1. Sweltering Score


    Date: 10/9/2015, Categories: Straight Sex, Author: ladyofglenkirk, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    You know who he is. You know what he does. Everyone knows everyone in Bayou Goula, and Jack Brandon isn’t exactly low profile. He hasn’t been at the bar in a while, but he’s here tonight. You would know. You’re always looking, waiting for the day when he’ll walk up to you oozing swag with that shit-eating smirk on his face. You see him looking at you sometimes, ogling your tits and your ass, but he never talks to you. Never talks to any of the girls, really. He doesn’t have to. He could have any woman in town on all fours with one look. He’s always all business in the bar, sitting in the darkened corner with his crew, scheming on something to get more of the cash everyone knows he has. That’s the one thing about Jack Brandon you can’t shake: behind that cold, hardened face, his mind is always racing. He’s always plotting his next move, always thinking about something. You want that something to be you. Especially since your car is in the shop, your rent is due, and you just lost your job. You know Jack takes care of his women, and he’s always carrying cash. If you can hook him, you’ll be set. You’ll do a lot for money. You’ll especially do a lot for money that comes from someone who looks like Jack. Maybe tonight will be the night. You’re always wearing a skirt that’s too short and heels that are too high, and a shirt so tight your tits are spilling over. All of it for him, so he notices you, so he wants to take you home and fuck you so hard you can’t remember your own name. ...
    Tonight you’re drunk and horny as fuck. And Jack looks good. He always looks good, but it’s summer in Louisiana and it’s like a swamp outside. He’s wearing a wife beater and that fucking chain of his–the chain with the cross on it that makes you think the most ungodly things. You can’t let yourself stare at his arms for too long. He’s all tatted up and rock hard muscle. That’s what you think about at night, when you’re alone–the way his arms would look holding on to your hips as he fucked you, and all the ways you could get his blood pumping so hard you could see it throbbing in those veins that pop out of his forearms. Those veins. Those fucking veins. You start to feel it–the hot, damp sensation that usually follows any thoughts of him. The whiskey starts talking. Fuck it. He’s braced against the crowded bar and the outline of his perfect ass is calling to you. Tonight you’re answering that call, and your drink is empty besides. You sidle up to the bar, making sure your tits swing a little harder as you squeeze in next to him. You look at him. You know he noticed. “ Sorry,” you say. “Don’t be.” He smiles. His gaze lingers just long enough below the neck for you to know you’ve hooked him. You feel a burst of confidence. “Buy a girl a drink?” As he shifts his hips to face you, you see the outline of the gun. You should be scared but you aren’t. It’s tucked away in his pants, resting next to his other prominent bulge. You wish you could see more of it, maybe the ass-end of the ...
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