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Asshole. You’ve had this night planned for weeks, a nice, home-cooked dinner and your husband’s favorite dessert for your third year wedding anniversary. You gave him a kiss this morning, told him not to be late, and sent him on his merry way to the job he fucking hates. You spent all day preparing the meal and baking that godforsaken cinnamon-swirl cheesecake he’s so fond of just for him to call you thirty minutes before his shift ended to tell you that he’d be—surprise, surprise—working late. He thinks you’re a moron, apparently, a naive little white-collar wife who’s oblivious to her husband’s infidelity with the secretary. Quite the fucking opposite.
Since he wants to be an ass, you’re going to be petty. The beautifully crafted, aromatic dinner you made goes straight into the trash (but not before giving his beloved obese chihuahua a good portion—the poor fucker’s supposed to be on a diet) along with the creamy dessert. You left it right on top of all the other garbage so when he opens it he’ll find what would have been a delicious treat surrounded by onion scraps and dirty paper towels. It’s less than what he deserves.
You take off the long, boring dress your husband got you for your birthday a week too late and leave it in a pile on the kitchen floor. Fleetingly you debate on dousing it in vinegar but decide you’d rather not smell it for the next two days. Instead, you head straight to the bedroom and pull out a short, skintight dress you’ve been hiding in the back of your closet for a special occasion. You bought it with the intent of wearing it for your stupid bastard of a spouse, but this is probably the seventieth time he’s abandoned you in favor of fucking his mistress. You’re not going to waste the slutty little number on someone as pathetic as Mr. CEO. Not anymore.
You slip the dress over your body and stare in the mirror at the way the fabric clings to your soft tits and belly, your nipples poking through the silky bodice. When you turn, you purse your lips with distaste at the outline of your panties showing through. No, that won’t do, so you slip them off and toss them aside, admiring the smoothness that rewards you for your efforts. You look hot, and you feel good for the first time in a while. Your husband would never allow you to wear something that shows off all of your fat like this—especially not in public, which is precisely why you’re doing exactly that. You can’t remember the last time you did anything for yourself and not for the image of the man whose last name you took and therefore represent.
You could have your chauffeur take you wherever you desire to go, but there’s still part of you that craves normalcy, the life you had before you met your husband. You order an Uber instead, meet them a couple of blocks down from your house and have them drive you to what used to be your favorite dive bar. You tip the driver with a wad of cash you pulled from the top of your dress and smile at the sound of your heels clacking along the concrete instead of marble flooring for once. You even have to show your ID to the bouncer, which you do with no complaint—it’s nice not being recognized by some big-shot you don’t even know. When you step inside, you’re hit with the overwhelming aroma of cheap alcohol and mediocre hot wings, and it takes you back to a happier time.
It’s not difficult to fall back into your old habitual patterns—sway your hips all the way up to the bar, squeeze in between two occupied seats, and order a fruity cocktail with way too much sugary syrup and way too little tequila. Loud music blares in your ears, some local rock band playing their hearts out on the tiny stage near the front. You used to listen to stuff like that all the time before your husband got you listening to classical music instead. You miss the fuzz, the imperfections, the feedback of the guitar, the bass that vibrates throughout your entire body. It’s dirty, invigorating, unpredictable. Everything you crave, and everything you need.
The two men you squeezed between are less than interested in your company. You can take a hint, so you excuse yourself and make your way over to where the band plays. It smells stale like sweat, pure energy, and it intoxicates you far more than the small bit of alcohol you consumed could ever dream of. Before you started dating your now-husband, you always used to go for musicians. A little less forward than a groupie, but still ready to throw yourself at them at the first sign that they find you attractive.
This group, as expected, is not lacking in sex appeal, but none of them quite catch your eye. At least, not in the way that the huge man guarding the stage does. He looks more like a bouncer than anything, but you can see why he got stuck with indoor security duties for the band—biceps probably bigger than your damn head, tattooed arms crossed over a strong, broad chest, thick thighs that could crush someone’s skull with little to no effort. God, he’s the complete opposite of your lanky husband. He could break you, and those dark eyes imply that he would do so with no remorse.
