My Friends the Allens -- Slinky Red Thing
by Mark Aster

= = =
Note: this story contains graphic accounts of sexual
relations between consenting adults.  If you are a minor,
a U.S. Senator, or anyone else whose brain implodes
when exposed to such things, stop reading now, and go
take a cold shower.
= = =

    Five A.M.
    Friday morning
    Thursday night
    Far from sleep...

11pm, actually, Saturday night.  Pat Allen and I sat at a tiny
table in a crowded little uptown bar, Tori Amos breathing sex
and innocence into the smoky air.  We weren't talking; just
sipping at our drinks, admiring each other, holding hands,
twining fingers.  Sometimes she would take my hand and run
it over her face, my fingers on her lips.  We had been lovers
for one week.  I don't know what she was thinking, but in my
mind she was naked again, on her back on her couch, gasping and
laughing and coming.

    Yes I wore
    A slinky red thing
    Does that mean I should
      spread
    For you
    Your friends
    Your father
    Mister Ed...

"Haw!"  A thin ruddy man laughed across a table to his round
pale companion.  "Big surprise!  Dress the wrong way in the
wrong place, things happen.  s'why they wear 'em in the first
place, ya know?  Element o' danger!"  And he laughed again.

And the place got a little quiet, and a circle formed around
the two men, nothing obvious, just a little drawing away, and
some eyes turned in new directions.  And the thin man looked
around at nothing, and got a little quieter.  It may be a dirty
little bar on the wrong side of the tracks, but it's also
right next door to the Women's Shelter.

"So?" I said to Pat, taking her hand in both of mine and
counting her fingers.

"So?"

"So I didn't notice you in the glaring committee, there.
Asshole, eh?"  Pat was wearing a slinky red thing herself
that night, tight and shiny and short and cut low in front.

"Depends," she said, and she took my hands and nestled them
under her neck, against the strong whiteness of her throat.
I wanted to cup her breasts, feel their heavy softness in
my fingers.

"Depends?"

"Well, if he meant it as a sort of theoretical observation,
it's probably true.  Part of the high, for me, of wearing
something hot is knowing that I'm HOT, that people want me,
that I'm wearing something that'd be stupid to wear in some
places.  Sex is dark and deep and dangerous.  Have you read
Paglia?"

I hadn't.

"On the other hand," she raised my hand to her lips and ran
her tongue over my palm, "if he was implying that that's an
EXCUSE, and that the rapist shouldn't have his balls ripped
off and shoved down his throat," and she released my hands
and sat back in her chair, "then I'd have to disagree."

The waitress, weaving between the tables, refilled our drinks
and mazed away again.

    These things go through your head
    When there's a man on your back
    And you're pushed flat on your stomach
    It's not a classic Cadillac...

"God," breathed Pat, "how can a song about something so
horrible be so sexy?"

"I think it's her voice."

"Her voice," and she closed her eyes and licked her lips, and
they glistened in the light, and I wanted to run my own tongue
over them.

"You must feel hot tonight," I said.  She opened her eyes, and
pursed her lips and leaned over the table toward me again and
took my hands.

"Do you think so?  Do you think I'm wet?"

"Are you wet?" I asked.

She reached one finger out and knocked a spoon off the table.
"Find out for yourself," she whispered, and kissed the back of
my hand.

Under the table it was dark and grungy, curls of cigarette
smoke moving lazily around a roomful of legs.  Pat's knees
were apart, and up her long smooth thighs the triangle of
her panty looked dark and damp.  I reached one hand between
her knees, but she clamped her legs together on it, smothering
my fingers in her flesh.  Her thighs released me, and I sat up.

"Am I wet?" she asked.

"Want to do something dangerous?" I said.  My cock was
throbbing in my pants.  She touched my calf with one foot.

"Are you hard?" she asked.  She knew I was hard.

My mouth was dry.  She took my forefinger between her lips,
and sucked lightly on it, looking into my eyes.  She smiled.
"Two minutes," she said, "the door just to the left of the
ladies' room."

She got up quickly and wove through the tables to the smoky
back of the room.  From the speakers, Tori's voice swayed with
the swaying of Pat's marvelous ass.  I watched the second hand
crawl lazily around my watch dial.

The door to the left of the ladies' room was unmarked, stiff.
It opened onto a closet-sized room, dusty and cluttered, with
another door on the other side.  I opened it, stepped out into
the cold alley, the night.  I heard a noise beside me, turned,
and Pat was in my arms, her body pressed against me, her mouth
hot and demanding on mine.  I took her by the arms and pulled
her tighter against me, and my tongue probed her mouth.  She
groaned, and fumbled at my pants.  My cock sprang out into
the close still air, the drop of a tear glistening wetly at
the tip.  Pat took my staff in her hand and squeezed as her
mouth fastened on my neck.  My hands kneaded her breasts
through her dress.

She squeezed and stroked my cock with one hand, and with the
other she guided my fingers down her body, up under her skirt,
and between her legs.  Through the soaked cloth of her panty
I felt her cunt, soft and full.  She spread her legs and purred
as I pressed my fingers against her.  Then I slid her panties
down her thighs, and she rubbed my cock against herself,
against the soft skin of her stomach, cock-tears rubbing off
onto the underside of her skirt.  I gasped and closed my eyes,
my hands on her ass.  She turned in my arms, slipping my penis
along her skin, over her hip, into the crack between her
buttocks.  She bent over and rested her arms on something in
the darkness, and pressed herself back against me.  I moved
forward and entered her, my hard hungry cock sliding easily
into her vagina, penetrating her, opening her, and she cried
out.

"If you're loud," I hissed, sliding my cock out of her and
back in, moving her body forward and back with my hands on
her hips, "if you're loud, someone might hear."  She gasped
and groaned louder.  I reached between her legs with one
hand, along the pumping shaft of my cock, and stroked her
clit with my fingers as I fucked her.

The night made sounds, creaks and squeals, cars thrumming
by on the road.  "I think someone's coming!" I said, "Be
quiet!" and I drove myself into her, and I rubbed her
juices over her clit and stroked her harder.

"Uhhhhnnnnn.  Uhhhhnnnnn!  AHHH!" she came quickly and deeply
in the dimness, and as I thrust faster in and out of the sweet
wetness of her cunt I marvelled again at the incredible heat
of this woman, her head back, lost in orgasm from the pressure
of my body on her, in her, my hands on her skin, my flesh
buried in hers, and she came and came for a long time as I
groaned and grunted.  Our hips moved in exquisite rhythm,
and just as I lost all control, my body merging into hers,
my breath timed to the thrust of her hips, my cock pulsed and
throbbed, and the thick white semen exploded out of me,
into her, and as I came I squeezed her and bucked against
her, and she nearly fell, bracing herself with her arms and
legs against my last spurting thrusts, and moaning as I
filled her.

Back in the bar, at our table, we sat and touched each
other's faces and I thought about taking her home and
fucking her again, opening her and tasting her and making
her wet and filling her with cum.  Joni Mitchell sang
about love from the speakers.

"So," I said, "if someone had come up and taken advantage
of the darkness while you were waiting for me there in the
alley, you would have...?"

She leaned far forward over the table, her breasts lovely
and round, and kissed my mouth and put her lips by my ear.
"Ripped off his balls," she whispered, "and shoved them
down his throat."


My Friends the Allens -- Slinky Red Thing
by Mark Aster
The End