The Stranger at the Bar
For months, we had exchanged messages, building a digital intimacy that felt almost tangible. We had agreed on everything except our faces. The plan was simple: a blind date at a local bar called La Trasca. To identify each other, I wore my distinct bottle-green glasses, a signal that I was the one he had been longing to meet.
I prepared with a nervous intensity, the warm shower water cascading over my curves as I imagined his touch. I chose a brown skirt that hugged my hips and a sky-blue top with a plunging neckline that teased the imagination. As I stepped into the bar, my heart hammered against my ribs. My eyes scanned the room until they landed on him—a lean, dark-haired man with a few days of stubble, nursing a cigarette and a newspaper. He wasn’t exactly who I had pictured, but the way his dark, hungry eyes tracked my movement made my skin prickle with immediate desire.
I sat at the bar, ordering a drink to steady my nerves. For ten minutes, we played a silent game of provocation. I crossed my legs, letting my skirt slide up just enough to tease him. He didn’t say a word; he simply stripped me naked with his gaze, making me feel daring and exposed. When I finally stood up and winked, heading toward the restroom, he followed me with a predatory grace.
The moment the restroom door clicked shut, the tension snapped. He pressed me against the cold wall, his lips crashing onto mine in a kiss fueled by months of anticipation. His hands slid beneath my shirt, finding the lace of my bra and pinching my nipples until I gasped. I reached for him, fumbling with his belt until his hard, pulsing length was free. I stroked him, listening to the low, guttural moans that escaped his throat while his tongue traced a path of fire across my breasts.
He knelt before me, lifting my skirt to inhale my scent. “You’re so wet,” he whispered, his voice a rough caress. He pushed my panties aside, his tongue swirling against my clitoris with a precision that had me arching my back and clinging to his shoulders. Just as I reached a breaking point, he stood up, spun me around, and entered me in one powerful thrust from behind.
The rhythm was brutal and breathless. He gripped my hips, marking the pace with heavy, slapping strikes against my skin. “You love this, don’t you?” he growled in my ear. I cried out, my walls contracting around him in a violent, shimmering orgasm that left me trembling and gasping for air.
As the echoes of our passion faded, he guided me to my knees. I looked up at him through my green glasses, taking him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head and sucking him deep into my throat. He gripped my hair, driving himself into me until he came, his heat splashing across my cheeks and the frames of my glasses.
I cleaned myself up, a triumphant smile on my lips as we stepped back out into the cool night air. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a message from my date: “I’m so sorry, I can’t make it tonight. Let’s talk on MSN later.”
I froze, looking at the mysterious stranger who was already walking away into the shadows. If he wasn’t my date, who the hell was he?