You’re starting to wish you’d worn panties because you’re getting soaked, arousal shamelessly dripping down your thighs.
Your brain runs on overdrive as the band finishes their set. It’s just distant noise to you now, background music for the little fantasies you’re conjuring up about this colossal fucking beast. Honestly, you’re not even sure if you’ve blinked since you first laid eyes on him. When the swarm of listeners starts moving around you, your foggy brain finally clears up enough to realize that the band has completed their show. Even despite the chatter, you can still hear the squelch between your legs when you take a step. Without the music, your confidence wavers, and you decide to head to the bathroom to calm yourself down instead of doing something you might regret.
The beast has other ideas. He steps in front of you with his arms still crossed, and when you look up at him in shock, you find that his scarred eyebrow is raised. His expression is unreadable, and that’s truthfully more intimidating than his stature.
“Quite the set o’eyes on ya, girl,” his deep voice rumbles, and you have to bug your eyes out of your head so that they don’t roll into the back of your skull.
“Didn’t think you could see me,” you breathe, chewing on your bottom lip nervously.
“Hard no’ t’feel a pretty bird’s gaze on me,” he sniffs, leaning down to get a better look at you. “Pretty fuckin’ bird.”
Your breath hitches in your throat as the man’s thumb hooks beneath your chin, tilting your head from side to side. He grunts approvingly, placing his hands on your waist and dragging them up your sides, coaxing your arms to stretch out. When his eyes land on the flashy wedding ring on your left hand, he huffs and takes a step back, watching as your arms unceremoniously fall down again.
“Ya don’t belong ‘ere,” his tone is harsher, now, grating, and he won’t look at you anymore.
“Excuse me?” You scoff.
“Did I stutter?” He barks. “Get ‘ome t’ya husband.”
You laugh in disbelief, following close behind as he starts to walk away. You’ve about had enough of men disrespecting you. You grab his arm and pull him back, forcing him to look at you.
“I don’t know why you’re acting like such a dick-”
“I don’t know why y’think I’d give a married woman the time o’day,” he interrupts, shoving your hand away.
“Does it matter?” You hiss, glaring up at him.
“Yeah,” he answers, leaning down once again to get in your face. “It matters when y’keep lookin’ at me like y’re tryna get fucked.”
“Maybe I am,” you challenge, narrowing your eyes at him. “Can’t really ask that of my husband when he’s balls deep in his secretary.”
The man’s face mellows. You pull back to give him a cocky look, but he draws you back in with his fingers tangled in your hair, crooked nose brushing up against yours.
“Unhappily married, then,” he muses. “Shoulda started w’tha’, sweet’eart.”
“You didn’t give me a chance,” you whisper.
“Lemme buy y’a drink,” he offers, and you suck in a breath as you feel his own hitting your lips.
“You don’t have to work security?” You ask, holding onto his arm as he makes his way towards the bar.
“Fuck nah,” He chuckles, leaning against the counter and waving over the bartender. “Don’t even work ‘ere. Couple o’my mates are in the band, so I keep a lookout for ‘em. Wha’ d’ya wan’?”
You tell him your favorite drink, lightly shoving his arm when he makes fun of how sweet and fruity it is. He gets a whiskey for himself, neat—no surprise there—then ushers you to sit beside him in one of the stools. You can’t help the way your eyes travel down to admire the wide expanse of his thighs. They land on a bulge other than what you know is a massive fucking cock, and you furrow your brow at him.
“Never seen a gun before, sweet’eart?” He quirks an eyebrow, thin lips hinting at a smirk.
“You’re not supposed to have one in a pub,” you tut, placing a hand on his knee and trailing it up towards the weapon.
The man grabs your wrist before you can touch the gun, gently placing your hand back in your own lap. You pout, and he huffs in amusement.
