"Sex Stories" Tequila Forfeits At Lunch

Sex Stories Tequila Forfeits At Lunch
The apology-in-advance email from Ben, when it came, as you and I both knew it would, made its appearance in my in-box just before lunch the next day. Standing me up seemed to be a male line trait in their f****y. I just had a feeling that if it wasn’t going to be Richard letting me down for the dinner date tomorrow night, then it would be Ben coming up with an excuse for why we couldn’t do it. And I hadn’t forgotten that Ben still owed me a proper apology for standing me up in the bar – however, I wasn’t pushing that because he might ask me what I’d done instead of sitting around waiting for him, and I wasn’t ready to tell him about my new friend Zoe. She was going to be my little secret! If I couldn’t talk to Jen and everyone about Ben and the things I had been getting up to recently, then at least Zoe represented someone I could talk to.

So, back to the email. It sat there, resplendent in bold text, simply daring me to click on it and open it up. A virtual Pandora’s box for the information age. Should I click on it, and let loose on the world the ills contained therein, or do I have the fortitude to ignore it and simply delete it, consigning it to the trashcan frustrated?(Erotic Stories)

Unfortunately the preview pane was turned on so I could se everything it said straightaway.

It was a one line invitation to meet at a bar close by for lunch. No hello, no how are you, no apologies for standing me up, just “I’ll see you at twelve-thirty” and named a very old, out of the way pub in the city centre, between the car parks and the building sites. ‘Quiet and secluded’ was one way to describe this pub; ‘abandoned and forgotten’ is probably a better way though. Of course, there was no way I was going to meet him. The invitation was downright rude and he probably wouldn’t even bother turning up. Nope, I would stay in my office with the pasta salad I’d prepared this morning and read The Guardian.

Standing at the bar, sipping a iced diet coke, I check my watch again. I don’t like unpunctuality, and I’m fairly sure that if an Englishman had drawn up the seven deadly sins it would be on there. Actually, make that an Englishwoman. This Englishman obviously has no compunction about leaving a lady standing at the bar. And then I see him making his way over, and there’s the most curious feeling in my chest. I assume it’s some form of indigestion and resolve to do an extra fifteen minutes of yoga tonight to sort myself out.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, couldn’t get off the phone. Honestly, parents, they fuss over me like I’ve just left home.” I hope he doesn’t see my little look of derision, I’m almost certainly old enough to be his mum. “Umm, about the other night …”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, unsure of what else to add to it, or indeed, why I am even here. “I bumped into … a friend and to be honest I didn’t even notice you hadn’t shown up.”

“Ah-ha! So you’re not mad at me?”

“Don’t worry about it. And to show there’s no hard feelings you can buy me lunch.”

“That’s a fair shout. Lunch it is then. Shall I find us a table?” And with that, he was gone. I watch him through the bar to a corner booth, weaving between the plastic potted plants. His confident manner, somehow so benign and harmless, made him very difficult to say no to. Of course my own lack of articulation completed the job admirably, but even if I regained my usual verbosity I’d still find it difficult to talk to him. My first job ought to be to explain that this is absolutely the last time we meet up for drinks at lunch because there’s too much danger of someone seeing us, although I daresay Richard wouldn’t mind, he practically encouraged us to get together.

But somehow, I never get round to telling him. As soon as I sit down, he’s off with stories and jokes, sometimes self-depreciative but always very funny. His voice has a warm quality and his manner is disarming, but even so I’m shocked to find myself thinking that if the place were empty, I’d already be sat astride him, kissing him deeply, playing with that tousled brown hair. I stand up, intent on making my apologies.

“No, no, this is my round. Hang it, I’m going to have a drink this time! Vodka, I think, care to join?” And once again he’s off without waiting for any sort of answer from me. Annoyingly, it what be maddening if Richard did this to me, but with Ben it’s just right, somehow. I don’t take orders well and I don’t like being told what’s right for me, but he’s obviously used to taking the lead – taking charge – and something in his voice makes me want to follow him. A shiver correspondingly runs down my back with this thought. I look up, and he’s standing there beaming with two gaudily coloured drinks in tall glasses.

“Look! Lunch time is happy hour on cocktails!” I stretch out one arm with a cat-got-the-cream smile.

When St. Catherine’s chimes indicate three o’clock, I try to count the empty glasses on the table before us. He’s telling another anecdote, and laughing at it makes me lose count. Being unable to count makes me laugh some more, and when I eventually stop, he’s looking at me a little too closely.

