I Don’t Pick Up Guys At Bars - Sex Stories

I Don’t Pick Up Guys At Bars

... guys in bars.” “I know,” he said. He leaned forward and nipped my bottom lip. “I’ll see you Sunday.” And he had left. I sat there until the bar closed, and I had wandered around for the next two days, looking at his address so many times I had it memorized. I had stood in the mirror, trying to see what he had seen, trying to rationalize things, trying to tell myself to forget this and go on with life, but something in the way this man had touched me made me forget anything close to rational and get into a cab and go to the address printed on the scrap of paper. “What are you thinking about so hard over there?” The voice again, I wished that I would quit jumping inside every time he spoke. “Why is it so dark in here?” I turned again and put my back against the door. Again I wondered what the hell I was doing here. “I like the dark. Heightens all the other senses. Would you like a drink? I have rum. Anything you want, my dear.” His voice was low and intense; just the sound of it dampened my panties. “I don’t know. Why did you invite me here?” He chuckled. “Why did you come?” He asked softly. “I invited you here because I intend to fuck you.” My breath quickened at his blunt reply. Normally such crude language would have sent me reeling in the opposite direction, but with everything else I would normally do so far from where I was, his choice of words seemed very appropriate. Frankly, he was right; why was I here if it wasn’t to get fucked? Suddenly, I felt quite brave. “Where ...

... are you?” I asked. “Right here in front of you. Go ahead, the path is wide open.” I understood the double meaning of his words. “Come on, all you have to do is take a few small steps, and you won’t be all alone.” My body moved forward. Half a moment later, my knee grazed what felt like a sofa. “Mmmm, there you are. I thought you’d never decide.” “Decide?” I asked. “Whether to follow your mind, or something considerably lower.” As he said this, I felt his hand caress my lower tummy. My muscles contracted and I gasped softly. “Who are you?” I whispered. “Why me? Why did you choose me?” “I am a man who wants a woman. Why you? Because you have passion dripping from your fingertips. And I chose you because you wanted to be chosen.” His hand left my stomach. “What are you going to do about it?” Instead of answering, I knelt down. I extended a shaking hand and lowered it until it touched warm flesh. I moaned softly as I recognized that I had my hand on his far hip. I ran my hand up his side, my fingers rejoicing in the feel of his skin. Soon I couldn’t help but actively caress his body with both of my hands. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest; my breathing was so rapid I felt dizzy. I let my fingertips graze over his nipples, they followed his stomach down to where I could sense his erection straining toward me. All at once, I became shy. My hands stilled at the first wisps of crisp hair. “Something wrong?” I could hear the mocking smile in his voice. “That’s okay, I’m very ...