“M’no’ a good rule follower,” he shrugs before taking a long sip of whiskey. “Y’re sittin’ with a dangerous man, lovie.”
“Suppose I should be scared, then?” You muse, leaning in closer and resting your chin in the palm of your hand.
“Very.”
Fucking hell, your thighs are slipping off of the damn barstool because your slick is absolutely drenching the material. This man is intoxicating, and every rumble of his voice gets you weak in the knees. Everything about him is so masculine—rough hands, calloused fingers, such a pronounced adam’s apple—he even smells insanely delicious, like musk and smoke and bad fucking intentions. He’s a cocky bastard, but it’s natural on him because he knows he’s sexy and he doesn’t need anything to prove it, unlike your money-flaunting husband.
“Have you ever used it before?” You question, unaware of the slow drip of your cocktail slipping off of your bottom lip.
“Take a wild guess,” he whispers, thumbing away the sticky mess you’ve made of your mouth.
You nod dazedly, and the beast before you pries your lips apart to push his thumb inside. Your tongue instantly curves around the digit as you suck the sweet substance right off of his calloused skin. Heated brown eyes stare into your own as he uses his left hand to pull out a decent wad of cash that he slams onto the bar.
“My place,” he growls, and his sudden grip on your wrist leaves no room for you to argue.
You giggle and just barely get to wipe off your seat before he drags you towards the exit, your legs wobbly from both the alcohol and the knowledge that you’re about to get absolutely ravished. You nearly trip over your heels trying to catch up with him, holding onto his big arm to support yourself. He’s tense, the muscles flexing beneath your touch. You’re so fucking horny that it makes you nauseous—there’s no way you’ll make it all the way to his place.
“Hey,” you slur, dragging out the vowel.
The asshole ignores you. Offended, your free hand tugs at his shirt, and when that doesn’t work, travels down to cup his aching cock through his worn jeans. That gets his attention, and he grabs you by the shoulders, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Wha’?” He hisses, narrowing his eyes at you.
“I need you,” you whine, batting your lashes up at him.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he exhales deeply, scanning the area before pushing you backwards into the nearest alley.
You smile excitedly, wrapping your arms around his neck as he shoves you against the solid brick wall. He leans down to smash his chapped lips against your plush ones, tongue forcing its way inside of your mouth to explore and taste every single inch. His big hand tangles into your hair as he cradles your head, pulling you as close as possible. The other squeezes whatever it can reach, from your waist to your ass and up again. When he pulls away for air, you attach your lips to his neck, peppering the sweaty skin with open-mouthed kisses.
“Dirty li'l girl,” he mutters, tilting his head to give you better access. “Tried t’give y’a nice bed to get fucked on, but ya jus’ couldn’t wait.”
He shudders when your tongue runs over his adam’s apple, groaning when your teeth graze the flesh.
“Enough,” he hastily pulls you back by your hair, giving your ass a rough squeeze. “Turn aroun’, lemme see tha’ pretty arse.”
You obey with another elated giggle, bracing your hands on the wall as you spread your legs further apart. It’s not the most comfortable position with your heels barely touching the ground, but it’s so fun to wiggle your hips against his crotch just to rile him up even more. He lifts the skirt of your dress at the same time he sinks to his knees, his hot breath combined with the cool night air causing goosebumps to splay across your skin. Another broken groan escapes the beast when he finds absolutely nothing under your dress.
“Gonna give me a righ’ heart attack,” he grabs your asscheeks and spreads them to watch as your slick pussy pulses in anticipation of his touch. “Drippin’ like a faucet, mama.”
“Please,” you beg, pushing your ass back against him impatiently.
The behemoth chuckles, dragging his hot tongue up the insides of your sticky thighs just to hear your irritated whimpers. He decides he’s kept you waiting long enough, kissing your hipbone before diving right into your cunt. You taste even sweeter straight from the source, and his eyes roll back into his skull at the discovery. His delighted moans vibrate against your sensitive clit as he wraps his lips around it, causing your knees to shake. His hands hold your hips steady as he continues lapping at you like a starved dog eating his first meal in weeks. His stubble rubs your delicate skin raw, but the feeling is addictive, and you’re far too high on him to complain.
