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Coming Attraction

"Thanks for your... effort."

By Jack ScrantonPublished 2 months ago 4 min read

They were gorgeous, the blonde and the redhead, the kind of women for whom getting their way was assumed, the kind of women who suffered disappointment badly. For such women, men were commodities, acquired when needed, discarded when obsolete. They could well afford such conspicuous consumption; their resources were plentiful: open smiles, lingering glances, a hint of roiling passions beneath carefully constructed exteriors, heartbreaking eyes, tempting glimpses of smooth thighs and curved cleavage. Men lined up. All were shot down.

Jeb watched the drama play out, amused. They sat at his bar, sipping their drinks, politely responding to this overture or that, each supplicant casually deflected. From time to time, as he passed from one end of the bar to the other, he offered a perfunctory "You ladies doing okay here?" but after their initial flirting had borne no fruit, he'd become invisible to them. Men existed to notice, to respond, to desire them. When ignored, these women ignored back, ruthlessly. And so Jeb hovered close while serving other customers, eavesdropping in plain sight.

The blonde was speaking. "Okay, he's a hunk... all the right lines... big wallet..."

Knowing giggles.

The redhead: "But...?"

"Short where it counts. And a really short fuse."

Red sighed, a mournful sound.

"Here's a novel idea: a guy with the right tools, who knows how to get the job done. No excuses. No bullshit."

"Not gonna happen," said Blondie. "Too much porn these days." Now she caught Jeb's eye and held up her glass. "Bartender..."

"Name's Jeb, ma'am."

"Ooooo," she cooed. "I love it. Sounds so... sturdy..."

More knowing giggles.

She set down her glass. "I'd like to try something... different."

Eye contact, held intentionally long. Okay, he got it. Back for more flirting. She leaned forward and opened up a delicious sampling of the gentle slope of her breasts. Jeb kept his expression, and body language, decidedly neutral.

"So what would you like?"

"Why don't you choose."

Jeb shrugged. "How about a Screaming Orgasm?"

"Well, that sounds interesting." More giggles. Coming alive now. A fish, who clearly seemed hooked. Time to play him.

"What's in that..." asked Blondie, "Bailey's..."

"And cream," Red finished. "Lots of cream." Facing Jeb. "Lots of thick... gooey... sticky... cream."

"Ah..." said Jeb, dropping their glasses in the sink, "you're talking about the cocktail."

Heightened interest now. Could it be? A player? Like sharks, they prepared to feed. "What were you talking about?" asked Blondie.

"Exactly what I said. Seems easy to understand." Jeb locked his eyes with Red's. She met him without flinching. Then a shadow of uncertainty, a slight tilting of her head. Contemplating. Jeb said, "So how long's it been?"

She turned to Blondie. "Oops. I think that's my cue."

"No shit. We're outta here."

They gathered themselves to leave, returning Jeb to invisibility. But then Red placed a ten on the bar and said, "Thanks for your... effort." And they were gone, trailing clouds of unrequited lust from around the room. Jeb picked up the bill. Under it was a business card. On the back, a phone number. Hand-written.

* * *

She answered the door in a silk robe that fit her Upper East Side address. "I wasn't sure you'd call," she said.

"Couldn't pass up the possibility. Why'd you leave your number?"

"Couldn't pass up the possibility." A pause. "Call me hopelessly optimistic."

"Hopeless? Really? You give up too easily."

"Experience tells me to keep my expectations low."

"I know. I was listening."

"I know you were." Then, "I doubt you'll get the job done."

"Bet I can."

"And if you fail?"

"Drinks on the house. All month. But if I succeed..."

"Yes...?" Nervous, almost.

"You don't get to stop until I say so."

She let a beat or two pass, then opened her robe. "And what do I need to do?"

She wore flimsy panties and nothing else. Jeb took a nipple in his fingers and gently pinched it.

"You're doing just fine. You might spread your legs, though." Then he kissed her and she kissed back, ravenous. Foreplay would be no issue.

Jeb's fingers wandered the slope of her breasts, toyed with her nipples, traced the contours of her hips. Then one hand settled on her ass while the other nestled between her thighs, molding to the soft, labial shapes. Her hips moved against him and he returned the pressure, rubbing slick material through wet flesh. Her clit was already swollen and aroused. "Nice," he said, tickling the tip.

She responded instantly, throwing her arms around him for support. Jeb kept at it , quick, light flicks, each shooting a surge of electricity through her body, tearing gutteral cries from her throat. He pulled on the material: "Lose these." She quickly complied.

His hand at her cunt, a finger carefully sliding through her slit. Up, then down, slipping into her, back out, another sharp flick to her clit, then two fingers pressing in, deeper this time. Out once more, a hard slap, then three fingers entering, probing, stretching, pushing. His thumb at her clit, while within, fingers massaging from the other direction, triggering nerve endings every way possible. What strength was left in her legs now vanished and she fell against him, supported only by the hand impaling her.

Her face steadily lost expression. Tension mounting fast, muscles taut, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused, sounds scarcely human. And then, what he wanted—the scream. Long, gut-wrenching, lasting till exhaustion, until no breath remained to fuel it. A tortured gasp, then more screams. Jeb pulled on her, jerked his hand against her cunt in quick, hard vibrations as she came up to a peak, then fell away, only to rise up again to another. And another. And uncounted more. She might have begged, "Please, that's enough," but speech had deserted her. Eventually, he brought her back.

Dazed and confused, she finally said, "God, you didn't even fuck me."

"Silly girl."

Jeb, unzipped his jeans and stroked his aching cock.

"You're just getting started."


About the Creator

Jack Scranton

Writer, image retoucher, musician/composer, 3D artist. Despite modest success in all those fields, Photoshop paid the bills.

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