by Pratt, Lulu
But before all that, I had to ask the obvious.
“What’s your—”
And just as I was about to say ‘name,’ an enormous, percussive noise came from the stage, and lights flared up all around us. A cheer emitted from the crowd that shook the sides of the old warehouse. Apparently, the headliner had arrived and was beginning their first song.
I turned to Hot Boy, and, over the roar, tried to ask my question again, but he pointed to his ears, indicating that he couldn’t hear shit in this cacophony.
People were teeming around me, and though I’d been to plenty of concerts before, none had been this violently noisy. Even the various festivals I’d attended, mostly to help Sheila and Morgan take Instagrams, had never been this daunting. My date, perhaps seeing my discomfort, slung a protective arm around my shoulder. His ribs were pressed up next to mine, and the din no longer seemed to matter.
And again, even over the beat of the drums, I could feel the beat of his heart, and it was fluttering in time with my own. We fit together, the two of us, both clad in our black leather, both bouncing to the rhythm.
Fuck it. I had to embrace this world. No more questions — what kind of beer, where are we, what’s your name. I needed to just live it, feel it, in the moment.
I let out a scream of my own, and began to dance jerkily in time with the staccato music. He turned and gave me a surprised, but nevertheless approving, look.
I shrugged back, as if to say, when in Rome, and was rewarded with a toothy grin.
Much to my own surprise, I was liking the music. Actually, loving the music. It was hard, old-fashioned rock designed to blast out your eardrums. And, okay, it’s possible that all music, or art in general, is better when it’s done in the company of a sexy man. Just a thesis I’m developing.
We’d been bouncing on the balls of our toes for God knows how long when I felt him pull me to him, and twist me so that we were standing chest to chest. We were stillness in the middle of total movement.
He pointed to his lips, indicating that I should listen to him. I cupped my ear, trying to hear what he had to say, but nothing came through. Admittedly, it’s possible I was so focused on his perfectly formed mouth that I wasn’t trying all that hard to make out the words coming from it. What can I say? I’m only human.
He appeared to repeat it again. This time, he accompanied it, by gripping my shoulder blades, and ducking down to my ear. Once again — nada.
I pulled away, and shook my head. I can’t hear you, I mimed.
At last, I caught some words, but only: “Ah, well.”
I was about to ask for an explanation when, out of the blue, he swooped me up in the air and onto his shoulders. I only realized that I should be screaming when I was already firmly planted on his back. It had all happened so quickly that I’d processed it at slow speeds.
But once I was up there, you bet I screamed. A good, long scream which was immediately swallowed by the rest of the kerfuffle. He tapped my leg once, and I looked down at his fingers. They made a questioning ‘you okay?’ sign, somewhere between a pinched index and thumb and a plain thumbs-up. I wondered, in that kind of fleeting, spacey way one does when looking for details that distract from imminent terror, if he’d learned these hand gestures from the military.
And that’s when I realized that, much to my own surprise and pride, that I was fine. I was on his shoulders — whose shoulders? I still didn’t technically know — in the middle of a head-banging rock concert, drinking bad beer and having recently watched a fight break out on my account. The night had not once gone the way I thought it would’ve, and the unexpectedness was exhilarating.
I motioned back down to him that I was, in fact, okay, and wrapped my thighs tighter around his shoulders.
Shit. I realized, as my pelvic bone banged up against his skull, just how intimate this was. Not to be gross, but it occurred to me that he could probably smell my scent. And his hands were high on my thighs, fingers pressed into the rough denim atop my soft skin. I was scared, but also knew I was safe in his grasp. This was the closest I’d been to a man in — well, too long. And it was undeniably, intoxicatingly sexy.
Just as I was beginning to feel my pussy get wet, and hoping that I wouldn’t seep through my jeans and soak his shoulders, he tilted the angle of my body. I didn’t have time to think. I moved with him.
And then I was crowd surfing.
