My backside hits the push bar, and we spill out into the alley, clinging together by our sloppily dancing tongues. This will be my bedroom with Quadzilla for the next five minutes (ten if I’m lucky). Only the truly depraved fuck in the seedy crevices behind bars, so I fit in perfectly. 

I pull him into the center of a lost moonbeam sprayed across the littered ground and turn to grind my ass against his tented joggers. I’d plucked this one from his rowdy teammates inside the bar, celebrating a rugby win. Testosterone was oozing from his pores. And so, I picked up his heady scent and pounced. Since I’m decorated for sex, he couldn’t resist a freebie. 

It’s your fault, you know — why I’m like this now — a slut. Different guy each time. Making sure they are in and out before they can tug on a heartstring. You did this. 

I lift a glass of tonight’s chosen poison (bourbon) to his lips, and he gulps it like water. He shoves his hand down the front of my stretchy tank to grab a handful of tits. Those same tits I used to save for your eyes only now spill easily over my trashy top. When he tries to pop my nipple with his pinching fingers, I know I chose the right guy. Yeah, I like it rough now. Helps me forget you. 

Mr. Muscles walks us toward the wall and mashes me against the brick so he can hump my ass without knocking me over. Mmm, he’s packing. Long and thick from the feel of it. Doesn’t need any priming from me. 

He’s wicked powerful, and I dig my fingers into the gaps in the grungy mortar for support. Mmm, I need that thick shaft in my mouth, so I spin around and drop, scraping my knees on the broken concrete. Rolling my heavily shadowed eyes upward, I peel down the waistband of his joggers and briefs until the tasty treat pops out at me. You should see how good I am at this now. Lots of practice. 

While holding his skin at the base, I pour a little of my bourbon over his cock, then toss my glass. I mouth the head like an ice cream, then drag my tongue up and down his shaft, tasting the alcohol mixed with his essence oozing from the tip. I tease him. Test his patience. He has none and grips my head and thrusts his hips against me, forcing his cock down my throat. I moan around his thickness, slurping, sucking, letting the saliva drip out the corners of my mouth. He loudly growls while short-cut nails dig into the sides of my scalp. I know I’m doing it right by the way his face contorts. Yeah, he’s getting too close. 

I break free of him, rise, and turn my back to him again. “Fuck me,” I order, desperate for him to fill an empty hole. 

He flips my leather skirt over my hips, and I lift a leg, placing that knee against the pitted bricks to give him better access. I resemble an animal, hiked and ready. Oh, he likes that vulgar pose; they all do.

“Ow, fuck,” he groans while roughly grabbing my ass. “You’re a dirty one.” 

And this is the point where the pain of you fades to black — my reprieve has finally come.

The force of his first thrust scratches my popped leg propped against the wall, but I don’t care. The pain distracts from deeper pains. Another vigorous thrust crushes my tits. I stifle my cries, not wanting him to stop. He’s firmly wedged in my cunt each time before he withdraws again. His mouth bites my ear lobe. His warm, liquored breath blows upon the nape of my neck. It’s a sexually-charged bubble for just the two of us.

Our fucking moans drown out nearby sirens. The thought of getting caught drives me crazy, and I push back against his mighty thrusts, slapping my ass against his groin. 

His nostrils close to the stench of the trash around us. My eyes shut to the dirt and grime. The rest of the world falls away, and we’re only aware of the fuck. My thoughts are trapped between my trembling thighs. I’m wet now. He only feels his cock, sliding with ease inside my slippery sheath. 

I thumb my own clit. It burns with need. This is about self-gratification, after all. And he wants to empty those heavy balls he’s lugging around. That’s all there is to us. The invisible sign says, “No emotional ties allowed.” 

My breath hitches at the first tingle, signaling my orgasm is approaching; his, too, by the sounds of his quickening grunts. 

Quadzilla uses those powerful glutes to burrow against my cervix, and I tumble over the edge. My legs uncontrollably shiver while I slap my hand against my swollen clit. Time freezes at this moment as indescribable sensations make my hair follicles tingle, my toes curl, and everything in between quiver. 

A roar in my ear alerts me he’s cumming. Pulsing spurts flood my insides before leaking out from my sore opening. 

For those few moments afterward, I’m at peace. The world feels different. My fuck buddy and I feel a connection; albeit brief, it’s there. But as soon as his deflating cock slips out, we become disassociated strangers once again. 

I know he sees the vacant look in my eyes and is secretly relieved. 

I say, “I need a minute to clean up and catch my breath. I’ll meet you back inside.” As soon as he walks away, I do, too — in the opposite direction. 

Someone said it's always the next guy who pays the price after a guy hurts a girl. In my case, more guys than I can count are thanking my asshole of an ex that they get their cocks squeezed by my tight cunt with no strings attached. 

In and out, no one gets hurt. 

So why do I feel so empty?