Brian K. Burton
There is a pub on a side street, entrenched in the wild hundreds of Chicago, that not too many frequent.
No pith helmet required.
The dark wood comprising the structure looks as if it were constructed from the scraps of a bonfire. The low watt, hanging lights strung along the rafters eulogize decades of Christmases hence. The long bar has many stools but few occupants. Round shouldered drunks in museum quality clothes stare straight with wet, unfocused eyes. Barflies swat at gnats nipping at their drinks. The beer is warm, the booze is supplemented with rubbing alcohol and the jukebox only has one Warren Zevon record. There is no real reason to come here besides the main attraction.
The proprietor and owner of a set of tits plucked from the tree of life. I have seen scores of men and leagues of lesbians revert to adolescence in her presence. They are not obscenely large like some with Electra complexes prefer. They are not the teenage buds Hollywood glorifies then discards when gravity discovers them. They are two full moons that make you howl like a werewolf in heat.
"Last call was twenty minutes ago. Help me sweep out the losers, I'll do my checkout, then we'll have the place to ourselves."
A balding, fair-haired, father figure blinks long enough to be offended.
"Hey, I resemble that remark!"
I'm a sucker for a sweet setup.
"You're the spitting image."
"I spent good coin here, damn it, and I want satisfaction."
Jules lines up shots like she is sending a platoon of louts to the firing squad.
"Keyword: spent. And you'll spend a whole lot more if you watch me lean over..."
"...and collect my tip."
A little pup tent erects in his pants.
"This last round is on the house. Drink up and get out."
Single file, they humbly belly up to the trough, shoot their pittance, and ankle it before she remits her mercy. I torch a menthol and wait for her highness to tally her offerings. When she has checked the count to her satisfaction, she turns and flashes those wading pool blues at me like a cop at a DUI stop. It takes some effort but I finally notice her outfit; a black corset binding that teeming bust, dark denim breeches and thigh high leather boots.
"Wanna help me finish polishing this turd?"
"I'm your man, woman."
She hands me some cleaning products from behind the bar and I use the least filthy rag to wipe down the countertop while stealing glances other schlubs dutifully paid for. Finally, with the bitch work complete, we risk the rickety stairs leading down to the cellar and ensconce ourselves in the plush couch in her office.
Jules nuzzles her head under my arm and beams a smile up at me as soft as the cotton panties I'm sure she isn't wearing. I take her chin in my hand and raise her head toward me. There is a scar under her lower lip from a car accident years ago. She tries to hide it with cover-up but I wipe it away with my thumb. I kiss it, then her. Her mouth opens to me like she has been hungry for something she couldn't quite put her finger on and I'm a full course meal.
Her ringtone chirps in the background, an incessant cricket ruining the mood. She scopes the number covertly but I manage to peg the area code. Her boyfriend moved to California and opened up a Chicago themed restaurant on the boardwalk. They are doing the long distance thing with some success but I'm the dickhead that gets off on pushing their boundaries.
She stuffs the phone back into her pocket and sighs into my sternum. I wrap my arm around her waist and hoist us up into the lotus position. I extricate her from the unyielding bodice and the flesh previously housed within the corset is flush since exposed to the air. I trail the length of her back with my fingertips and hubris causes me to grin at the goosebumps rising on her sienna skin. She removes the one piece and her breasts spill gently against my chest. I caress them while circling the nipples with my palms.
I clench a handful of hair, yank her head back and bite her earlobe. Her moan is guttural, primal.
"Oh, El...you're trying to destroy me!"
"I wouldn't if you belonged to me."
California calls again. This time, she ignores him while I unzip her boots, freeing her feet from their bondage. She raises herself off the cushion and shimmies out of her jeans. I was right. There was nothing between us but her Calvins.
Jules loosens my belt and liberates my cock.
She rows my oar into her bay, which gets wetter with each skim of her surface. She masturbates with my member until there is a threat of a flash flood.
FEMA is conspicuously absent.
I cup her ass with my mitts and make my magic stick disappear in her like some X-Rated parlor trick.
Jules' first orgasm is a bucking, rollicking tsunami. The second, a soft wave of electric velvet. Tentatively, she approaches the third, gasping for air with a goldfish pucker. My own climax is building and I don't want to leave her in suspense. I slow my rhythm and capture her eyes with mine. We blink only when our eyelashes brush.
She bites her lip until a tiny trickle of blood pools in the seam of her mouth. I pry it open with my tongue and taste her DNA. She breaks free and snarls with crumbling resolve:
I thrust, dealing both the killing blow and seppuku. Heartbeats, breaths, Zen blossoms...
Then the phone rings. She has the decency to wait until the third ring until she dislodges, queefing our cumulative ejaculate on my stomach. The door closes behind her as she wa-wa-wa's through the walls with her West coast inamorata.
I prop myself on my side, rummage through my pants, procure my flask and toast, clinking glasses with the afterglow.
Brian K. Burton enjoys the essential -ings of life: writing, reading, drinking, smoking, sleeping, and loving. He is a native Chicagoan who now resides in Falls Church, VA.