Friday Night

We were about to give it up as a bad job and go home when he walked in. Until then, it had probably been the most boring Friday night Leigh and I had ever spent in each other’s company. We’d made it a kind of ritual for as long as we’d known each other to go down every week to the Duke of Burgundy, the most notorious rockers’ pub in the West End, and eye up the talent. Even if no one took our fancy, we were always guaranteed to meet up with someone we knew, have a few drinks bought for us and end up with an armful of fliers giving us cheap admission to the rash of clubs that started up after closing time.

Except tonight. We hadn’t arrived till gone eight, which was definitely a mistake. The pub was so tiny that the clientele of the Duke had a tendency to spill out on to the pavement, and tonight the place was so packed that we had a choice of sitting in the only available stretch of gutter, directly underneath the window of the ladies’ loos, or lounging against an uncomfortable stretch of wall by the kitchens of the Italian restaurant opposite, breathing in an unappetising aroma of garlic and wastebins. Leigh was all for finding a convenient knee to sit on, but two circuits of the pub had convinced us that, although half the rock fans in London were in the place tonight, it wasn’t the half we knew.

So we got ourselves a bottle of lager apiece, huddled as far away from the loos as we could, and watched all the other little huddles of drinkers watching us.

‘The crumpet quotient’s definitely down tonight,’ Leigh said, taking a swig from her lager. ‘Perhaps they’re all staying at home and washing their hair.’

‘Perhaps they know you’re in rampant pull mode,’ I grinned. I liked Leigh. She never made any pretence that she was out for anything other than a good time. Her handbag always bulged with condoms, because, as she was fond of saying, ‘You never know,’ and she usually had a sexy paperback or three for reading on the tube or giving her a few ideas while she was taking her latest conquest back to her flat. And if she went home on her own a lot less frequently than I did after our Friday night sessions, I didn’t really mind.

Leigh didn’t notice him at first; she was touching up her blood-red lipstick with the help of an elderly make-up mirror. I’d spotted him, though: the second I’d looked up from my drink and noticed him ambling towards us, I knew I wouldn’t be able to tear my eyes from his slender frame. He couldn’t have been more my type if I’d ordered him specially; his brown hair curled way past his shoulders and his eyes were a surprisingly vivid green. He was dressed in the usual Duke uniform of battered biker jacket and denim jeans that were faded almost to extinction, but there was a strange, isolated quality about him, as though he didn’t quite belong. I’d sometimes felt like that myself; though I usually had a good laugh with Leigh and I got on well with some of the crowd who drank here more regularly than we did, there was an unpleasant superficiality lurking behind it all. Everyone was here to see and be seen, the girls competing as to who could wear the shortest skirt, the most low-cut top, the tightest leggings, while the men were the sort who’d claim to be the singer in a band that were just about to sign a mega-million deal with Geffen in the States and turn out, in the cold light of post-coital day, to be an assistant in a record shop who still lived at home with his mum.

This man, whoever he might be, was different; I was sure of that. The only problem was finding some way to talk to him. I needn’t have worried; my bottle of lager was perched rather precariously on the pavement and, as he wandered past in search of someone he knew, he caught it with the tip of his boot and sent it spinning into the gutter.

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry!’ he exclaimed, watching the pale liquid foam away down the drain.

‘It’s okay,’ I replied, gazing up into those stunningly green eyes. ‘It’s probably Nature’s way of telling me I’ve had enough to drink.’

‘Let me get you another.’ Before I could reply, he had disappeared in the direction of the bar. I watched him push through the crowd, admiring his slender frame and tight, firm backside.

‘Who’s that?’ Leigh asked, following my gaze.

‘I think I’m just about to find out,’ I replied dreamily.

‘Well, I’ve got to go to the ladies’. Look after my bag, will you?’

I was lost in thought when a familiar voice said, ‘Here you go. Sorry it took so long.’