“You’ve not told me much about yourself, Caitlin. In fairness I probably haven’t shut up long enough!” Further paroxysms of laughter, and it’s not even that funny. What the hell am I drinking? “Tell me about you. Where do you work?”

“Well, I work in the theatre at-”

“Do you have to rush back there?”

“It’s a bit late to ask that, “I giggle, “and I can’t go back d***k anyway!”

“That’s good,” he says, smiling. “I don’t feel like going back anyway. Let’s see if we can’t make an afternoon out of it. More drinks! Come on, you’re about three drinks behind me!” He dashed off to the bar and returned very quickly with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.

“Oh no,” I said, “no way. I’m not doing shots in an afternoon!” Clearly too late to argue, he handed me a glass and I sat with slumped shoulders as he sloshed tequila in its vague environs. “Come on, let’s just neck them. Last one to finish has to do another!” Looking back, right there was where I should have stopped him. He beat me easily, and I ended up doing four shots to his two. Complaining with slightly slurred words (although without much heart), I told him that he was being unfair.

“Alright then, we’ll have a different forfeit, ” Ben said, whilst I nodded my assent a little too vigorously. “Let’s do dares instead!” I carried on nodding until the words actually registered on my alcohol-addled brain. Then I tried to complain again, but my protests were shouted down.

“No, come on, it’ll be fun!” Had that glint in his eyes always been there? “There’s no-one in the pub, the staff are too bored to actually watch us – I mean, no-one’s collected the empties for a good hour – and we’re not hurting anyone.” There was a tone to his voice that I couldn’t argue with. I didn’t actually want to argue with him, that’s a better way of putting it. He took my silence to mean that I was on board.

“We’ll take it in turns to choose forfeits. I think I should choose first, seeing as you’ve lost four straight rounds! Let’s have an easy one to start with. Whoever loses has to tell the other their favourite position. Like I said, it’s a nice simple one to begin with. Deal?” I looked at him in surprise, not sure I was comprehending. “Sexual position, your favourite sexual position, yes?” I nodded dumbly, and he filled our glasses again. “Right, let’s go. After three… one-two-three-” and we downed them. His was clearly the first glass to be slammed onto the table despite my pleading eyes in the face of his laughter.

“Come on then, fess up! Favourite position, please. And don’t just blurt it out, describe it properly, and tell me why you like it.”

Closing my eyes, not so much for the performance but rather the fact that I simply felt to awkward talking about sex with him, I took a breath and thought about it. How had it come to this, to be deliberately missing work, getting d***k and talking about sex with Ben in a public place and in such a loud manner? His voice, commanding and yet sensitive, was the key to my predicament. Quite simply, Ben talks in a manner that I cannot contradict. The sense of anticipation was tangible, and even the background muzak seem to recede into the background, waiting upon my words.

“I like to be on top, ” was the best I could muster. Exhaling slowly, he said nothing for a long time whilst I drew up the courage to continue. I took a quick sip from my drink, chasing the straw around the glass with uncertain lips, before setting the glass down. I tried to go on, but had to close my eyes before I could continue. “I like to be on top of my man, facing him, so that he can see how much I’m enjoying it. I like it when he can see that I’m losing control, that I have to touch myself. I want him to see how much he’s pleasing me.” My legs were already crossed, but I squeezed them closer when I became aware of the heat growing between them. I was poised to continue, but felt that I’d shared enough for now. Looking over at him, I could see that he was paying rapt attention, but shook his head, making out that it was no big deal.

“Brilliant! Right then, “he said, pouring two more shots, “your turn to pick a forfeit. What’ll it be?”

This I needed to think about. In my mind this was developing into a game, a contest with escalating stakes, where subtlety and clarity of thought were the key components.

“What about a kiss?” I blurted out.

The sound you can hear at this point is subtlety and clarity of thought crashing out of the nearest window.

He looked stunned but quickly summed up some measure of composure, as well as a large and cheesy grin.