He drags his tongue up to prod at your puckered hole, laughing softly when you squeal and pull away.
“Never ‘ad this tigh’ li’l arse played with before?” He questions, thumbing the same place where his tongue just was.
“N-no,” you respond softly, and the man removes his hand.
“S’alrigh’, lovie,” he hums. “Wan’ my fingers in y’r cunt instead?”
“Yes,” you gasp, whimpering as his middle finger teases your slit, circling your entrance. “Fuck, please, I’m s-so-”
“So- so-” He mocks. “So wha’? Needy? I know, baby, y’re gushin’ all over my hand.”
You nod frantically, unable to let out the words stuck in your throat. The man behind you tuts teasingly, finally allowing his long finger to slip inside of you. He grunts with approval as your walls clench around him, wet and warm and irresistable. Your forehead falls against the brick as he slowly adds another finger, curving them to press against that rough patch that makes your head dizzy.
He uses your paralyzing pleasure to his advantage, flicking his tongue against your tight hole when you don’t expect it. You start to protest, a whine caught right on your parted lips, but when he doesn’t let up, you realize that it feels nice. His free hand thumbs at your neglected clit as his talented mouth continues to break apart your inhibitions, fingertips continuing their assault on your sweet spot. Fuck, you don’t think you’ve ever gotten so close so quick, but in the middle of this alleyway with a stranger’s face buried between your asscheeks, you fall apart faster than you can blink.
“Tha’s fuckin’ it, cum f’me, mama,” his voice is muffled, mouth still occupied, but you hear the praise clear as day as if he’d said it right into your ear.
“Fuck!” You wail, using his tongue and fingers to ride out your orgasm until the tremors in your legs settle a bit.
The man presses a kiss to your pussy before standing up once again, crowding you against the wall. Every part of you is surrounded by him—his stature, his warmth, his scent—and you adore it. Your husband never takes the time to kiss down your neck the way this beast is, nor does he use half as much care when releasing your soft tits from their confines. All he does is lay you out on the bed, get his dick wet, and promptly fall asleep without so much as cuddling you.
Even in this cool night air, exposed to whatever wandering eyes may look your way, you’ve never felt so warm, so seen by someone you met not even an hour ago.
“Gonna take every inch o’my cock?” His teeth nip and pull at your earlobe, pinching both of your nipples between his calloused fingers. “Reckon I’ll fill ya righ’ up.”
You shudder at his words, still hazy from your orgasm but oh-so-eager for him to fulfill his promise. One big hand leaves your breast in favor of unzipping his jeans, and although you can’t see when he pulls it out, you can feel the weight of his fat, heavy cock against you.
“Feel tha’?” He murmurs, guiding the length of himself through your sloppy folds. “S’big, lovie. Sure y’can handle it?”
“Yes! Just fucking fuck me already,” you demand, and the man’s dark chuckle from behind you sends a shiver down your spine.
“Gonna break this pretty pussy.”
The smack of his tip against your swollen clit is all the warning he gives you before shoving his way inside of you. The stretch is a searing burn, and your wide eyes fill with tears at the sensation. You hold onto the brick wall for support, pitiful gasps escaping you with every inch he bullies into you. His grunts only make your walls clamp down harder, and eventually his patience runs thin. He grabs onto your hips with a painfully tight grip and thrusts his own forward, forcing his cock to fill you completely. You let out a pained wail and he covers your mouth with his hand, lazily grinding against you so you can adjust to the feeling of being stuffed full.
“I know, mama,” he coos, allowing two fingers to slip into your mouth to distract you from the discomfort. “Takin’ it like a bloody dream.”
You push your ass back just slightly when the pain fizzles into a dull pleasure, swirling your tongue around his fingers.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” you hum approvingly.
