The Lingering Sting of Bruised Lips
September 7, 2015
Gia Bellini
     Sometimes, one hour, two hours, one session, is just simply not enough.  Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night after an evening of sexually heightened stimulation and my body is still electric with the memory of his touch, my clit still engorged with wet passion begging for a release.  I imagine the craving to be so intense that I picture myself crawling, bare knees and soft cushioned paddings on my hands, over cement, rocks, dirt, over darkened city streets, a shadow at midnight, looking for a cock, looking for those lips, that scent, the only relief to this urgent oceanic pounding in my pussy.  Sex Monster.  
      We planned to meet in a dingy dive bar that rests in the backdrop of two casinos erected along Hwy 2.  It’s the kind of place that has been abandoned by all but the most loyal customers due to expansions in surrounding areas, the kind of place in which patrons are still smoking cigarettes indoors and strangers can weave anonymous experiences into the secret shadows.  The only bartender is a buxom old broad with a rose tattoo on her left breast who talks in a crusty low whisper.  
     “What can I get for you sweetheart?”
     “Do you have a wine selection here?”
     She smirks.  “White… or Red.”
     “I’ll just have a Coors Light.   Uh… Bottle!”
     After feeling the grimy film on the seat of my bar stool, I’m not sure I want to take a chance at drinking from a glass.  It’s a dirty lonely place, yet, there’s something dangerously sexy about the dim lighting and the smoky haze.  I feel cloaked in an invisible fog where I can do anything I want and go unnoticed.
I’m wearing a black mini skirt, thigh high leggings, no panties.  My legs are crossed, thighs closed tight around my wet little pussy.  I’m so turned on right now, the anticipation is causing a fountain of oozing precum to pool along the bottom rim of my fanny.  
     And then he walks in.
     Cowboy boots, long denim legs, thick metal belt buckle, plaid button up shirt, and a confident smile that says he grew up around places like this.  Iron range boy.  Probably lost his virginity in a car parked outside a dive just like this one somewhere along this very strip of highway.  His hair is thick black with heavy strands of grey.  His brown eyes graze my body, enflaming me.  He takes me in, lingering in all the right places.  He orders a beer, tells the bartender to put my drink on his tab, then comes to greet me.
     I don’t care about words.  I know who he is.  I just need kisses right now to put out this flame.  Our lips meet, instant hunger.  He deepens his thrust. I open my mouth.  He slips in his tongue.  He pulls me from my stool, wraps his arms around my body, squeezes my waist, gropes my fanny.  I feel the strain of his large cock through his zip, against my thigh.    
     His lips are full, plush, and thick.  I feel a marvelous mix of moisture and heat and pressure.  We fit like perfection.  My hands are buried in his hair, tugging and tangling.  I want him to throw me over the counter and take me right there in front of the meaty bartender and the unnamed eyes watching two strangers in the dark corner of the underlit bar.
     I only pause when I realize that the loud moaning echoing throughout the place is coming from me. We separate.  I try to breathe.  I bury my face in his chest, take in the scent of fresh fresh ivy and old spice.  He grabs both our beers and stirs me to a back booth in a hidden area along the side of the dance floor.  
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the band setting up sound equipment, electric guitars are being plugged into amps, and then the feel of his hand running up my thigh causes the dizzy dismantling of any reality other than him.  
     “You’re not wearing panties, you slutty minx.”  He whispers.
     This is going to be one of those nights that I never want to end.  One of those men who will have me craving him long after the date is over.  One of those experiences that will lurk in my sexual fantasies for a while, like the slow healing pain of swollen and bruised lips or the persistent musty smell of cigarette smoke and pussy cum that lingers in the fabric of a black mini skirt I still haven’t had the desire to wash