“A kiss. That’s the forfeit?” He asked. I nodded, having no real way of retracting what I’d just said. It was out there and we would both have to deal with it. Christ, it was getting so damp between my legs I could envisage myself just sliding forward, off the chair and under the table. Still at least while I was down there, I could… best not go there! We held our drinks, smiling at each other, until I gained some degree of perspicacity and shouted ‘go!’ with such volume we almost attracted the attention of a barman/student. With the advantage claimed, I easily downed my drink before he was halfway through his. Beaming, I waited expectantly for my prize as he thought about raising a complaint of cheating. The thought obviously passed straight through his mind and out of the other side as he leaned in close.

“Close your eyes.” he breathed.

The next thing I felt was warm breath on the right hand side of my neck, as one hand gently swept away my hair for unencumbered access to my neck. Lips, warm and slightly dried through nervousness, swept slowly from the base of my neck to under my ear, stopping here and there for a nibble, or a lick, or a kiss. Pausing to suck briefly at my earlobe, his kisses came quickly to my mouth, where short, staccato kissing turned all too slowly to a full exploration of each other’s mouths. Our tongues jousted and jostled as I feared to breathe, lest I wake up and realise that I was frenching my pillow or something, and all the while we did not lay one hand on each other.

He was the first to break away, leaving me hanging there with mouth open but eyes closed, and a morass of contradictory emotions. How many of these were fuelled by alcohol, as opposed to the kiss, is still open to some debate but essentially I was as aroused as I could ever remember being. Have you ever had a kiss with someone you yearned, and that kiss turned out to be almost the perfect kiss? And it was a kiss in itself, not a prelude or a finale but a whole performance in microcosm. Even full sex with Richard didn’t turn me on as much as that one kiss.

When I opened my eyes, he was smiling, a far more earnest smile than before. He had the appearance of one whose breath had recently been taken away. Now we were no longer playing; this was serious.

“My turn,” he said simply, filling the glasses again. He did this with much deliberation, mastering the shaking in his hands. He picked up the glass, turned it round in his hand, looking intently at the rim without seeing it. “Are you ready for the next forfeit?”

“I am, but then I’ll be the one watching you do it, so it doesn’t matter to me!” The bravado in my voice was strictly for show, and I think that we both knew that was really the case.

“Okay then, let me think…” Clearly he knew what he was going to say already and was just teasing, so I beat him to it and shouted out my suggestion.

“Underwear!” He laughed, looking me over as I tried to put on an earnest face (and failing horribly). He picked up the bottle and pretended to read the label.

“Oh yes, look at this. Warning: may prevent complete sentence construction.” He yelped as I slapped his thigh, sorry his taut thigh, just a little too hard and made my hand tingle. “Underwear; precisely how may that be considered a forfeit?” Thinking hard because I’d not actually thought it through, my mouth indulged in a little creative license independently of my brain.

“If you lose, you have to show me yours.” I said, confidently.

“You speak as though your victory is a fait accompli. What you mean is, the loser must – and let us call it what it is – flash the other person, here, in the pub.” Looking straight into my eyes to be sure he missed no reaction, he seemed to hold his breath as I he waited for a reply. I simply nodded.

“Tell you what then, “he said confidently, “how about this, seeing as it was my turn to suggest the penalty. The loser does not simply flash the other, they must actually surrender up their underwear to the winner.”

“Take it off? Here?”

“No, I think the bathroom is probably fine for that. The loser must retire to the bathroom, remove their underwear, and bring it back for the winner. That’s a forfeit!” he exclaimed triumphantly. I thought about this intently for a few seconds, thinking that somehow I would be onto a loser but unable to figure out exactly why.

“Hang on, ” I queried, “I’m wearing two items of underwear compared to your one!”

“I leave that choice with you then. Remove whichever item you see fit.” A further pause. The battle lines were drawn, and all that remained was for the two combatants to prepare for battle; to enter the arena. I lifted my glass up to face height.


We clicked glasses and the battle started. We’d both d***k a lot by this time, and the going was much slower. We were almost sipping at times, and I had to fight the gag reflex to f***e the syrupy, golden liquor down my throat. I could see he was the same. Two Christians, fighting in the sun against gladiators and lions, never had as hard a time of it. At the end, we slammed down our glasses at precisely the same time.

“I win!” we both shouted at the same time, but it was more instinct than conviction. It was clear that it was a dead heat. I suggested a rematch but instantly regretted it, feeling that I had more than reached my tequila intake limit for a weekday afternoon.

“No, ” he said, shaking his head and trying to dab his lips daintily with a napkin.

“So what are you suggesting?” I asked.

