New story for review: don't fucking kiss my ass

Destiny was long gone. Her last words to him was, 'Fuck you, asshole!' Thinking back, he often laughed at that. Though a part of him missed her as if she'd taken a chunk of his heart with her when she'd gone. Yet, the other part of him felt relieved; absolved: set free.

So he drove his open-top Mustang in wild rain, laughing to himself now and again, feeling glad he could feel the chill of the night as he motored thirty miles per hour over the speed limit.

He cranked up the volume of the car radio, listening to the oldies on the Classic Rock FM. He could use a state trooper or two, right now, he thought. He could enjoy a gum fight with the sheriff and his deputy. He brushed his wet hair off his frontal robe, squinting at the lights ahead. He slowed down his motor, down-shifted the gear, and stopped by a decaying, drink house out of Wild West by a gas station or two.

He got out the car, and the gravel on the ground protested against the tall hard heel of his cowboy boots.

He clocked the parked cars: dead-looking pick-up trucks and an evenly dead looking Chevy.

He entered the rotten drink house.

Inside, four beaten out men were playing a game of cards as they drunk their sorry lives. None of them looked like they'd had bathed in a month. The lights were dim, and the place stunk of cigarettes and cigars. Dried piss and blood, among other things.

'What'll be, stranger,' asked the barmaid. She was over-weigh, prematurely old, used up, and sold herself one too many time for money.

'Beer,' he simply claimed, 'and Jack D on the rocks.' The gambling men checked the new-comer out, barely half interested. He gave a stare back, and the men turned their heads back, intimidated, to their cards.

He took out a roll of cash and placed a twenty on the counter top. 'Keep them coming,' he Said, as the barmaid with NYC hooker make-up delivered his drinks.

He put his ass on a stool, and lit a cigarette. Taking a deep drag of smoke, he listened.

'Hehe. Take that, motherfucker. Three aces,' he heard.

'Oh, fuck! What the fuck?! Not again! What kinda luck ya havin' tonight?!'

'Well, folks, it's my night, yo!'

'De angels are smiling an' lickin' yo ass, chico. E se, comprende?'

'Hehe. Give 'em up, yo mofos!'

'Oh, fuck!'

'Oh, Jesus!'

'Deal em' again, Shamus.'

He drunk a half of his Jack D on the rocks and sipped the ice cold beer.

The barmaid place a dry towel on the counter, just next to his drinks. 'I though you could dry up some,' she said.

Wordlessly, he took the towel and wiped the moisture off his wet hair, face and muscular neck. He could hear his three days old stubble making scratching sound against rough surface of the towel.

'Thanks, baby-doll,' he said and threw the towel back at the old barmaid. She caught it one-handed in mid air.

'You're welcome, stranger,' she winked back.

He turned his head and watched the gambling men over his right shoulder.

'Hit me three cards, yo.'

'Oh, hell wid it, man. Two.'

'Keep yo poker face, coz I'm clean yo up, yo. All o'ya.' Hit me two.'

'I raise a hundred, putana!'

'Holy shit! And I raise another hundred, you Mehico cunt.'

'Two aces and a pair of eights!'

'Fuck!'

'Jesus, fuck!'

'What is dis?!'

'Ha?'

'What's deez doin' dere?!'

'You fucking cheatin' us?'

'Motherfucker, you!'

'Wait a minute, guys!'

'You fucking cheatin' sonofabitch!'

'Shamus, hold him!'

'Give it to him, Miguel!'

'Ugh! Oh! Jeeesus, no!'

'Again, chico!'

'Oh God, no!'

'Cut his throat!'

'Jesus!'

'Kill him!'

'Bust his balls!'

'Oh, hell ya!'

'Ugh! Please, no!'

'That's it, Miguel. Go for the body shots! Oh, fucking great shot!'

'Shamus, crack his head! Yeh!'

'You motherfucker! You fucking motherfucker!'

'Kill him, Shamus! Kill him!'

'Holy shit, Miguel! Fucking brilliant shot!. Cut him up!'

'Yeh! That's it, Shamus! Cut him like that! And, Miguel, pull his tongue out. Yeh, from dere! A fucking Columbian tie!'

He turned his eyes away from the violence, and watched the barmaid cleaning a glass with a wash-towel. 'A quiet night?' he asked.

The barmaid put down the glass and smiled ruefully. 'Yeah. A quiet night,' she replied.

'How much?' he asked, his eyes dead straight on hers.

'Fifty,' she said without any show of emotion. 'Shamus, I'm closing for the night!' she barked, ' and take the dead guy with you!'

'Need a hand with that?' he asked the men.

'No need, stranger. You take a good care of Angel, now you hear?'

'Good night to you, Angel.'

'Nighty-night, Miguel. You take care, boys.'

And he was left alone with Angel.

'Wanna another?'

'Nah. Show me your titties.'

'Eager, are we?' Angel untied her apron, took it off of her and placed it on the counter.

'Show me those glorious globes.' She smirked.

'Show me the money first.' He put a fifty on the counter top. She took it, and shoved it in the front pocked of washed out jeans.

