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There she was again.
That same girl from last Friday and the Friday before.
At this point, she’d hung around so long Simon could almost consider her a part of the club’s decorations, plastered over the bar every weekend just like the confetti that dropped from the ceiling at the end of the night. She wore a new dress every week, squeezed her feet into just about a hundred different pairs of platform pumps.
But regardless of which eyeshadow she wore or which cocktail was clasped in her manicured hand, her face never changed.
Blissed out pupils, flushed cheeks, sweat-soaked hair—they were nothing short of her very identity, smothered within the stifling walls of the pulsing night club.
She’d been coming here since the beginning of the semester. Simon knew the type. Ditzy sorority girls, batting their lashes at him from the end of the line, tugging at the hems of their too-short dresses like that might convince him to pull them out of the October chill any faster.
By the time they reached the front of the line, they were usually tripping over their high heels just to hand him their IDs…Not like the desperate display was any more likely to endear them to him anyway. At a certain point, their faces blurred together. Just another mish-mash of blonde hair dye, Daddy’s money, and Jello shots.
Now that he was pushing 32, he had a bit more tact than to jump at the first girl who showed him some attention.
But that girl…
She’d been here for hours without a care the world—least of all to the bouncer in the corner, whose eyes hadn’t left her since the minute she walked in.
It was indecent, really, the way that she threw herself around the dance floor. Thumping and bouncing with every move of the crowd, yelling the lyrics so loud he swears he could nearly hear the vibrato above the blaring stereo.
A gaggle of women brush past him—some sexed out bachelorette party—momentarily blocking his view of the girl on the floor. He mutters a curse under his breath, leaning this way and that just to try and get a better look. But the irritation leaves him soon enough, lungs breathless the minute he catches sight of her.
She’s still there, hips swaying with every beat. The drink in her hand spills when someone else pushes past her, but even as the stringent liquid spills over her front, she doesn’t open her eyes for even a single second.
He’s sure the cold alcohol must feel like dry ice against her superheated skin, but she isn’t the one who’s shocked to stillness. Rather, it’s Simon who finds himself unblinking, blood rushing cold as he looks out over the dance floor.
Over the hem of that stupid mini-dress (off the rack, no doubt), peeks a hem of black lace and push-up padding. The drink soaks in, sparkling under the disco ball, flecks of tequila and salt sticking to the curves of her cleavage. She was a grade-A example. Mascara running. Nail polish chipped. Panty lines showing through against the material of her skirt.
God, his chest aches just at the sight.
Another throng of people walk by, and when his view of her is restored, some no-name frat boy is pushing his hips up against her ass. Instantly, he rolls his eyes, but she hardly misses a beat, grinding along with the guy like she couldn’t smell the stench of cigarettes on his teeth.
God, he curses, tongue in cheek, Another fuckin’ prick.
It happened every weekend, some two-bit asshole hanging around like they had any business dancing with a girl like that—like they had any business dancing with his girl like that.
His crossed arms clench and he can’t stop the scowl that climbs up over his face.
His girl.
God, he’s on that again?
In all truth, Simon was hardly better than those nameless pricks, blinded by a pretty face and desperate to test out the springs in her mattress. They were drooling for it the minute she crossed their paths, but what did they even know about her really?
Did they know that she always ordered a round of tequila shots to start the night? Did they know that she grimaced at the salt rim and always skipped the chaser?
Did they know that she wore bandaids underneath her heels because her feet bled after a long night of dancing? Simon had seen the blood on her ankles. She’d worn Hello Kitty bandaids for three weeks before she finally managed to get her hands on a color that was a bit more tasteful.
Did they know that she never spared a man a second look? That they were only the latest toys for her to play with?
Didn’t they know that they were second in line? That somebody else had already called dibs?
God, didn’t they know that she was too good for trash like them?
In that instance, she spins out underneath the multi-color lights, eyes opening for a split-second. Her line of sight brushes over him, in his black clothing and threadbare long-sleeve. The sensation of it—passing over his chest all the way down to the bruises on his knuckles—hits harder than any bump, shot, or drag. It hits him like ice water, sending rivulets of ice down the back of his spine. He swears his heart skips a beat, but it’s gone just as soon as it came, lost underneath her black false lashes once again.