Seemingly thousands of hands reached up to aid me in moving around the venue. Limbs touched my back, my ass, my legs. I flew high above the crowd. The lead singer of the band winked at me, and I waved back. Over the speakers, I heard one of the band members say, “Oi, looks like we got a surfer, boys!”
It was a massive group trust-fall, and the crowd succeeded. Nobody faltered or even let me slightly dip below my high perch. In no time, I’d figured out how to move the crowd, and use them to move me back in the direction of my man. Err, my date — it was too soon to think of him as my man. Right?
As soon as I’d suggested the direction, the group seemed to intuit where I wanted to go, and before long, I was back in his arms, being pulled down to the ground.
Being in the air had clarified all my senses, had made me a part of the music. I found I could hear everything more clearly, including his voice.
He leaned down to my level, and asked, “Have fun?”
I responded earnestly, “The most fun of my life.”
He licked his lips and smiled. Then, with reckless abandon, emboldened by the evening, I sidled up to his chest, pressing my breasts against him, and looked down at those lips.
He leaned in to me, bridging the gap, and our mouths were inches from one another when I had a thought. It was way, way past time to ask his name. Even if, okay, maybe it was a little fun not to know.
“Wait,” I said. “I have a question.”
“Right now?” he asked, his breath hot on mine. “I had some other plans.”
“Like what?” Oh, I was good and distracted now.
“Like this,” he murmured, and pulled me into a deep, passionate kiss.
All other thoughts escaped my head. I was focused exclusively on his lips wrapped around mine. His hands bunched in my jacket and he yanked me closer to him. I bounced off his body and felt the hardness of his cock through my jeans. Desperate for more, I tugged his face down to mine and ground myself against his rising erection, animalistically anxious to have him inside me. His lips were greedy, demanding, as if they wanted to consume me. The feeling was mutual.
One of his hands slipped down to my ass and grabbed the tatted cheek possessively. He squeezed it tight, then slapped it. The action was mysteriously familiar, I thought, but immediately forgot the fleeting déjà vu as he gripped me closer.
“God, I wanna fuck you,” he whispered around my lips.
Heart racing with desire, I put both my arms around his shoulders and pulled his face to my neck, exposing the bare skin for him. He fell upon it ferociously, sucking and nibbling at the tender area until I knew there would be black and blue on it in the morning. We’d begun to attract some smiles from people nearby, but I didn’t care. I’d have let him fuck me, doggy style, on the floor right then and there if given the chance.
I groaned and whispered in his ear, “Let’s go for a walk.”
Hot Boy looked confused for a second, perhaps he couldn’t hear me over the music. He did, however, understand my smile.
Pulling him away from the crowd, I walked to the restrooms with the snaking lineup of women outside. To the side, a corridor led off to some stairs. I turned and started walking backwards so I could look at this man who was making me live a life I never knew existed.
He stopped, and for a second I wondered if I had misread the situation. That the ache between my legs had led me to misjudge everything.
Hot Boy released my hand and moved it to the small of my back. He pulled me close, looked down at me and kissed me deeply.
I couldn’t wait any longer and pulled away. Hot
Boy followed. The stairs led down and up, perhaps to some office above. I decided to go down instead. Our footfalls echoed as we walked down the concrete steps. The door at the bottom of the stairwell was locked, so I stood with my back against it.
He planted his hands on either side of my head and started kissing my neck.
Then I felt a coldness on my breast, and I realized he’d pulled down the cup of my corset to expose my nipple.
His strong finger brushed against my nipple and I decided to stop caring about anything besides his touch on my body. He caught the nipple between his index and thumb and squeezed.
“Harder,” I whispered, enjoying the pain.
He grinned, asked, “How’s this?” then pinched my breast even harder.
A moan emerged from my throat. “Good. Very good.”
Any prudishness I had momentarily evaporated.
He bent down, his tall head craning low, to suckle at my nipple. I wrapped my hands around the back of his skull and pulled him tighter to my breast, urging him on in every movement.
