out of the package and rolling down easy over her boyfriend's cock.

That answered Molly's question.

Yes, she was really going to do this.

Ilaria helped Molly turn around, her knees sticking dirty
and icky to the floor. As she did, Molly slipped one foot, then the other, out of her panties and felt Jeff's hand close around her—plucking them out of her hand. He spirited them away. What was he going to do with them? Huff them? Here at Blueboy's, guys would just think he was huffing Amyl. That was kind of vaguely hot.

Molly spread her legs, her knees tucked between the post of the table and the floor. She spread her knees wide and put her ass in the air. She felt Jeff's hand teasing her smooth, hairless pussy lips open with his thumb and forefinger; two other fingers curled lazily in the strip of her pubic hair as Ilaria opened her thighs and guided Molly's face between them. Ilaria's short dress rode up. She didn't wear underwear. Ilaria wasn't trimmed like Molly—she was fully, beautifully natural. The scent of her pussy was intense, a hot-wet musk smell mingled with cigarettes and liquor.

How long had it been since Molly had gone down on a woman?

A while. A decade? Half a decade, maybe—there was that lackluster threesome with that girl Carl dated during their polyamory phase. What was her name? Katrina? Karen? Kara?

It was, she discovered, like riding a bike.

 

Right there under the table at Blueboy's, Molly felt the first man since Carl
entering
her as she pressed her mouth to his girlfriend's juicy sex. His cock was thick at the head—just thick enough to stretch her a little,
exactly
at the place where
a little
met
enough
met
a lot
met
more than enough
met
almost exactly too fucking much
—and that meant almost. Exactly. Too much. But not quite, which was just fucking right.

Ilaria was
perfect
—wet as a faucet inside but dry enough outside that it took a long slow wriggle of Molly's tongue to
find the moisture. Then there was the taste, overwhelming her—deeply intoxicating, sexy and bewitching. Then there was the smell, all around her, drowning out everything else. Horny pussy. Why the hell did I ever stop sleeping with girls again?

Oh
, thought Molly.
That's right. True love, or something. Fuck that. Never again
.

Once his cockhead had breached her entrance, Jeff paused, gently working into her, like he worried his massive throbbing enormity might hurt her. She wondered:
Nice Italian Boy, or Pompous Stud With Delusions of Grandeur?
He went much too slow for her taste, as if to make sure he didn't hurt her.
He won't hurt me
, she decided, but what a perfect gentleman. She fucked herself onto his cock while sliding her tongue deep between Ilaria's lips, teasing clit and pussy and sliding two fingers up inside her. Along with her apparently 10 percent body weight (all of which was in her tits), Ilaria apparently had an appetite not just for salad and cigarettes, but for one-finger-ata-time, to judge how it felt when Molly slid three into her. She was snug—so very snug—and as Molly started fingering her, she felt the total absence of Ilaria's G-spot—was this some sort of a trick? Did only Irish girls have them, or something?

Jeff might have had delusions of grandeur, but his cock was indeed sufficiently sized so that Molly felt the head against her cervix as she fucked herself onto him. He really couldn't do much without giving the game away—after all, anyone who looked at the table and saw him pumping away underneath would have—well, would have thought it was just another night at Blueboy's. But that anyone would have expected her to be not a thirty-six-year-old slut but a whorish twink who hitchhiked here from Tuskegee with a fake ID and an attitude. She had the attitude, at least. She squeezed her muscles tight around Jeff's cock and gauged the rhythm, feeling him struggle to stay still
so she could do the work it took to get him off—down under the table, on her knees, ass in the air, pumping a stranger's hard cock off inside her. Simple as giving a hand job, which she'd done—but a thousand miles beyond it on the Sleaze Scale.

Some guys are easier than others—Jeff was complicated. It took concentration to push him over—so her mouth on Ilaria's clit was not doing its job. The poor Italian girl seemed thoroughly pleased nonetheless—as, with her thighs closed around Molly's pumping body, she leaned over, hard against the table, as did Jeff.

What Molly finally settled on to finish him off—and it turned out this worked perfectly—was to squeeze her muscles
hard
, in the exact rhythm she'd always used to get Carl off. It felt so sleazy to do—but what do you know?

The couple kissed deeper and felt each other up far above her—their passion making the table tremble.