He manages a low breath.
God, he thinks, watching her push the boy away to move towards her second partner, This is awful.
Was he really that all that different? Was he really so much better than the shmuck sliding his hands up the the sides of her bare thighs right now?
Her skirt edges dangerously upwards and his eyes drink in the movement with rapt attention.
Fuck.
He has to be, he thinks, He fucking has to be.
Because he knew her name. Knew her birthday, too. He could recite every detail on her ID off the top of his head, from her eye color all the way down to her blood type. Every time she handed it to him, he tried to muster a smile. Really, he did. But, in the moment, her perfume drawing him in like a vise, it was easier to look over her shoulder than into her hypnotic eyes.
“You’re in,” he’d grunt tersely every time.
“Thank you,” she’d say without missing a beat, brushing past him without sparing a second look.
That was all it was. A few words between the two of them. But Simon knew enough to fill in the blanks. After all, it was his job to know things.
She was a student, probably. One of those girls who threw themselves into everything they’d ever done, he liked to imagine. He could see her standing in front of a lecture hall, reading a powerpoint, head aching from a hangover. He could see her posing for photos at ball games and wearing a black gown at graduation.
She looked smart, his girl. He just knew it was true. Though, what would her major be?
Marketing, maybe? Art, perhaps? Political science, if she was feeling risky? Or maybe—just maybe—she was on her way to medical school.
It was a fun game to play, forcing the jagged pieces of his thoughts to fit amongst the puzzle of her mysterious life. But the finer details paled in comparison to the big picture. His body thrums just at the possibility.
Next week, he thinks.
“You’re in,” he’d say, and she’d smile at him. She’d hand him a napkin with her phone number, whisper something in his ear, leave swipes of cheap lipstick against his skin.
He takes a breath in, watching the way the man’s hands cradle her hips.
She’d drag him to the dance floor. She wouldn’t ask his name, and he’d pretend like he hardly knew hers.
Again, she walks away from her partner, downing the rest of her drink.
He’d stand there behind her, let her shove her ass up against his belt, and act like his hands weren’t drifting too low. She reach behind her back, edge her pretty fingers beneath his waistband and give it a few tugs—just enough for him to get the message. Just enough for him to follow her back to her campus apartment. Just enough for him to pocket a pair of her skimpy lace panties, kneeling over the edge of her Twin XL just to get a taste of the cunt between her legs.
At the image alone, his blood runs south, cock throbbing underneath his slacks, but the fantasy is interrupted when she begins to walk across the floor with a purpose. He watches as he leans up against the bar, mingling with a few girls in sparkling party dresses.
Without missing a detail, he watches her lips move. The other women giggle, rocking in their chairs, but he can see beneath the fake excuse she gives them. When she begins pushing to the other side of the bar, ducking into a part of the bar he can’t keep an eye on, his irritation peaks.
Instantly, his heart pounds, blood positively rushing as he shoves his way through the crowd.
“Fuck,” he curses beneath his breath, knocking another drunk patron to the side. Vaguely, he can hear the man yell a slurry of incomprehensible words at his back, but he’s much too focused on the trail of her perfume to care.
It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to get to the other side of the room. Between drunken dancers, handsy women, and obvious contraband, the hands on his watch make more than just a few passes over twelve before he hits the bar.
“Hey,” he shouts, snapping his fingers at the man behind the counter, “Y’seen a girl come this way? One who ordered the tequila shots earlier? She’s a regular.”
“Uh—yeah, she was headed towards the bathroom a few minutes ago,” the bartender slides a drink across the bar, “Why? She do something wrong?”
“None o’ your business,” he clicks his tongue, pressing towards the bathroom before he can see the exasperated shrug the other gives him.
The bathrooms are hardly a step away from the bar, but it’s hardly a walk in the park. Sugar and rum make the bottoms of his boots stick to the floor with every move and vape fluid hangs in the air like a cloud. He pulls it into his lungs, turning the corner. Immediately, a chorus of hushed conversation greets him, and he quirks a brow, peering down at a group of men that huddle close to a door.