The man slowly pulls out until just the tip remains inside, then punches back in deep enough to steal your breath. If you didn’t know any better, you might have been able to convince yourself that this monster is in your fucking throat. His pace is measured but punishing, and you can already tell you’re gonna be sore all over tomorrow.
“Y’re so fuckin’ tigh’, lovie,” he praises.
“You’re s’big,” you slur, grabbing onto his forearms and digging your nails into the scarred, tattooed skin.
He huffs with amusement, leaning in close to press a kiss to your cheekbone. His speed increases but his thrusts remain just as deep, just as devastating. Your head falls back against his shoulder and your eyes squeeze tightly shut as you fall victim to the absolute ecstasy he’s giving you.
“Am I losin’ y’already?” He teases, letting his hands grope the fat of your stomach and tits shamelessly. “Wha’s wrong, huh? Y’r husband can’t make y’feel like this? Hm? He can’t reach y’r guts? Fuck y’the way a man should?”
“N-no,” you pout. “He doesn’t- doesn’t- oh fuck, right there, please!”
“Poor, neglected li’l girl,” he tuts, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, love, m’gonna take care o’ya.”
Your palms once again land flat against the brick as he readjusts his hands so that one wraps around your throat and the other trails lower, his two middle fingers circling your clit. You gasp at the feeling, biting your lip as he squeezes your throat just enough to make you see stars. His cock is hitting places inside of you that you weren’t even aware existed with ease, and his lips slotting over yours does nothing to clear your head. He moans into your mouth when he feels your walls constricting around him.
“Y’close?” He questions, fingers consistently massaging your aching clit.
“Mhm, gonna- ah! Gonna cum,” you babble, becoming putty in this huge man’s hands.
“Yeah, tha’s it, baby. Cream all over this fat fuckin’ dick, girl, squeeze me good,” he growls, picking up the pace of his hips.
You come with a broken sob, clawing at whatever part of him you can reach. He fucks you through it with unwavering force, panting into your ear.
“M’gonna cum,” he warns, moving to pull out, but your hands reach behind you and grab at his shirt to keep him as close as possible.
“Inside,” you beg. “Cum inside me, please.”
“Fuck, y’filthy thing,” he snarls, burying his face into the crook of your sweaty neck.
His arms wrap around your waist tightly as he forces himself as deep as possible, an uncharacteristically vulnerable moan released into your ear when he reaches his peak. Hot ribbons of cum coat your insides as he pumps his hips until the high is gone and the two of you fall into a heavy silence. An emptiness remains where the man’s cock slips out of you, his release dripping down your thighs. When he finally lets you go, you turn to find that he’s already zipped himself back up. He helps you adjust your dress, then wipes away the mascara that’s stained your puffy cheeks.
“I never asked for your name,” you realize, blinking away the moisture in your eyes as you look up at him.
“I never offered it,” he retorts, tilting your chin up with his thumb. “I’ll get y’an Uber.”
The beast—you’ve really got to find a different name for him—leans down to plant another kiss to your lips, short and sweet and not nearly long enough for you. It takes everything in you not to jump into his arms and wrap your legs around his waist, demand that he take you far away from here. Instead, you rest your hands on his stomach gently while he taps on his phone to buy you a ride.
“Can I at least get your number?” You frown.
“Nah, baby. M’not on m’phone much,” he tucks his phone back into his pocket as if trying to prove a point. “Tell y’wha’—I’m at the pub every Saturday nigh’, so if y’re feelin’... unsatisfied w’ya husband, y’can meet me there, yeah?”
You’ll take anything you can get at this point.
“Yeah, okay,” you agree, eyes flickering to the car that just pulled up. “This me?”
“It is,” he confirms, giving your ass one last squeeze. “Take care, lovie.”
He’s gone by the time you’ve settled into the vehicle and looked out the window, but the remnants of him have already made their home inside of you. That, at the very least, is enough for now.