The Basement

It is the summertime, and in my fair city the summer heat isn't dry at all. It's a sticky, wet, humid heat; it glues my clothes to my body and everyone smells a little bit earthier. Owing to the climate, I have a tendency in the summertime to eschew pants and shorts and wear skirts as exclusively as possible. When I walk places, my thighs slip past each other. When I ride my bike-which is my preferred mode of transportation-my skirts always end up either hiked up to the tops of my thighs or blowing freely in the breeze I generate. My mount and dismount mark me as a graceless exhibitionist, and my thighs become strong and thick, and there's always something appealing to the thought of riding bent over through the city streets.

It's delightful.

I am riding my bike to a concert. The night's act is a DJ that's well known within circles that would care at all and is otherwise widely ignored. The show is in a basement venue. There are a surprisingly large number of places like this: they are dark, cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter, and the acoustics are always deplorable. There are many corners, and the temperature regulation that comes from being underground is lost when there are too many people enjoying themselves.

When I arrive at the venue, I ride through a cut in the sidewalk and in one motion stop my bicycle, pull my leg over the crossbar, and walk over to the nearest parking meter to lock up. I wear my lock and cable across my body like a messenger bag: the cable presses my tshirt against my skin and highlights the valley between my tits. In this story-as in real life-they bounce and sway as I dismount the bicycle and walk down the street. I carefully bend and squat to lock up: knees together, bending there first so as not to overexpose myself in the midthigh skirt this disgusting summer requires. There is sweat running down my legs and spine. A pair of friends meets me and lock up on the same post. We meander down the stairs to the basement.

We give our tickets to the ripper at the door, present our wrists to a young man with a stamp of something absurd in bright blue ink, and he opens the door for us to the show. Heat and evaporated sweat rolls out of the room, and the sounds that were dull suggestions of music are intense and melodic. Once inside, I fish a flask of whiskey out of one pocket, take a sip, and pass it to my friends. They refuse and take out their own.

There are about three hundred people in the basement: most between (presumably) 21 and 35, with a few exceptions. There are people suffering in jeans, men with shirts unbuttoned, women with short skirts and plunging necklines. Everyone is glistening and swaying with the beat. My friends and I push through to the crowded center of the audience to dance. It's dark but not pitch black, with enough light that I can see who admires me as they pass, and who admires my friends, as we sway our hips and bounce our bodies to the beat. My breasts are chaotic with the rest of my body, and every motion of my torso is amplified in how they shake. I notice a man who notices me.

There is a dance that people do when they may or may not have the attention of an attractive stranger. I take the first step: I look at him for just an instant with my chin slightly lowered, directly into his eyes from the sides of mine, and then blink and look away. I keep dancing. He keeps staring. He is tall, square-jawed and -shouldered, with hair a length that suggests a profession where appearances aren't important. He is not the oldest or the youngest person in the room. We keep at this for the next half hour: I look at him, he looks at me, we catch each other in the act, I smile broadly and continue dancing. My friends dance with me; lights and music swirl around us.

I feel a hand lightly touch my arm. I turn around. My flirtatious dance partner's face is six inches away. His eyes are hyaline blue with a ring of yellow in the middle, his lashes are long and languid, and his gaze is focused squarely on mine. The corner of his lips turns up in a half-grin, I reply with open-mouthed laughter. At the same instant as he asks me to dance, his hand slips from my arm to the curve at the small of my back, and I put an arm around his neck.

We dance like this for a time, his eyes locked into mine, our mouths make small talk while our hips skip pleasantries altogether. When he asks, I tell him my name is Michelle and that I am a journalist from some city 500 miles away, and I assume that everything he tells me-his name is Anders, he's a research technician from the neighboring county-is equally false. His other arm is around me now, pulling me closer in to him. He is strong, his hands are large, his frame is lithe and muscular, and a little bit of sweat-soaked chest hair creeps over the edge of his tshirt. My tits are pressed tightly to his chest, his growing erection is pressed tightly to my pelvis. My friends have scampered off somewhere else, potentially with other men and potentially with each other. The music is loud and the beat pulsing as our lower bodies become more and more entangled.

Our faces are barely an inch apart, and with eyes wide open, he presses his mouth to mine. His face is scratchy with 36-hour-old stubble, my lips part for his tongue as he explores my teeth. I sigh and run a hand to the nape of his neck, he laughs and moves his hands southward towards my cyclist's ass. He tastes of whiskey and sweat. It is delicious.