He sticks two fingers between his lips, bellowing a sharp whistle. Within an instant, all four of their heads whip in his direction, and they jump away from the door like they’d just been burned. When they spot his hefty frame lumbering towards him, they collectively hold their breath, going red in the face with every minute Simon stands there posturing.
“You lot stupid or somethin’?” He growls, pointing towards the sign on the door, “Kindergarten teacher never taught you how to read, huh?”
“Uh—no…sir,” one of them thinks to stutter, practically pissing his pants the longer he spends standing in Simon’s shadow.
“Yeah?” He glowers, hooking a finger under the guy’s collar, “Then what’s a git like you looking into the ladies’ room for? Forget your bollocks in there did ya?”
“N-no,” he shoves at Simon’s hands, “Uh—look, man, we weren’t lookin’ for any trouble, it’s just…There’s this girl in there and she’s…Well…”
“She’s what? Hiding from creeps like you?”
“No! We’re just—”
“All of you,” he snaps, pulling the man forward, “Out. Now. Show your face ‘round here again and I’ll throw your asses out on the streets before you can get another word in. Understand?”
Without further persuasion, the three other men scurry towards the entrance to the dance floor, looking anxiously at back at their friend, who dangles from Simon’s iron grip like a rag doll. Just for good measure, Simon looks at him from head to toe, memorizing the man’s face.
If he ever tries to get near his girl again, Simon can’t be held accountable for what he’ll do.
With a sigh, he releases the poor boy, resisting a laugh when he scrambles to his feet. Simon watches the four of them retreat first, peeking out at the dance floor just to make sure they leave. However, when the front door slams behind them, a weird sort of tension settles over his shoulders. Inhaling low, he spares a glance at the closed door behind him.
Should he wait for her? Y’know, just to make sure she was really okay?
Cursing his inability to make a decision, he idles in the hallway for a minute, glaring at the front door, like those four men might come barreling back through any minute now.
Minutes pass.
His watch ticks.
The music blares.
He taps his fingers against his watch.
Was one of those men the guy she’d been dancing with earlier? Did they chase her into the bathroom?
He thinks on the possibility of it for a minute. Truthfully, he couldn’t recall the face of the men she’d been dancing with. They were unremarkable for the most part. Though, if there’s one thing he knows about her, it’s that she’s never denied a partner. She didn’t go home with them, but she wasn’t afraid to sidle up to them on the dance floor or in the backrooms for that matter.
She wasn’t afraid to let them have their fun for a few minutes. They never lasted long enough to please her, but she still tried.
God, he scowls, Her heart was just too big. If she gave him another glance, he’d give her a real reason to stay out of the club.
But, he digresses…
Perhaps one of them had gotten the wrong idea. It was plain to see. She left broken hearts in her wake with every step she took—his included. Though, none of the four men seemed aggressive. They were creeps, sure, but not ones he’d struggle to beat into a pulp.
Still, for a woman like her, maybe it was different.
His heart rate picks up and he spares another glance at the door. For what feels like hours, he reads and rereads the sign, chewing on the skin of his cheek. Yet, when he hears a small noise emanate from within, it takes remarkably little for his resolve to break.
-
Without thinking twice, he’s pushing the door open, peeking into the barren bathroom. There’s no one else inside. Thank god. However, the emptiness only amplifies the pitiful sound when your voice rings out again, bouncing off the walls like a tolling bell. His stomach drops.
You’re crying.
You’re really fucking crying, in some dirty bathroom stall, all alone without your friends to keep you company.
His hands wring at his sides, anger spiking.
God, he should have pummeled them when he had the chance. On reflex, he looks back at the door behind him, contemplating rushing out there to kick them to the curb while they’re still int he vicinity. Yet, another whimper stops him dead in his tracks.
Did they lay a hand on you? Do something unseemly to you? Did they offend you somehow? Give you a suspicious glance, perhaps?
To him, it didn’t matter. They were all capital offenses in his book. His chest heaves as he considers his options. However, standing here so close, he’s filled with the overwhelming need to do something, to prove himself to you somehow. Leaving you to fend for yourself would be as good as turning tail.
So, without wasting another second, he swallows his anger, trying to put on a sympathetic face. He has a feeling it turns out more menacing than he intends, but still, it’s a start.
“Um—miss,” he speaks, unsure of how to broach a conversation.
