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Prosecco

By: pharmapl



You entered the hotel lobby and strode up to the front desk. As I had instructed on your voicemail, you asked if you might have a key to Suite 605. The concierge nodded and passed you the keycard with a perfunctory "Enjoy your stay". 

The wait was short, and the wine bottles clinked softly as you moved into the elevator. With noone else there, you quickly checked your hair in the mirror and bit your lip in anticipation of the weekend.

With a soft click, you opened the door to Suite 605. You could hear the shower and smell the steam. Even the vanity mirror outside the actual bathroom was steamed up. You wandered over to the kitchenette and put your bags on the counter. You smiled to yourself as you saw the bucket of ice and bottle of Prosecco, and glasses. The bottle was uncorked and as instructed by a small note on the table, you poured yourself a glass and tasted it. Divine. You took a larger sip and let the bubbles tickle your nose. Then you moved off to put away the ingredients for dinner. 

This time you grinned when you opened the fridge to find an apron. A small note pinned to the apron suggested that it could only be worn over lingerie, and after an instant's thought, you dropped your clothes by the dining room table and slipped the apron over your head. It was a little cool in the room and you could feel the cold floor underneath your bare feet. 

Excitedly, you looked over the ingredients while taking another sip of Prosecco, when you heard the shower stop. Going over the preparation in your head, you set the ingredients in the order that you'd need them. The door to the bathroom opened and you smiled. Coyly, you stayed in the kitchen and took another sip, didn't even turn around when I came in, a towel around my waist and hair mussed. I came up behind you took you into my arms tightly. You could feel how hot my skin was from the shower and how clean I smelled and melted back into me. I was immediately hard and you could feel it through the terry cloth on your buttocks. I reached under your apron while nuzzling your neck and pushed your bra up, one hand grasping your breast, rubbing your nipple with my coarse, hot palm, the other unsnapping the clasp and slipping the straps off your shoulders. You felt my towel loosen and fall to our feet as my hand made its way to your panties, underneath, to feel you soaking wet. My other hand around your throat now, you groaned and pushed back against my hardness while I slipped a finger inside you. You felt flushed and dizzy, from the heat, from the wine, from my finger. I pulled out and turned you around to find your lips, slamming you back against the fridge, kissing you hard, but briefly, before nibbling on your neck and your ears, both hands down to your ass, grasping each cheek hard, pulling, fingers pressing and pulling them apart, squeezing. I was breathing heavily by now too and you could feel how hard I was. 

Abruptly, I stopped and looked you in the eye, and put both my hands on your shoulder and pushed you downwards. You knew what I intended without question. Descending to your knees, you looked up and I did not smile, you could see my eyes burn, so strong was my desire. You placed one kiss on the light little fur above my belly button before I took your chin in one hand and myself in the other and told you to open your mouth. I leaned forward and rubbed the length of my cock on your cheeks and over your open mouth, I circled your lips with the tip, softly, but you could feel I was made of steel underneath, and the heat was intense. Your tongue darted out instinctively and you moved forward in anticipation. I pulled back and pushed you back against the fridge. You could tell that I wanted this incredibly badly, that this was not going to be a slow and gentle pleasure, it was past that. I was desperate for this and I quietly whispered "please, please". You reached down and pulled the towel under your knees.

The moan and shudder when I pushed past your lips was worth the price of submission. I was only halfway in but I felt thicker than ever. With your hands at your sides you let me move in and out slowly, feeling me expand and flex in the process. You couldn't see my face as I leaned over you onto the fridge but you could feel the tension in my body and that knew that I was beyond return. My breathing was really getting loud and heavy and I was shuddering frequently, as I began pushing harder into you. You repositioned yourself a little to give me deeper access but truthfully you didn't think you could take more of me. Still, I had to have it, and I placed my hands on your hair. Your hands came up to my thighs in instinct. I slowly pushed deeper, until I could feel myself touch the back of your throat. Pulling back immediately to give you a chance to brace yourself, I started in again, all the way out, all the way in, for an instant, then for longer. You could feel the rhythm and soon I was in for longer, all the way in, your jaw sore from taking me in entirely, all of me. Every time I touched the back of your throat I cried out and you could tell I was getting close. There was no stopping now, and you murmured "mmm-hmm" to let me know it would be okay. 