I could take it no longer. I was soaking wet, and I needed him to touch me down there to reveal the pressure I felt building in my clit.
Without taking his face off my breast, I unzipped my own jeans, reflecting fleetingly that I barely knew this Cybil, a girl who was taking control and asking for what she wanted. I removed one of his hands from my ass and slowly guided it to the front of my pants.
He took his mouth off my nipple, which was now erect, and moved it to my ear.
“What do you want?” he murmured, then bit my earlobe.
“Make me come,” I demanded.
His eyes flitted beyond mine. “I want to,” he replied. “But are you sure?”
I took his fingers and shoved them into my jeans, beneath my lacy thong.
“So that’s a ‘yes,’” he laughed.
Without another word, his hand dove deeper into my underwear, only brushing against my pussy, teasing me with its presence.
“Somebody’s a little horny.” He chuckled low in my ear.
I found his crotch and gripped his cock in my hand. “I could say the same for you,” I replied as he groaned from my touch.
He could feel my desperation in the way my pussy tightened. He had, mercifully, decided to put me out of my misery. His fingers plunged inside me, and I yelped at the pleasure. Taking this encouragement, he began to work them back and forth while his other hand grabbed my hair and pulled my head back so that my face was looking up at his.
“I’m gonna make you scream,” he asserted.
Good. I cupped my still exposed breast and played with it as he toyed with my pussy, fingers coaxing me closer and closer to climax. Those magic fingers darted out of my vagina and fell upon my clit, laying waste to it. My entire body tensed with pleasure. I had never felt anything like it before, not through yoga or meditation or even other, generally decent, sex. This was new, and it was life-changing.
Then the fingers found a new rhythm, one that seemed to be in perfect unison with my most base instincts, like he’d reached inside me and found the very pulse of my soul. I moaned so loudly that it could damn near be heard over the screaming music, but he wouldn’t let up.
His other hand slapped my tatted ass one more time, and his fingers dug into my clit, demanding. I couldn’t hold on any longer. With a final gasp, I orgasmed as wave after wave of satisfaction washed over my body, cleansing it.
And, good to his word, he had made me scream. A distinctive wet patch appeared on my jeans. In any other circumstance, I would’ve been mortified, but I was way too blissed out to give a fuck.
“I would ask if you came,” he said, leaning into my ear. “But I can already feel the answer.”
He pulled his fingers out of my pants — they were covered in liquid. With a dirty, dirty grin he stuck them in his mouth and licked them clean. I gasped, but he didn’t care. And the truth is that I thought it was deliciously hot.
I leaned against his sturdy body, my hands pressed against his subtle abs to steady myself, my head resting against his chest. I felt like I could both run a marathon and sleep for twelve hours.
Sighing with contentment, I tilted my face up to his. The orgasm had cleared my mind.
“Yes?” he asked, amused by my inquisitive expression.
Rubbing against his chest, I murmured, “I have a question.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“What’s your name?” It was about time I knew. He’d just brought me to climax, and I didn’t know the first thing about him.
Much to my surprise, he pulled back and his brown eyes bore into mine, burning like wood in the embers of a fire. His expression was unreadable. Had I asked something stupid?
“My name,” he said slowly, “is Cash.”
Oh fuck me.
Chapter 11
Cash
SHE WAS out of the venue before I could even get to my last name, her honey blonde hair whipping behind her as she took off through the throng, pushing people aside left and right.
Well, at least she’s no longer afraid to get a little rough, I thought as I plunged into the hordes.
I raced after her, swiping everyone in my way aside, much to their consternation. Before long, we’d tumbled out of the warehouse and into the empty street, where the stark silence created a vacuum in my ears, the lack of noise a jolt to the system.
She was stalking across the concrete, her boots pounding with every step.
“Wait!” I called out. “Give me a chance to—”
“To explain why you let some dude tattoo your name on my ass?!” she shouted, pivoting around to face me. Her face was a mask of rage, and I immediately knew I’d made the wrong choice in not telling her who I was sooner.
