I Am Hungry

Note: This is not my normal, drawn-out romance. It is . . . different.

I am hungry and when I am hungry I go to a bar to drink. Thursday nights are best. Always it’s in a wealthy suburb north or west of town.

Never the same place twice. Tonight I was heading to Weston. It’s a thirty-minute train ride to the city which means lots of bankers and lawyers. A newish bar with leather furnishings for an “Old-World Feel.” That’s what the website says. “Old-World Feel.” Photos of smiling twenty-something men with good hair and great teeth in suits with white shirts and red ties. Tall ladies in sparkling dresses and just the right proportions of jewelry and just the right lift in their heels and, surely, just the right dabs of perfume. All laughing about a jointly shared, insider joke.

I have a nice car. An Audi S4 convertible. Red. When I’m hungry, though, I drive an Accord. Cream. I never use valet parking when I’m hungry. I park on the street. Close, but not too close.

It was 9:23 when I sat at the bar. Just like in the picture. Class. The bar itself a wood with a burgundy flavor to it. Taps with either local IPAs or foreign brews. It’s never Miller Time in this place. The bartender, in black trousers and white shirt with the top three buttons undone, is immediately asking me what I’ll have. “Ginger ale in a wine glass. No ice.” Looks enough like a white wine to pass. It attracts them.

By “them” I mean the three or four gentlemen who eyes kept returning to and lingering on me. Helped by my little black dress with an extended slit and thigh-high black stockings with a hint of lace at the top. Louboutin 4-inchers. I need to wear black gloves because of an allergy. Blonde with blue eyes—neither the hair (wig) nor the eyes (contacts) are naturally what they appear but that’s what they’ll appear to be tonight. Nor is my bust real; my cleavage is enhanced by my bra.

Back to the “gentlemen” eyeing me. To be clear, I’ve had more than my share of ladies doing the examining but while I’ve come close I’ve not yet had the pleasure of one. When I’m hungry that is. No, tonight it’s the “gentlemen” eyeing me that get my interest. Each wondering how he got so lucky that someone like me walked into his bar in his backwater, suburban town. Wondering if this is their lucky night. A fantasy walked into a bar . . .

One approaches to say hello-may-I-buy-your-next-one and I thank him but say no because I never take the first nibble. A trip to the Ladies’ to give the others time to muster the courage.

No, not the first. It’s the I’ll-show-her-a-real-man second one I want. And he comes. Of course he does.

“Financial advisor.” They’re usually “financial advisors.” Sometimes a “lawyer from Harvard,” neither of which is likely true but to him it doesn’t matter because he’ll be gone before I have time to check his CV. But tonight it’s a “financial advisor.” Probably spends his days executing other people’s trades. Surely someone’s flunky. He is not unattractive. Tall and looks like he spends more time at the gym than a secure man would. Top button of his shirt undone. Tie loosened.

Tomorrow is Friday and he has a the-market’s-up flush. I let him pay for my second glass of “wine” and our dance begins. He’s very interested in the fact that I’m very interested in him. I let him pay for my third glass, which is actually Chardonnay. I am who he wants me to be and where he wants me to be and I saunter again to “the Ladies’” to let him mull it over. And to fix my make-up and make sure my wig is perfect. It always is.

“Oh! Is that the time? I have to get up early for work.”

“What do you do?”

“I have my own firm.” Usually unspecified but if asked I say it’s “high-end computer software”. He doesn’t ask.

“May I walk you to your car?”

“I’d like that0. I’m just down the street.”

I reach for his hand as we walk. It’s sweaty. He’s in a fantasy. It’s just not his.

I rub his cheek when we reach my Honda. A bit of stubble.

I correct myself. “I don’t have to get up that early.” I raise my mouth to his. Nothing but a peck, but it garners his first moan.

“I’m . . . I’m not far.” I feel his hand on my waist as he says this in an almost mockable tone.

“I don’t want to go ‘too far.’” Smiling as I drag my hand down his cheek before reaching behind his head and pulling it to me and my lips. This one not just a peck.