I took a few instants pause to come to my senses and looked down at the adorable face, the tangled hair, the flushed cheeks, and the wild desire, you were committed now to blowing my mind. You leaped forward and took me in your mouth again, deeper than before, deeper than I knew possible, pushing your face into my abdomen, gagging once, but confident. You drew back and pushed me into your throat again, drew back, again, I could feel your saliva thick on my cock now, I was so wet and you were pushing me so deep, I could feel your throat constrict around my cock now, and I lost my mind and cried your name, you encouraged me, grabbed my ass and plunged me in and fucked me with your mouth, fully into you, you began swallowing so I could feel your throat stroke me and when you felt my whole body tense you put your hands on my hands in your hair as if to say do it, do it, fuck my mouth, come for me, come in my mouth, I want you to, and it took me over the edge and I lost control and pushed your head down hard and exploded, over and over, great pulses right up against the back of your throat, there was nothing to do as it slipped downwards, and you held me as I shivered and swore and took all of me into you. You could feel my thighs quiver and my knees buckling, my breathing was so laboured you worried for an instant but knew better. A moment later, I moved to the bed, my legs having given way under me, the throes continuing, while you, with an evil little smile playing on your lips, returned to your Prosecco and poured another glass.

Prosecutor



All characters are fictional. Any characters engaged in sexual situations are 18+ years of age. 

***** 

Scum is something you scrub off the space between shower tiles. It's something floating on ponds. It's something that floats up to the top of a broth when you cook it slowly over low heat, and you're supposed to skim it off. 

Scum is sitting on the other side of the courtroom. Scum is what I look at every day. 

This specimen is a common variant. It spends too much time in the weight room. It has a tattoo of tits on one shoulder. There's a tattoo of a girl spreading her legs on the other arm, on the thick part of the forearm. The girl is done in multiple colors. She has red hair and big lips on her mouth. On her pussy. 

This scum is smiling. This scum has gelled hair that's spiked on top. This scum looks like it works at a gym as a personal trainer and runs drugs for the family on the side. 

This scum is stupid. It got caught. It had a trunk load of coke when it was pulled over. Game over. Prepare to get prosecuted. 

Prepare to get sentenced. 

Prepare to beg for forgiveness. 

Prepare to bend over and get it in the ass from even bigger scum at Rikers. 

He winks at me. The scum in the courtroom. His name is Vittorio. Last name irrelevant. He'll be in jail soon, and then he'll be a number and a jumpsuit and a countdown. He'll be doing things with other men that would make him a homo to his friends on the outside. 

I'm presenting evidence. I'm tugging my beige skirt lower down my thigh. It's riding up and that's what happens when you have the wrong coefficient of friction between your nylons and your skirt. They start to ride. They start to move the wrong way when your body moves. 

Scum is looking at my thighs like he'd lick them. His tongue is going out of his mouth and tracing his lips. 

If I had a gun, and if the jury wasn't here, and if there weren't any laws: I'd shoot him in the nuts. I'd see if he wanted to lick his lips then. 

Scum winks again. He shifts in his chair. He's leaning back and his arms are crossed behind his head. I glance up at the judge. The honorable one in the black robe. 

The judge pretends not to notice. 

I'm presenting more evidence. I'm saying, Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please see: 

Exhibit A: The car. 

Exhibit B: The drugs. 

Exhibit C: The gun. 

There's a black lady chewing gum in the jury box. She's looking down like she's checking a cell phone but I know she doesn't have one. She had to give it up at the metal detector. All the jurors did before they sat in the box. 

There's another juror who looks deaf. She looks ninety years old. She looks like she's sitting next to an oxygen tank. There's a silicone mask next to her chair, hanging on a rod. 

I'm presenting my exhibits. I'm strutting back and forth. I'm sounding confident because who wouldn't be? The case is full of exhibits in my favor. 

I'm done presenting and I go sit down. 

I tug at my skirt again. I'm not going to show Vittorio Scum more leg than I can help showing. I'm not going to give him more material to beat off to when he's locked up. 

He'll have to go fag if he wants to get any. 

I'm on my side of the courtroom. I have my leather briefcase propped open in front of me, offset to the side so I can see the front of the room. 

Vittorio takes the stand. He's getting cross-examined by his own lawyer. 

The jury is nodding. 

How stupid can a jury be? If you could object based on collective dumbass stupidity, that's what I'd be doing. 

The sleazy lawyer is continuing. He's telling the jury that Vittorio might have made some mistakes, but he's a good kid. He just got mixed up. He didn't know about the drugs. About the gun. He was moving the car for a stranger who paid him forty bucks so he wouldn't get a parking ticket. 

The bullshit smell is so heavy it's turning the air brown. It's staining it with veins of yellow piss. 

There's so much ammonia in the bullshit, you could clean windows with it. 

The jury nods. The woman who can't hear a thing nods. 

I'm going to tear Vittorio Scum a new one when it's my turn. I'm going to make him wish he wasn't born. I'm going to make him wish he never licked his lips. Never winked. 