Molly felt the rhythmic pattern of their kiss as Jeff's hips jerked, and a faint swelling—almost undetectable—told her something was happening down there. He was coming in her—or, to be more accurate, in the condom, which was both yummy and comforting.

Then the table started to shake, and creak, and moan as if about to collapse atop Molly, as Jeff grabbed the edge of it and Ilaria fought to steady him. The whole table shuddered as if in an earthquake—and Molly didn't stop. She just squeezed her pussy muscles harder and milked his dick until he stopped.

Before she knew what was happening, Molly felt Ilaria pulling her up to the bench alongside her. She came up red faced and gasping, her mouth wet and makeup ruined. Jeff worked the condom off him and wrapped it in five cocktail napkins—had he stacked them there in advance, in anticipation of this moment? Regardless, he still had her panties. He grabbed them
and stuffed them in her pocket.

Ilaria pulled Molly's dress down quickly—in response to Molly's querying eyes, she jerked her head toward the door.

The bouncer was fighting through the crowd toward them, looking pissed.

No way. Someone had narced on them? At
Blueboy's
?

Times just weren't what they used to be.

Molly put her mouth to Ilaria's ear and said, “I didn't get to make you come.”

Ilaria glanced at her slim silver watch—almost last call.

Ilaira said, “It is long to the airport? Cab? I don't remember. I was so horny when I came. Is it a long cab ride?”

Molly opened her mouth to say
Not really, at this hour
, but thought better of it.

She smelled Ilaria's cunt on her fingers and purred, “Long enough for an Earthquake….”

 

 

 

 

 

S
he is not the kind of girl who turns heads, really. But she's turning them now, which is good enough for her.

Men stare as Steffi strides through the lobby of the Damiano, past the spendy restaurant and the trendy boutiques. Perched on very high heels and poured into a
very
small dress—curvy and tight—she walks past men who practically drop their jaws as they stare at her, trying not to
look
like they're staring.

She sees them. She likes them. She likes them, as a group, to be reduced to grunting apes. She thinks she might just get her rent paid after all.

Her name is Stefanie Murray and she's twenty-three years old. She's not a tall woman when she's not wearing five-inch spike-heel pumps. They're red, like her dress. There's more to the shoes; there's practically nothing to the dress. It plunges between her tits, it stretches at her thighs as she walks. It hikes in the back just enough that the hem reveals the tops of her sheer black stockings. They have seams down the back and garters at
the top. She has a tasteful pattern of flower tattoos traced up each calf to her knee, which gives men's eyes an excuse to go down and then up and then down again.

In the eyes of the men who stare hungrily at her in the lobby of the Damiano, that skintight red dress stays attached to her flesh against all laws of physics; with each sway of her hips, each jiggle of her tits, each toss of her hair and each lift and stretch of her arms or her shoulders or splitting of her thighs as she walks, the painted-on garment threatens to peel away off of cleavage and crack and round cheeks and ripe thighs and whatever dirty filthy things a girl like this might be wearing under a dress like this. If anything at all.

A dress like this on a woman like Stef makes men, mostly older men, extremely dull and stupid; that's how she likes them. Dull and stupid and handing her six hundred dollars.

It feels good to have the men looking at her, even if she can't really see them. Steffi's not very good at this—or at least, she's not experienced. This is her very first time, and as the agency said: “Impress him. You might get a repeat.”

Steffi doesn't want a repeat, but she wants six hundred dollars. Or, more accurately, three-forty after the agency's cut.

And Steffi wants men to look at her, starting with the men in the lobby—or, rather, the parking valet before them, and the three men in the elevator who couldn't take their eyes off of her.

She's not really sure which is more important: the sex or the money.

The money, surely. But who says she can't enjoy herself?

Wear something classy
, Steffi Murray had been told by Jeanette, the owner of Private Lives Personal Consultants—the madam, if you must—when she called to book her first assignment. Jeanette had said,
Wear something classy, and sexy but
subtle, or the concierge will know what you're there for. Sure, you might get away with it today, and tomorrow, but they'll know what you're doing and sooner or later you'll get kicked out. It's bad for business. Guys don't want a whore; they want a
girlfriend
. And concierges really don't want a whore walking through their lobby with everyone knowing what she's there for. If you want to stay in this job and if you want to get regulars, you'll play it sexy but subtle, Sessa.
Subtle
.