“We were both winners, yet both losers. I think we should both perform the forfeit.” Leaving it hanging there between us, he looked at me with questioning eyes, trying, I think, to either gauge the level of my d***kenness or the depths of depravity I would stoop to. In the end, neither was lacking.

“You’re on, ” I grinned. “Meet you back here in five minutes!” This last was said while I was already rising to go. Not wishing to look chicken, he rose quickly, scr****g his leg against the table.

“Five minutes!” he agreed.

Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I tried to comprehend what was happening to me. Firstly, why did I even come here? How had I let myself get into such a state? Why – and here’s the biggie – did I suggest kissing him, nice as it was? And finally, which item was I going to hand over to him? Practicality ruled the day. My knickers, I could feel, were simply sopping, whilst I could manage without a bra as long as I kept my jacket on. Although it was a very pretty bra, white with dainty blue bows and lace frills, it was neither my most favourite nor my most expensive. Smiling serenely (sober translation; grinning like a loon and probably dribbling a little) I set my handbag down on the counter top in front of me, next to the row of inset sinks. I’d unfastened the first few buttons of my blouse and had finger and thumb on the third and last when the door squeaked open.

I couldn’t see the door reflected in the mirror, so I paused before continuing, not wishing to exhibit myself to the staff or some innocent passer-by.

“Thought you might need a hand,” he said, with the merest trace of devilment in his voice but no schoolboy smirk on his lips.

Then he was behind me, hands on my hips, kissing and nuzzling my neck as before. Unable to close my eyes I simply watched our reflection, watched this gorgeous young thing feasting on my neck, kissing my earlobes, tracing the contours of my neck with the tip of his tongue. Simply too far gone to be held liable for my actions any further, I recommenced undoing my blouse, never closing my eyes. He looked up briefly after the last one was undone and caught my eye. He grinned appreciatively and slowly began to run his hands up and down my sides, just following the shape of my body, staying well clear of direct causal contact with any of my more sensitive zones. As his fingers brushed the outside of my breasts I breathed in deeply and held it, trying to cause direct friction, but he was too wise to rush it and simply arched his fingers outwards a little, teasing me.

The fingers of his left hand were soon playing with my hair as he sent butterfly kisses racing up and down the right side of my neck, whilst his right hand began to massage my tummy in slowly expanding circles until his fingers were just pushing inside the waistband of my skirt. My blouse was being pushed backwards so he could kiss right along my shoulder blades. It seemed to me that it was simply getting in the way so with some fumbling and a shrug, it slid smoothly down my arms until it dropped on the floor. Now, with more skin exposed, he spent more time watching us in the mirror whilst kissing me, excited by our joint reflection. With a simple click of the fingers the clasp on my skirt was free, and a further wiggle of the hips meant it joined my blouse on the floor. Unable even to manage the most perfunctory kisses at my neck, he simply stopped and drank in the image before us in the mirror.

Pressing my bum back against his erection, I smiled and looked his reflection straight in the eye. I could barely even watch any more: just the thought of being almost naked in front of him took me perilously close to the edge, so watching it in reality would soon cease to be a viable option if I hoped to retain control of my legs. The damp patch at the front of my knickers was now clearly visible, as were my proud nipples. Coiling my right arm up and around his neck, pulling him closer again, urging him to recommence kissing my neck.

His hands were both on my belly, palms pressed flat, pulling me backwards onto him. His right hand slid under the waistline of my panties, just far enough for his fingertips to snaggle the outermost pubic hairs. Meanwhile, his left hand slid upwards, cupping my left breast, rolling my nipple between thumb and forefinger, while I tried in vain not to moan softly. Kissing me deeply, he continued to massage me despite my squirming.

Without being aware of it happening, my bra straps were soon hanging loose by my elbows, and only his attentions were keeping the cups in place, whilst the ever-widening arcs described by his other hand had lowered my knickers a couple of inches. Thank God I had a matching set on today! I couldn’t make my mind up whether he was teasing my by going slowly, or unsure as to how far I wanted to take it, but he was sure taking a long time about removing the underwear – and by now it was barely serving the purpose for which it was designed – so with a what-the-hell shrug, I dug my thumbs into the waistline of my panties and went to pull them down.

His hands, moving quickly on top of mine, stopped me almost instantly. I think this might have been the cue, the consent he was looking for to move it on a step, knowing that I was a consenting adult and willing participant.