His ass is mine. 

There's nothing to do but wait. 

I asked the questions I had to. I made Vittorio get tongue-tied. I made him look like the grease-ball ass that he is. 

The whole time I was up there, the jury looked at me like I was a whore. They looked at me like I was a bitch. 

The nerve. 

If the judge wasn't watching, if I had a gun, if there was a soundproof room with no cameras and every member of the jury was handcuffed to a rail, I'd pop them in the head one by one for being so stupid. 

I say that and you think I'm a monster, but it's called improving the gene pool. It's called removing dead weight. It's called incremental improvement. 

Somebody needs to do it. 

I'm sitting in my corner. Vittorio the Scum is in his. I see his red tongue. His smiling red lips. I see him give me a thumbs-up and now I'm ready to get up and break the law and slap him across his stubble-laden cheek with the flat palm of my hand. 

I'm ready to go punch him in the nose with a closed fist. Ready to make his eyes water. 

The jury is gone for ten and a half minutes. 

They're either the most stupid people in the world, or I did such a good job they didn't have to think about it. 

Not Guilty. 

The smell of bullshit is so strong, my eyes start to water. The eye juice is going to mess up my mascara. 

Vittorio the Scum is looking at me again. He's making the universal sign for sucking dick. He's looking at me like it's me who's going to suck his. That's what his motion is telling me. 

In his dreams. 

I'd be more likely to cut his dick off and feed it to the fish at the bottom of the East River. If there are fish that can live there. 

The judge tells Vittorio to cut the crap and leave before he has him arrested for contempt. 

The bullshit smell in the courtroom is so overpowering, I need to vomit. 

I'm on my way out. I leave my briefcase on the desk. I'm walking down the center aisle. Past the jurors in the box. I'm going out the wooden doors of the courtroom and they swing shut behind me. 

There's a bathroom down the hall. 

My feet click on the floor. My heels make the noise. My fuck-me heels. 

Also see: Fuck You Heels. 

I'm in the ladies room and it's not fair. It's not right. I'm looking in the mirror over the sink and I wipe the eye juice. 

Scum like Vittorio isn't supposed to win. 

I'm supposed to win. 

I'm right about the smudging. The dark mascara gets wiped by my hand and now it's not the way it was. Now it looks like the bullshit got to me. 

I pound the sink counter with a closed fist, hard enough to make my fist hurt. The soap dispenser on the wall rattles. 

I go to a bathroom stall and open it. I'm standing in front of the bowl. I kick the seat up with my foot. I stare into the water and put a finger down my throat, just like I did when I was stressed out in High School, and I make myself puke. 

It happens fast. It's almost clean. 

I can still smell the bullshit. Puking makes it feel better. Makes the smell better. 

That's when I hear new footsteps in the bathroom. Not that I give a shit. If someone wants to see this, they can be my guest. 

If you're making yourself vomit in a bathroom with the stall door open, no one's going to stand there and watch. No one decent is going to rubberneck that spectacle. 

Behind me, there's a voice I know, and it's saying, "Better luck next time, Prosecutor." 

Before I can turn, before I can connect with the possibility that this is real, there are two real footsteps and then a thick pair of hands on my body. 

Both my arms are behind me. Vittorio the Scum is twisting them. 

"Get the fuck off me," I say. "Get the fuck off right now." 

He's twisting harder. He's saying, "I'll dislocate your arm if you struggle." 

His body is so close, it's rubbing against my ass. With my ass, I feel that he's pushing his crotch into me. I feel that there's a hard bulge in his crotch. 

I'm going to yell. I'm going to cry rape. 

He says, "Don't you even try." 

He twists my arm harder and there's a feeling like it's going to tear. There's a feeling like I'm meat at the butcher. I'm feeling like Vittorio is the butcher and he lost his knife so he's tearing apart all the meat with his bare hands. 

More eye juice. I can't touch it. It's running down my face. 

If I had a gun, I'd put it in his throat and pull the trigger. 

He says, "You're as much a sociopath as I am." 

If I had a gun, I'd shove it up his ass and blow out his colon. 

He says, "You're turning me one when you talk dirty." 

I say, "Since when did you know the word sociopath?" 

We don't go into a conversation about stereotypes. His cock just pushes against his pants. Against my beige skirt. 

He says, "You're a little bitch, and you need a lesson." 

I try to wrench one hand free, but all I do is make a searing pain in my shoulder. In an almost reasonable way, I say, "Let me go." 

He's laughing. He's got both my wrists in one hand as big as a catcher's mitt. He's got one hand free. 

One hand slipping up my skirt. 