He hurries back to get his car, bouncing from foot to foot as he waits for the attendant. Who’ll get a nice tip. He pulls next to me and I wave and nod. I follow him, parking on the street a few doors down from his little apartment-building. We enter the lobby and I reach for his waist as the elevator takes us up. Fifth floor. Fumbling for his keys until he gets it right and we’re in his living room. He was not expecting company. Luck be a lady tonight. I decline the proffered water as he rushes to make his bedroom presentable. “I’ll be right out.”

A quick stop in the bathroom and he comes for me, his shirt’s top button no longer undone and his tie tightly at his neck. Jacket on. Going with the Cary Grant look. I run my hands down his sides and accidentally cross his crotch. He is happy to see me.

“Take me.” That’s my trigger, my words like a starter’s pistol.

He pulls me into the bedroom and it takes no time for him to get himself down to his boxers. He’s expecting a slow striptease from me when he is done.

“Let me see him.”

He is proud. Pushes his hips forward ever so slightly. Very erect. I approach. Hips gyrating. One. Two. Three. I am inches from him. And from “him”.

“Let me get something from my bag. I’ll be right back. Wait for me on the bed.”

When I return, still dressed and with my hands behind my back, he is on his back, fully erect. Probably more than he’s ever been. Certainly more than he’ll ever again be.

I lean to kiss him and he opens his mouth and sees the gag too late. I am good at this. It’s in and secured before he can register the first thought of what I am doing to him. And that first thought will be that I’m playing a game and he gets even harder. If that’s possible.

If a cat plays a game with a mouse, I am playing a game. He is now compliant. “It’ll be fun,” he’s thinking. And it will be. I pull out four scarves. Generic, untraceable scarves. “You like?” He nods. They always nod. I secure his wrists. I secure his ankles.

I take some ice I got in his kitchen and apply it to him. He softens. When he does I place a cage over his dick and lock it. I exchange handcuffs for the scarves. Generic cuffs. I dangle the keys. Over my mouth. And I swallow them. I’ve learned how to do it. I open my mouth and show him it is empty. They are gone. His brain struggling to grasp the trouble he’s in.

I strip. Slowly. I let the dress drop. His head is turned so he can watch. I step out of the little black dress and fold it neatly, carrying it to his dresser, letting him see the ass cheeks and the strip of my black thong as it caresses my crack and bisects my ass cheeks. His breathing is labored into the gag, spit escaping its sides. I take a handkerchief from my bag and clean his lips, removing any traces of my own then returning it to my bag. His dick is turning red. The poor thing. All that blood and no place to go.

I turn and reach my hands behind my back to undo the clasp to my bra and I remove it, covering my tits with my hands and again turn to place it on my dress. When I turn back his eyes bulge. They are not big, surely not as big as he was led to believe by my cleavage, but they are spectacular and they are real. I saunter back towards him, exaggerating my hips’ motion in my Louboutin 4-inchers. Now he is flailing, desperate to get relief for his trapped dick. I am down to my silk thong and my long gloves and shoes and stockings. All of them black. I spread my legs as I stand before and facing him. I remove my thong and turn and place it on my other things.

Again I face him, now naked for all practical purposes. Only my long Audrey Hepburn gloves, my stockings, and my Louboutin 4-inchers.

I reach into my bag one final time. I stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, on full display to him in his agony. More spit sliding from his mouth, sweat pouring from his forehead. His head bouncing off the pillow, his eyes registering, and his mouth trying to say something. “Please” perhaps. Maybe “Why?” I want him to enjoy looking at me for a minute more. His eyes are getting larger, his dick locked in place torturing him.

“Just one more thing baby.” And I pull a blindfold from behind my back. He lifts his head so I can secure it.

“I have enjoyed this. More than you will ever know.”

*     *     *

It usually takes five days. No one checks on his type. His absence from work barely noticed. He’ll be found when a neighbor complains of the smell. “Like something died.” Perhaps an item in the local paper. And the police warnings will be disregarded. I’ll be sated for a month. Maybe two.