'Come here,' he gestured for her to come around out behind the counter, and turned his back against it, twisting on the stool.

She came to him, between his parted knees. He placed his hands on her hips, softly but securely. His hands traveled upwards to her arm pits, and when downwards back to her hips as she gazed into his eyes. She sighed.

'Show me those tities,' he requested again. His hands kept moving up and down at her sides, lowly and gentry.

Undoing the first two top button of her shirt, she looked up to him and smiled mischievously. He could see her cleavage pushed together by a push-up bra. 'More,' he urged. His hands were curessing her sides and soft curve of her womanly flesh.

'You rather be controlled, do you?' she teased, and opened another button. Hearing her provocative words, he leaned in and kissed her nick, inhaling her feminine sent, her long reddish hair, and he ripped her shirt wide open. 'That's more like it,' she encouraged.

'Take your bra off,' he ordered her, 'I don't want to injure you by scratching the bra clip thing.' She snorted at his words and unhooked the back of her bra. Imediately, her soft tit-flesh was moulded by his hands. His sensitive finger tips grazed the soft, smooth surface of her breasts, and his wide palms made her dark red nipple hard. He leaned down and suckled on her nubbins, taking turns from right to left, taking time, slowly massaging her hips, her ass, her back.

'You are hot and bothered, aren't you stranger?' she said as she felt his hardening cock under his black jeans. 'Let's take the little 'un, shall we?' she said with good humor. Her experienced hands undid his belt, front buttons, and fished his hard, pulsating dick out. 'Oh, yeah,' she approved of his size.

'Suck it.' She did. She swallowed his whole length and then some. She made sure his hard-on was covered with her saliva all over. Her tongue circled the cock head, playfully, bringing out hissing noise from his mouth. 'Easy, there, lady.'

Taking her by her hair, her gently made her stand tall again as he got off the stool. 'Turn around,' he said.

She did, and placed her palms flat on the counter top, expecting a good ride.

From her behind, his arms encased her body as she felt a chill run through her spine at the wetness of his clothes on her back. She felt his weight upon her as his hands took liberty with her tits.

His hands traveled southwards, undoing the front of her jeans. She rested her forehead upon the back of her hands as his right hand entered under her panties, ruffling her pubic hair, and gently parted her pussy lips. A sigh escaped when his index funger tip teased her clitoris, spreading the secretion from her cunt.

'Stay,' he said, and once left her embracing body. He bent forward and pulled her jeans and panties to her ankles in one go. She hissed at that.

The stranger was now kneeling down behind her naked ass, looking at her pussyhole and crinkly star of her anus. She felt his hot, wet tongue lick-open her cunt lips and enter her core. The tongue licked up her pussy juice in maddening gentleness, teasing her ever so slowly to acceptance.

He licked her good and tender from her asshole to her clit, enjoying the womanly noises she was making. He could see and feel how well he was doing so far from the way her ass was moving and the way her knees were beginning to give. Right there, he went for the kill. His lips sucked upon her clitoris, the strands of her pubic hair and all, and the tip of his tongue danced around it, round and round, flicking at it more and more as her vocal encouragement increased with his administration.

'Oh, Jesus, fuck! Oh, fuck!' Her body trembled as the first orgasm hit her old tired body. 'Oh, fuck, stranger!'

'Are you ready for me, doll?' he got up and eased his jeans and undershorts to his knees.

'Yes. Now!' she ordered.

His crimson cockhead pressed on her soft, wet pussy lips, parting it as he pushed his hips forward, finding it's target. He was soon buried to the hilt as her ass pushed back on him. She was raging hot inside. 'Yes,' he hissed.

The two body began to move independently, yet in synchronization. Tango. Waltz, Charleston. Their sexes drooled and the juices mingled in anarchy and chaos of lust and sexual desire. Wordless, but vociferousness of two hungry animals, they fucked. And fucked. And fucked. Until there were no more tears and sorry in their strange lives, until their needs were sated and their bodies tired, they fucked. And they parted with smiles on their strange faces.
_______________________________________
BTW, my other submission still has 0 views.

Have you ever seen a gum fight?

LOL I don't even care.

If you ask me, you’ve got big problems.

First of all, whenever you’ve got a violent murder in a sex story it kind of trivializes the sex. We always care more about the murder than we do about some guy getting laid. And what does this murder mean to the story or his relationship with the bar maid? It’s totally gratuitous.

It doesn’t help that a murder done entirely in dialogue comes across as silly, like a radio play You can almost hear the sound effects in the backghround—the punches and the chairs falling over and bottles breaking--rather than seeing the actual violence in a way that makes sense, and it doesn’t help that at the end they just ‘carry the dead guy out’ as if nothing happened. It makes the whole violence scene seem like comedy. It put me in mind of a Punch and Judy play.

Plus, you just told us these guys were old and wasted and drinking their sorry lives away, but that’s not the way they act. It seems like there’s plenty of life and passion left in them, and money too, so we don’t know whether we should believe what you tell us or what you show us. I just don’t see sorry old alkies playing poker for hundreds oif dollars and killing each other at the drop of a hat, especially not in a pisshole like this. They don’t act like sorry losers, and they talk like young punks. There’s a serious gap between what you tell us of these characters and the setting and what we see happen.

