This was not what she intended at all when she walked into the Yale Street pub. She’d meant to have a soothing after work shot or two of Drambuie, call it good, and head home. Not this. Certainly not this.

Yet here she was, bent over for all to see, in the half-lit darkness of the alley behind the bar--she wasn’t even sure it was the same one that she’d walked into.

Forehead and hands were placed against the crumbling brick wall, black pleated skirt flipped up over her back, pale pink blouse torn asunder in the eagerness to feel skin on skin, breasts spilling out of her bra, and hands--male hands, strong and certain--held her hips, pulling her panties aside, exposing her bare pussy and ample ass for any passerby to see.

He’d chosen the seat next to her customary barstool, sliding his hand over hers as if he owned her, as if they’d known each other for years, and this casual assertiveness caused something in her to... well, respond. Her breathing and heart rate had changed, her pupils dilating. These signs of arousal did not go unnoticed by either the bartender or the cause of these events.

His smile at her was knowing and curious all at once, and somehow, her carefully constructed walls of protection against strangers (particularly strange men in bars) crumbled as surely as the ice in his Glenlivet. Without a word, he placed a bill on the mahogany and brass bar, then took her left hand in his right and led her towards the rear exit.

She thought perhaps that he wanted to dance, but this really wasn’t a dancing sort of place and his swift and sure pace, the strength in his hand mirrored in his stride, made her blush with anticipation. The door marked “EXIT ONLY” swung open at his seeming insistence, although she knew that he was holding it open for her, and her alone.

It was once they were outside, the light Seattle mist of rain falling on them, her blouse clinging in a most exposing way to her bra, that he finally spoke.

“You don’t come here often, my dear. You are looking for something. Do you want that something? I can give it to you, right here, right now.”

His hands were unbuttoning her blouse now, exposing the pale cream of her breasts, and she reached up, impatient, tearing the remaining buttons asunder to clatter on the cobblestone street.

“Please.”

One word. That was it. He turned her to face the graffitied wall, and she felt the cool air and rain falling on her ass, and then his fingers pulling her panties aside, one hand still covering hers. She was aware of a growing crowd of men, watching, stroking, heard their obscenities, and she was very aware that she did not care, not a whit, as she felt his fingers spreading her open and... oh fuck... sinking into her sopping cunt.

"Fuck, please, fuck me..."

At this, she felt sharp pain and then pleasure as he forced her wanton pussy open with three fingers, stroking her softening, wanting cervix.

Desperate, really.

She whimpered with need as he pulled his fingers from her grasping cunt, sighing with pleasure as the familiar sound of a zipper being undone met her eager ears.

“Do you want this? I want you to want this, slut.”

She nodded in the affirmative and leaned her forehead against the hundred years old bricks as he lined up his cock -- which she had not even bothered to look at -- with her innermost opening and with one quick, hard, gasping thrust, sank himself balls deep into her slippery, needful pussy.

He grabbed her tits now, pulling them from their bra, exposing her entirely to the gathering crowd, her skirt well up over her back, her stockings the only remaining garment left unmolested, her strappy black pumps having been lost in the frantic need to fuck.

“Lick your finger, slut, stroke your clit, I want to feel you cum for me.”

And again, she did exactly as he asked. She was so fucking close, her clit forced out from her hiding place, her thighs slick with her own want, and oh fuck, she was suddenly fighting the overwhelming urge to give in to her orgasm. Fuck. She absolutely detested losing fights, and this was one she was bound to lose.

Her body gave her away first, her skin flushing pink, the crashing waves of her orgasm slamming into her, causing her to involuntarily moan with absolute, grateful, sentient pleasure.

“You slut... fuck… ”

She felt his cum filling her, running down her thighs, hot and sticky and full of fantasy. When she regained her breath, she stood to face him, her 6 foot matching him exactly. He was calmly tucking his shirt into his pants, the gold of his wedding ring glinting in the light cast by the streetlight. The men who had gathered were either staring agape or reassembling themselves likewise.

She smoothed down her skirt, buttoned her blouse as best she could, knowing that her long black cashmere hooded coat inside the bar would be there to hide the evidence of her unexpected coupling. Her shoes she picked up off the cobblestones and put back on, making an effort at looking respectable and only half-succeeding.

When she turned back, he had melted into the crowd. Ignoring the wolf whistles and comments, she went back into the bar, put on her coat, and buttoned it to the neck before reaching into her pocket for her phone.

Instead of her phone, though, she first reached a note, scribbled on a napkin -- a simple note.

“Thank you.”

And that was it. A night that started off perfectly boring, and ended with a knowing look from the bartender and the desperate need for a shower...