I gulped. “Actually… I gave you the tattoo. I’m a tattoo artist.”
“Oh, well that’s fucking awesome,” Cybil yelled. “In that case, explain why you tattooed my ass, stalked me to my yoga class, didn’t tell me who you were and then invited me on a date. Please, by all means, Cash, try to explain that, I’d love to hear what you have to say.”
“Okay—” I began, but she cut me off.
“No, never mind, I don’t wanna hear the explanation. That was — Jesus — such a huge violation of my trust, I can’t even…” she trailed off, anger choking out her words.
I hung my head. I’d known this was a possible reaction, but I thought… I thought… well, it didn’t matter what I’d thought. Whatever it was, it’d been dead ass wrong.
“Cybil,” I said softly, not even sure where I was going with it.
Her cheeks turned crimson. “Don’t ‘Cybil’ me. You’ve been ‘Cybil-ing’ me since the moment you walked into my class. I should’ve known, I should have — no weird guy with zero yoga clothes comes to Dandelion, it just doesn’t happen, that was my first sign. And then you were hazy on the details for tonight, and you ran out before I could get your name. I mean, saying it back now, I see, I see why it was all so mysterious. And it’s not because you have some kind of like fucking mystical draw, it’s because you’re a liar.”
Attempting to explain myself, I began, “I wanted to give you a chance to know me without feeling burdened by how much I knew about you.”
“So you knew I was blackout drunk when you gave me the tattoo,” she spat out. “Nice. Real nice.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I replied truthfully. “You seemed to have sobered up by the time you asked me to tattoo you. But when you didn’t immediately recognize me when I walked into your class… well, it was only then that I started to suspect.”
She shook her head, her long honey-colored hair falling in eyes that were becoming cloudy with tears. My heart scrunched up, as if convulsing instinctively from her distress. I didn’t want to see her cry, not then, not ever.
Her voice was shaky as she said, “You should have told me. Maybe then I could’ve understood, and we could’ve had a real chance… but this lying? This total deception? How can
we go anywhere from here? You’ve started out whatever we might’ve had on a completely false note. You’ve undermined all my trust, and I don’t think you can win it back.”
I clenched my fists, hoping she couldn’t see how hard they were trembling. I had massively fucked up. Now that she was saying all of this, I could see, see how wrong I’d been about everything that mattered. I had tried to be a gentleman, to give her space and respect, and instead, I’d been the biggest dick of all time. Nice work, Cash, my internal voice hissed. Great fucking job.
From the corner of my eye, I saw that the smokers who lingered in the shadows were watching us coolly, like vultures circling the African Sahara, watching their prey wither and die, not even bothering to go in for the kill. We were their amusement, and that pissed me off too.
Fat tears began to roll down Cybil’s face, glittering crystals atop her skin. It didn’t help that she looked beautiful when she cried.
“I sacrificed so much to come here tonight,” she whispered, her voice carrying over the now impossible chasm between us. “I forfeited all common sense, all preconceived notions of ‘stranger danger.’ I went out on a limb for you — didn’t have your number, your background or your fucking name. But I wanted to be spontaneous, and young, and free. And yeah, I kinda wanted to have sex with you, so I was willing to overlook some shit.”
Ouch. That one burned.
She continued, “And here I am, outside of a rock concert in the middle of pretty much nowhere, with a ton of douches who kept fondling my ass, even when I told them to stop.”
I pleaded mildly, “But I knocked those guys around. It’s not like I let the wolves get you.”
“There shouldn’t have been wolves in the first place!” she cried. “I’m not blaming you for, like, all sexual harassment, but clearly you knew there were… shady characters around here, and you left me alone in the crowd to get some damn beer.”
I threw up my hands, frustrated. “What do you want me to say? I thought you could handle yourself. And I’m sure you could’ve, by the way. I stepped in because it was the polite thing to do, but let’s be honest, you’d have taken them down in a second if I hadn’t showed up.”