Taking half a step back, he placed his left hand in the small of my back, and his right on the back of my head. I caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, as he did mine, and we exchanged smiles in the briefest of pauses before he gently pushed my head forward. At first I didn’t understand exactly what he wanted, but like an expert he tenderly guided me into position, leaning forward over the row of sinks until my face was pressed softly up against the cold glass of the mirror. At first I could no longer see him, and I felt exposed and vulnerable with my hind quarters in the air, but then, becoming aware that there was a parallel row of mirrors and sinks on the wall behind and opposite us, I realised that I could see us both from behind.

Quickly he dropped to his haunches, whereupon I felt both of his hands pawing at my bum. Something had changed; in giving consent to him, the authority of the situation had passed also. Where firstly his hands were pliant and gentle (dare I say it, like a woman’s) now they were firm and unyielding. Using the outside of one hand on the inside of my thigh to part my legs, he nosed at the soaking gusset of my little panties, tongue darting at my extended labia lips through the wet material, alternating with full-lengths licks, slurps almost, which extended the full length of my pussy. My poor little clitoris was in shock at this time, unable to comprehend the notion that a man might be able to find her! He was not gentle with her either, his tongue flicking her this way and that.

He drew the material taut between his thumbs and forefingers and continued to lick harshly, before stopping abruptly and exhaling in an almost frustrated manner. Grabbing my right ankle and holding me steady with his left hand, he unceremoniously hoisted my right leg upwards at the knee. I couldn’t very well turn to remonstrate, but in a second I saw what he was trying to achieve. I put up a token resistance, as seemed to befit the situation, before stretching my leg out along the counter top. It was pretty uncomfortable, and in the end I was almost laid out on my left side along the counter, supporting myself on one arm, left leg dangling down to the floor. Satiated, he squat down again to resume his good work, but paused unexpectedly after taking hold of my knicker gusset in the previous manner. I could actually see him better from this angle, and I swear I saw him shrug before tearing my knickers apart, from the gusset to the waistband.

The sensation of having my parts suddenly exposed both to the air and his eyes was incredible, in contrast to the sharp but brief pain as the lacy material pulled tight against the tops of my thighs. Then he was down there again, this time with even more zest but less élan than before. He worked the ball of his thumb against my clit, flicking it upwards in a way that drew my breath and my eyes lose focus, as his tongue and lips worked on every inch of the area between my legs. I felt his breath on my bum-hole as he must have been contemplating diving in. I was mentally begging him not to as I was still all-too-new to that. He must have picked up on my mental exhortations as he settled for puckered kisses directly on and around it.

The it occurred that he wasn’t being sensitive; he was merely lubricating me. He switched his thumb’s attention from my clit to my bum, rubbing around and over the top of my tiny hole, licking all around it as he did so. I felt him try to prise his way in using his other hand to spread my hole, and I admit I winced and maybe yelped a little. His head popped up over my waist, looking at my reflection. When he saw that I was purely in a little pain and not actually withdrawing consent, he simply continued as before, if anything with added gusto for the game. My enjoyment was clearly not necessary to facilitate his. In fact, if anything, I detected that quite the opposite would be true.

My bum-hole proved simply too tight for a large-scale assault like this, and try as he might there was just no way his thumb or even tongue was going in. I’d been married for ten years and never had anything so intimate tried on me, yet here was this near-stranger doing exactly that! He seemed grumpily reticent about giving up so quickly, but with another dismissive shrug he simply returned to my pussy. Within minutes he had three fingers working sharply in and out, leaving me gasping as their angled drive roughly massaged my clitoris.

And then it was all change again, and in seconds I was stood in the same position as before, my back to him, facing the mirror. His hands were about my waist, inside and out of what remained of my knickers. Suddenly, brutally, he took hold of the waist band and tore them clean off, causing me again to wince and exclaim in pain. The hurt look in my eyes went unheeded as he again f***ed me forwards, bending over the sink with my pussy exposed to the world. Snatching my hands from my side and drawing them up behind my back, he brought my wrists together as I tried vainly to angle myself to see what he was doing. Panicking, I realised he was using the remains of my panties to bind my wrists together.

Before I could comprehend this new development, he spun me around harshly until I was facing him. I was already unsteady on my legs and this sudden motion was hampered by my stumbling. Like a rag doll at his hands I was bundled around, and then f***ed down onto my knees until my head was level with his crotch, and with the formidable bulge concealed therein.