One hand slipping against my nylons. 

Up my ass. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" And I know what he's doing. 

"What does it look like, whore?" 

I pull forward, but not so hard. Not so much I get the feeling of tearing meat attached to my bones. 

His hand, the one up my skirt, it tears a hole in my nylons. 

Fingers invade the hole. Fingers find my thong and pull it aside. 

His fingers, they're at my pussy. 

My pussy, it's wet. It's a biological reaction I can't control. 

His fingers thrust inside me. Not slow. Not tender. 

A thrust. A violation. 

His fingers fill me. They have a back and forth conversation with my hot pussy. My pussy squeezes them back. 

I moan and say, "No. You can't touch me like that." 

"And why not? You're wet, whore." 

More pumping. More thrusting. My clit aches. My clit wants it. 

I try to move my hips forward. I try to pull away but his fingers just move in after me. They just go deeper. 

This is when I realize he's not holding my other hand. He's got his other hand on my hip. He's pulling me in closer. 

"That's right, whore. Take it deep." 

I turn my torso enough to make his fingers slide out of my wet hole. I'm turned enough to see him, and I manage to punch him in the side of the face. In the eye. Another punch against his nose before he realizes that I'm beating on him. 

His eyes are watering. His mouth isn't doing what I expect. 

He's smiling. 

He says, "So that's how you want it." 

I'm pressed against the wall of the bathroom stall. He's pushing me in. Compressing my tits against the fake wood so hard they hurt. 

He lifts my skirt and tears more of the nylons. He tears the thong. I feel the ragged fabric. I feel the parts where my ass skin is bare. 

I feel the first slap. The stinging of it. 

One of his hands is between my shoulder blades. One cheek of my face is compressed against the side of the bathroom stall. There's a thin line of drool collecting at the corner of my mouth. There's smudged lipstick against the stall from where my lips made contact. 

He's ass slapping me again, harder this time. He's saying, "This is what happens to violent little whores like you." 

The third slap makes me go numb on the flesh, then the tingling comes. 

The tingling becomes heat becomes ache becomes wanting to get filled in my pussy. 

But not with Vittorio the Scum. Not with him. It can't happen with him. I can't let him have it. 

I can see him by turning my eyeballs. I can see him undoing a belt buckle. I can see him pushing down his pants. 

There's a cock between his legs. There's a cock in his hands. It's a thick thing. It's a big piece of meat. It's Grade-A Prime, USDA approved. It's something I've seen before, when I've watched amateur porn on Tumblr. It's that kind of cock. 

He's rubbing the cock against the shredded fabric, against my flesh. He's putting the fat head of it up to my pussy. 

Thrusting. 

There's no warmup, and the only thing that lets me not bleed from vaginal tearing is that I'm already wet. 

The only thing that lets him slide inside a smooth, hot, wet hole is that my pussy's a slut. My pussy wants this. My clit wants this. 

I'm moaning when I tell him, No. I'm moaning when I tell him, Stop. I'm moaning when I'm crying, telling him he can't fuck me like this. 

His cock doesn't stop. He doesn't stop. He's pushing and filling. He's going faster. He's still pushing my chest into the bathroom stall. 

I'm full of heat. The feeling in my clit, it's that I'm going to explode. 

He's saying, "You enjoy this, whore." 

"Noooo," I moan, and this is the No that means Yes. 

I want him to die, but he's going to make me cum. 

My pussy clenches his cock. My pussy constricts. My pussy begs for semen. 

He lets out his own moan, a low one, and I feel the heat getting pumped into me. I know where it's going. 

He's done. 

He pulls out his cock. 

He slaps my ass and winks at me and says, "You can call me any time you need more of that. You know my number, Prosecutor." 

I'm shivering in the bathroom stall. My thighs are shaking. My thighs are full of electrical currents rebounding between my toes and my wet pussy. 

There's cum leaking out of my pussy. There's cum reaching my thighs. 

Vittorio leaves and I'm trying to get out of the nylons. 

I'm out of them and I'm removing the tattered thong. 

The thong and the nylons get stuffed in the trash. I look at my smudged face in the mirror. I can't fix it here. 

I don't have anything to fix this. 

Here's what you can do if you liked this story. Just one little thing. It's not even a full-on review. You don't do that unless something about this story hit you in the face. In the gut. In the crotch. 

It's not hard to leave a comment. 

A sentence. 

A word. 

I'm a fame slut. That's why I'm asking. I'm the rat in the cage, the one pressing the lever that releases cocaine or sugar or an electrically-induced orgasm. I'll do that until I'm famous. 

Help me be famous. 

Thanks, 

EB