His teasing, their cock: an alleyway blow job

A man in jeans leans against a brick wall with his muscular arms folded. Photo.
Image sourced through Pixabay.

This particular piece of smut (inspired by a throwaway line in this – unfinished – filthy story) counts as one of the pieces that I really pushed myself to finish. In the end, I’m glad I did, because I think I created something fun – even if it’s imperfect as fuck (and too long – again!). Read on for an alleyway blow job and a little humiliation.

“You’re practically drooling over their arms.”

I try to look innocent as I turn to him, but I can’t hide my grin.

“What on earth do you mean?”

It’s a half-hearted protest at best, which he conveys he knows in the twitch of his lips towards a smirk. We regularly come here together – the pub is busy enough that we can talk utter filth to each other without risk of being overheard, and close enough to his flat that I can be bent over his kitchen table after a couple of pints. We’re here often enough that we know the bar-staff. Today, however, there is a new face behind the bar. A new pair of hands behind the bar, with quick fingers and lean muscles and tattoos that I am – I admit – drooling over slightly.

“Nose ring, undercut – they literally couldn’t be more your type. You’re ridiculously unsubtle.”

“Bastard. I’m not that obvious.”

I probably am, but arguing with him is as natural as breathing. Our dynamic is all playful teasing and competitive fucking. He challenges me and I fuck with him; flirting feels a little like a battle of wits and makes me almost reckless with arousal. He’s right – though he missed off the ‘It’s exhausting being this bisexual’ shirt off the list of things that grabbed my attention. I snatch another glance at them, but they catch me looking. They grin; I blush. Next to me, he’s still smirking.

“You’re so into them. It’s cute.”

I fight the urge to growl at him. The pub is crowded, but that’s not why we’re sitting on high stools at the bar itself. And it’s not because I wanted the opportunity to perv on the new bartender’s forearms, but because I wanted to watch every flicker of discomfort that crosses his face as he tries to sit on the hard wooden seat with a butt plug in his arse. He’ll get me back for it, of course; every moment of sadistic glee I revel in will be one where he turns the tables later and makes me writhe in humiliation and pain.

He has to lean closer for me to hear him over the noise and bustle around us: “Are you brave enough to do anything about it, though?”

Or right now. Bastard.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” I try not to let my voice betray my nerves, but the amusement in his shows that he isn’t fooled.

“Well, they’ve been very attentive to us all evening, and have been discreet even though they’ve probably heard most of our conversation. So they’ve seen your open-mouthed perving and know how much of a slut you are. Why not show your appreciation of their work – and tattoos – with your hungry little mouth?”

“You want me to blow them?”

His hand is suddenly on my thigh and his breath is hot on my cheek. He’s so close, a sure sign he’s about to convince me to do something that my cunt thinks is an excellent idea even if my mind isn’t quite so sure.

“Yes. And don’t tell me you don’t want to: I know how wet you are right now.”

Take them into the alleyway behind the pub and give them a wet, messy blow job? Of course I want to do that. The bulge in his jeans – which he guides my hand to – shows that he finds the idea equally hot. He’s probably already imagining fucking me later with their come on my tits. I hide my face against his shoulder.

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can. In fact, you’re going to. Give me a second…”

Before I can protest he’s gone, and I take a moment of vindictive pleasure in that the speed with which he moved will have made the thick plug shift uncomfortably inside him. I watch him lean over the bar to get their attention, and I see him talking. Quickly, excitedly. I’m not close enough to catch the words, but I’m sure whatever he’s saying is explicit enough to warrant the flush that rises in my cheeks as they both turn to look at me. Fuck him. Fuck both of them.

Except I really wish they’d both fuck me.

His laugh forces me to look up again, and I find that they’re walking towards me. They grin, then – swoon – wink at me and beckon me to follow them. I do. Soon we’re in the alleyway behind the bar, and the cool evening air feels good on my skin after the heat inside. I barely have a second to realise that, though, before their hands are on me and they’re pushing me back against the rough brick wall.

“Your guy in there told me that you’re a dirty bitch who’s been salivating over my cock. Is he right?”

Their eyes are fierce and I can smell their arousal. Their hands – and those gorgeous, strong, tattooed arms – are pinning me to the wall.

“Yes. Fuck yes. Please.”

They spin us around and push me down, so they can lean back against the wall while I fumble with their belt and jean buttons. They don’t move to help me, just watch my hurried efforts with a detached amusement. Their hands pulls my hair – just enough to hurt, to show me who is in charge here. I pull down their lacy knickers, releasing their cock. I shift – it’s hard to get comfortable while squatting over broken glass and slippery cobble stones – and open my mouth. The sound I make when they don’t let wait for me to reach out and taste their cock but instead thrust inside my mouth? It’s part gasp of surprise, part gag on their girth, and part whine of hunger.

“Oh, did you think I was going to let you suck my cock? Wrong: I’m going to fuck your pretty little mouth.”

 

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Bondage rope, butt plugs, and a book festival
Sex toy review: SVAKOM Siren

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