With bound hands I wasn’t really sure what part I could play in this next episode. His hands sought his zipper, and without finesse he tore open his trousers, yanking them and his shorts down so that his cock sprung free. Flinching as it swung near my face, it suddenly occurred to me that this was part of the game. His hands were atop my head, not guiding my head but holding it still as he crudely f***ed his erection between my lips. I had no alternative but to accept its intrusion, and I did my best to disguise how much of a willing participant I was.

Rather than leave it in my mouth for me to work on, he was slowly inserting and withdrawing it, holding my head quite still. My tongue and lips scrabbled for purchase, trying to lick, suck and cajole as I best understood a man would like, but in essence my actions were secondary to the motion he employed. He was fucking my mouth, crude as it sounded to my mind. The saline tang that I remembered was present, my cheeks bulged, and I was at times grasping for air as he tried to insert its full length into my mouth. One hand was now on the back of my head, preventing me from leaning backwards to escape him. Despite the adrenaline driven panic that swiftly rose up and dropped off again because my hands were bound behind my back, I found that I was enjoying myself, and becoming accustomed to the sensation of having him inside my mouth, the feelings, tastes and emotions. Quickly my tongue learned to trace the veins in his shaft, the bulge around its head, and the delicate opening at its crown.

That I was becoming accustomed must have transmitted itself to him, and quickly he sought to remedy that situation. Entwining my hair in his fist he pulled my head right back, until all I could do with my mouth was leave it hanging open as I looked up at him. Now the wicked look in his eye was back; and he was no longer letting me suck him, he was teasing me with his cock. He would dangle it just out of reach of my tongue and laugh as I tried to reach for it, or put it in and then whip it out before I could react, and at times he was just slapping me lightly around the head with it. The effect was to make me a little crazy with lust, which led me to react with indignation when I caught him laughing at me.

Hoisting me to my feet, he kissed me, a surprisingly deep and sensual kiss that left me tingling and expectant. When it was through he held my gaze, a look which was only broken when he once again spun me round on the spot and bent me over the worktop, face pressed against the mirror. Finally, I felt his cock nudging against the entrance to my pussy. He was still teasing, rubbing my labia with the head and only slightly forcing the lips apart. Each rub parted my lips just a little more and raised my expectations just a little further. Finally, after what felt like ages of suffering the friction against my wet hole, he literally took the plunge.

The sensation as he entered me was exquisite. One swift motion was all it took as he eased himself right in, up to the hilt, as I closed my eyes and fought for my breath. I could literally feel my eyes rolling in my head as he pressed home and held it there, allowing me to savour his length, his girth. After a moment he withdrew slowly, teasing out a new sensation with every millimetre. Once again, the deep and swift plunge followed by the slow recoil, plunge and recoil, plunge and recoil.

Suddenly he was at full speed, his skin producing a slapping noise as it impacted on mine. His grunts were audible above my gasps and still I could not f***e open my eyes. Harder now, as though his intentions were to cause distress rather than delight, and indeed I teetered perilously on the precipice more than a few times as my face encountered friction from the mirror against which it was pressed. These were sensations that I never knew existed.

I knew from the increasing irregularity of his strokes that he was close to orgasm, and when he stopped, cock pushed as deep inside me as it could go, I thought that he was about to come inside me. Thankfully, he was just savouring one last moment within me. With repeated grunts, he viciously withdrew his cock, causing me to catch me breath. I looked through the mirror and watched enraptured as he took his erection, still glistening with the secretions from pussy, in hand and masturbated himself to a noisy orgasm. I watched as his hot, white emissions splashed over my bum cheeks, before he rubbed himself, still shuddering, up and down over my bum hole, spreading his sperm all round.

Spent, his interest in me waned appreciatively and he collected his wits and his clothing in silence. Only a polite cough, all I could muster, drew his attentions to the fact that my hands were still bound behind my back. Chuckling under his breath he tried to untie me before becoming frustrated and simply tearing the material apart. I felt that some words were in order but, having never been in this situation, did not know what they should be.

“That was fun,” he offered, simply. I agreed in principle, but felt his speech lacked decorum. I was confused by my emotions, surprised by my wantonness, and still d***k on tequila. Half wanting to hug him, I closed myself into a cubicle and tried to tidy myself up. When I re-emerged to collect my clothing, he was already gone.