Your voice hitches behind the door, and he raises a hand to knock…
Only for the door to creak open the second his knuckle makes the softest of contact. His brow furrows. Slowly, he inches the door open, peering down at where you sit on the stool. Instantly, his mind draws a blank.
There, you sit, one glistening thigh propped up against the side of the graffiti covered stall. A pair of black panties dangle from your high-heeled foot, Hello-Kitty bandaid shining proudly beneath the strappy leather of the shoe.
When his burly frame pushes open the door, situating himself in the entryway, you don’t make to hide yourself. Hell, you don’t even flinch. You only look up at him in frozen dismay, lashes blinking slowly while you try to make heads and tails of the situation…
His eyes drop and so does your stomach.
There, two of your fingers rest against the crook of your hip, shiny and wet, matching all too closely to the stain on the gusset of your panties…strings of slick stick between the pair of them, shining in the flickering bathroom lights.
“Fuck,” he curses absently, trying and failing to pull himself away from he sight of you…
His girl.
The one he’d spent weeks watching on the dance floor, rejecting advance after advance, found herself here. Not because a group of overeager frat boys had her running for cover. No.
She just needed something to fill her up. Something that could finally satisfy her.
In public, no less.
Breath caught in his throat, he drinks in the sight of it. From your frizzy hair and smeared lipstick, down to your waist, where the skirt of the dress is haphazardly scrunched up around your waist. The longer he looks, the hotter he becomes, and before he knows it, he’d nearly running a fever, watching as you slowly pull your fingers away from your exposed, leaking cunt.
He watches them like a hawk, cock pulsing with every move that you make. The two of you stay frozen for all too long, sizing each other up like they were a prime rib on a silver platter. He bites his cheek, watching the way a drop of slick drips off of your swollen clit. And you…
God, he can feel your eyes settle on the hefty bulge at the front of his pants, looking at the way the button of his jeans strain around the length of him.
The door isn’t locked.
The bathroom smells like cigarette smoke.
The stall is hardy even tall enough to allow him to stand.
You’ve never met him.
He’s never met you.
But somehow…
Your eyes flick up to his, frozen no longer. Cautiously, you reach a slick, shaking hand in his direction, easily fisting his shirt. He watches your lips curl into a low smile.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move a muscle. Hell, he doesn’t even try to kick the door closed behind him. No, he’s all but paralyzed when you pull him forward, giggling underneath your breath when you yank him between your legs. Your bare pussy brushes against the knee of his jeans, and he shoves a hand up against the wall to stop from falling over when you tuck your wet fingers underneath his belt.
And just like in the dreams you didn’t know that he had, you clumsily pull his belt out of the loops with one hand, tucking your other hand up the front of his shirt to brush at his soft abs. When you whisper in his ear, patches of your lipstick get stuck in his stubble.
“Sir,” you whimper, straightening up to press your body into him all the easier, “Think—you can help me out?”
“Hm,” he answers noncommittally, blue veins pulsing when you reach behind his fly to fondle his through his boxers.
“Pretty please,” you murmur, stroking him through his pants, “Just—just for tonight. Just…”
Your breath hitches and you lean back against the wall, spreading your legs so that he can see the way frothy bubbles of slick gather between your folds.
“Just until I cum,” you plead, tugging at his belt loops.
His entire body thrums at the sight of it—at the sight of his pretty girl finally spreading her legs for a man who deserved it. All pretty, puffy, and wet, waiting just for him, dainty fingers tracing the vein on the underside of his shaft.
He doesn’t shiver. He doesn’t balk.
No, this time he situates a hand around that pretty neck, shoving you back to stand to his full height.
“Please,” you whispers, finally managing to free him from his pants. His length bobs in front of you, red and leaking after so many nights on edge.
“Just until I cum,” he mirrors your words from before, barrel chest heaving.
At his words, your mouth drops open, lashes fluttering as you look down at him. God, at the idea of it—at the idea of being used like a toy, of the tables finally turning—your body positively hums, and before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning down to tuck his flushed cock head between your lips.
When your tongue envelops him, suckling at him with a rush of saliva and red lipstick…
It’s nothing short of heaven.
“God,” he pushes his hips forward, head falling back, “Good fucking girl.”