His hands roam up and down my back, now squeezing my ass, now making a grab for my breasts. We edge towards a darkened corner, and as we dance I feel his cock swell against my thigh as my pussy starts to seep underneath my skirt, which his eager hands have managed to pull up to just shy of the fold where my thighs join my body. His knee is between my legs, my crotch grinds against his hip. His kisses are slow, measured, and deep, and I rut against his body with the beat of the bass. When my back presses into the wall, it's the first time I've felt anything cooler than body temperature in the last hour and a half, and the sudden relative cold combined with dancing makes my nipples ache.

In the relative privacy of the dark, Anders slips his hand under my skirt and kneads my left cheek, while he pins me to the wall. I am wearing a minimal thong-just enough material to not break laws on my bicycle, and not so much that it's anything less than thrilling under a short skirt. His dick is pressing insistently at my pussy, my clitoris is engorged and every grind gives me shivers. We kiss like we're starving, and I lick the salty sweat from his neck and nip his earlobes. He moans and thrusts against me. There is another couple a few feet away from us engaged in nearly the same activity: one woman is a petite, voluptuous black woman in hot pants and a tank top with a shaved head; the other is a a blonde Amazon in a tube dress. Their hands are not immediately visible, but their smells are potent and their muffled sounds intoxicating. They are either completely unaware of, or completely disinterested in, me and my stranger. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that the both the top of the tube dress and the tank top are failing at containing their breasts.

I take my hands away from around Anders' neck, and move them towards his belt. He inhales sharply as I slip my right hand down the front of his jeans to his hard, longsuffering cock. He lets me pull it out: it's impressive in size and girth, and deliciously uncut. I work my hand up and down his firm shaft as his breathing quickens in my mouth and his hands move from my buttock to my pussy, where he pushes my thong aside and slides a finger between my lips. With his other hand he roughly pulls up my shirt and pulls down my bra and begins to run his hand across my nipple, which responds promptly to his touch, and I moan and writhe against him. He pushes through the opening of my body as my hips thrust against him; I kiss him deeply to keep myself quiet.

His cock swells in my fist, and he starts to groan. He pinches my nipple and fucks my pussy harder with his hands, slipping in another finger as I tighten up around him and liquid mingles with sweat as it slides down my thighs and onto his jeans. His glans is hard and swollen as he moans and starts to come on my exposed right thigh, our bodies pressed together and grinding to the beat. His come lands a few inches from my vulva. I shiver around his hand. He picks up my fingers from around his penis and licks the come out from between them as my eyes widen and my clit swells. He has three fingers inside me and his thumb pressed firmly against my clit and I am grinding against him, moaning and sweaty and hoarse.

As his come is starting to slowly trace down my thigh, he pulls his torso away from mine. I'm suddenly cold and surprised, and before I have the time to become annoyed that this stranger would let me get him off without bothering to return the favor, he is kneeing in front of me, turning his hand palm up and pressing against my g-spot as he starts to lick my clit. I gasp, and grab fistfulls of his thick hair to steady myself in my shock. As he fucks me with his hand, he gently sucks and flicks his tongue against my snatch. The couple next to us is paying a little bit more attention now through their own lust-filled groping, as are a few other faces in the crowd. I don't care, and neither does this surprise lover.

As he moans into my pussy, I convulse around him. My hips buck against his hand press back against his mouth, while my hands pull his hair and I moan and cry out indiscreetly. He presses back against me and sighs against me, and with his free hand holds on to my ass to help keep his face anchored between my thighs. I come in waves around him. When my gyrations slow down, he gently pulls his hand out of me, and moves it over to my left thigh. With his face wet with my own secretions he runs his tongue up the opposite thigh, licking up his own come mixed with my sweat. When finishes, he stands up and kisses me deeply with his salt-flavored tongue, and I taste myself mixed with sweat and come in his mouth. I fumble to do up his belt while he pulls my skirt back down again over my hips, and I pull my bra back and shirt back over my now-cooler breast. We look almost put together.

The show is nearing its end, and my friends have materialized in my peripheral vision, and their faces are covered in smirks. I look at Anders. He slips a piece of paper-the back of his ticket stub-into my hands, with a phone number and the name Miles scribbled across it, and winks as he wanders back to the crowd.

Republished with permission from La Ravaudeuse. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo courtesy of Fuck Me In the Bathroom.