I had a hard time in general setting this scene in my mind. It seems like you’re setting up some sleazy wild-west saloon, but your hero drives up in a Mustang and drinks Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Lord knows there are tons of sleazy roadhouses in the US, but none of them are like an old western saloon, so I think you got your settings mixed up.

The picture I get of the barmaid is one of an unrelieved skag, someone I wouldn’t touch with someone else’s dick, and yet here she becomes the object of a sensual sex scene. The sex is good, but I couldn’t shake the image of some burned out whore, and so I had no interest in reading it.

The opening was good. You drew us a picture of this guy in a few brief sentences, but then the story gets all lost and confused for me. The poker players, who should have been no more than background scenery to the sex story, suddenly takes over and then just as quickly disappear. The old skaggy, washed out barmaid becomes a desirable and sensual sex partner, and in the end, they part as if nothing at all had happened, as if there was no point to telling the story in the first place. Your last sentence is especially unfortunate: And they parted with smiles on their strange faces. Makes me think that they walked out of the bar with clown makeup on.

Looking over the whole thing, I want to get a little into literary theory. When you tell a story, or someone tells you a story, there’s usually a point to it, something that makes it worth telling. Sometimes it’s a moral, or sometimes it’s just interesting to hear how people reacat in a weird situation, a kind of “how about that!” kind of thing. In the most satisfying stories, the characters or main chjaracter comes out of the story a different person than he was at the start, so that a story’s really about how people change. Even in porn, it may be no more than someone discovering that they like to be watched, or they like anal sex, but something happens to change them. All that is missing here. The things that happen seem to happen randomly, without rhyme or reason, so it makes the whole story seem very ephemeral and kind of pointless.

Sorry, CV, but that’s the view from here. You still have some really good details (I liked her feeling his wet clothes on her back) but it doesn’t hold together. The best thing I read by you (I forget the title) had some madman trying to seduce a girl and it was filled with all this off-the-wall stream-of-consciousness brilliance. I think the context of the seduction gave you a structure in which you could run wild, but that’s missing here.

---dr.M.

DAmn, you're good..........I hate that!

ABSTRUSE said:

DAmn, you're good..........I hate that!

Click to expand...

Is that me or Doc?

ChilledVodka said:

Is that me or Doc?

Click to expand...

Um....both.

Brilliant

CV, I seriously think it is the stuff true art is made of. Sometimes I feel just like that stranger. The realities in life are often so ugly that I can't maintain my sanity unless I ignore them and lose myself in my own pleasures and fantasies where all the women are beautiful.

I thought the gum fight was good too.


Ed

Re: Brilliant

Edward Teach said:

CV, I seriously think it is the stuff true art is made of. Sometimes I feel just like that stranger. The realities in life are often so ugly that I can't maintain my sanity unless I ignore them and lose myself in my own pleasures and fantasies where all the women are beautiful.

I thought the gum fight was good too.


Ed

Click to expand...

Thanks, Blackbeard!

Last bump for Shereads and the Yanks!

not from a Yanqui:

CV, I pretty much agree with Mab. The character definition at the beginning is very good. The old dudes and the poker game were of no interest to me at all (it could be a good story in itself). For the setting's sake you might just give them a few lines (no dialogue though, or just a few words).

I thought of the woman as Mab. did but then forgot about it as she and the dude came together. Very nice (prolonged just enough) sex work, made me like the two characters, made them real. Last line: too quippy.

I've read much better by you. I admire your self-exposire here, I can't do it.

Perdita

Re: not from a Yanqui:

perdita said:

(it could be a good story in itself).
That's ture.

(prolonged just enough)
Perd. You are a dude.

Last line: too quippy.
Yeah, I cringe at that now.

I can't do it.
Fucking liar.

Click to expand...

Ok, now do I get to kiss your arse?

Perdita

mrssublime said:

Do you have to take your dentures out for that?

Nice writing too, but, for me, the slice and dice card game got in the way of some steamy sex.

Click to expand...

Shush...

I feel almost exactly the same as the Doc. My thoughts reading it were almost indentical to what he wrote. I couldn't reconcile the almost off-handed violence of the murder, with the stranger and the barmaid watching like two... well, I dunno. Bystanders, not the least bit horrified or even interested. I almost thought the murder was a joke. (And it was I suppose in an existential way...) I expected to discover the characters were only kidding about killing the guy.

Also, I agree with Doc about the slutty old barmaid suddenly becoming sexually desirable. If she had been even remotely attractive at the beginning, I would've been more interested in the sex. As it was... well, I had my doubts.

I like a lot of things about this story, but it's almost like you're writing two different stories at the same time. If that was your intention you're brilliant and quite beyond me.

It's a sort of Gent magazine meets Zane Gray meets Penthouse Letters retold by the teenage Mickey Spillane.

Have you considered rhyming it, in the fashion of
'The Cremation of Sam Magee?' amping up the element of
frontier-ish self-parody?

A fun project.

----
For reference:

Robert Service (1874-1958)
The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

Great story, CV!