I took the bottle that was being offered to me. ‘Thanks… I’m Cherry, by the way.’

‘Rick.’ He caught hold of my hand and squeezed it, then sat down in the gutter beside me. By the time Leigh came back, we were chatting away like old friends.

Unlike most of the other men who hung around the Duke, Rick didn’t try to impress me with his exploits. No anecdotes about rock stars he’d probably never been closer to than the back row of the stalls at Wembley Arena, no bragging about a flash bike that in reality was propped up on bricks in a garage somewhere, having failed its MOT yet again. Mind you, Rick could have recited a page from the phone book and I would have listened to it with rapt attention. He was funny, charming and he’d completely made me forget that I was sitting on cold, damp Tarmac. And he was horny. God, was he horny!

By closing time, I knew I didn’t want to settle for just a polite peck on the cheek and a, ‘See you around.’ Leigh was getting rather friendly with a tall, dark-haired bloke wearing a back-to-front baseball cap, so I suggested to Rick that, as my friend was so obviously otherwise engaged, he might like to walk me down to catch the night bus.

He agreed with a smile and we headed off towards Trafalgar Square together. As we crossed by a set of traffic lights, I was quite surprised to feel the gentle pressure of his hand in the small of my back, but I relaxed into his touch as he guided me across the road.

On any other night, it’s a fair bet I would have had to wait almost twenty-five minutes for a bus, but tonight one appeared practically as soon as we’d reached the stop. I boarded, lingering on the platform, not knowing how or whether to say goodbye. Finally, I leaned down and kissed Rick firmly on the mouth; he responded eagerly, twining a hand in my long, silky blonde hair.

‘Come with me,’ I whispered, and dragged him on to the bus past a startled conductor.

We snuggled together for the whole of the fifteen-minute journey; Rick’s fingers moving very slowly in small, circular movements up the length of my stocking-clad thigh, closer and closer to where I was beginning to become very wet and excited. When we eventually reached my stop, my legs were so shaky that I could hardly make it off the bus. I couldn’t remember the last time I had wanted anyone so badly.

Once inside the flat, there was no ritual offering of coffee, no pretence that we wanted anything than each other’s body. Instead, we fell on each other, mouths locked together as we fought to get beneath the other’s clothing to the soft, warm flesh beneath. I could feel Rick‘s hand cupping my breast, running over my nipple till it stiffened to a peak beneath his touch. His tongue licked my neck and I shuddered with desire, then he was tugging at the zip of my dress, kissing the bare skin as he exposed it.

I was stroking the hard outline of his cock through the fabric of his jeans, feeling the long, solid outline of it. Unable to resist him any longer, I fell to my knees, pulling his zip down; he wore nothing underneath the denim and his cock sprang free, its smooth head purple and glistening, inviting me to taste it. I ran my tongue over the salty tip of his cock and he groaned; encouraged, I worked harder on the weeping eye, then flicked down the shaft, my hands moving lightly over his balls, feeling their weight, tracing the path down between them to the darker pucker of his anus.

His hips jerked, pushing the length of his cock further down my throat, and I knew that he was close to his climax. Perhaps I should stop; perhaps he wanted to come inside me, but I didn’t care.

Suddenly he pushed my hungry mouth away. ‘That’s so good,’ he breathed, ‘but I want to taste you before I come.’

He led me over to the settee, and laid me down gently on it, pulling off his jeans and teeshirt so he stood naked before me, his cock standing proud against his stomach. I lay back as he stripped, unable to resist touching my pussy through my lacy knickers, moving my index finger in tight circles over my hard, throbbing clit, then pushing aside the material to feel myself, wet and ready beneath my own fingers. If he’d wanted me to, I would have played with myself till I came, I felt so wanton and unashamed. I slipped one finger deep inside myself, still circling my clit, pinching my nipples with my other hand while Rick stood before me, massaging his erection, his pupils dilated with desire.

And then his hands had ripped my knickers away and his mouth was on me, licking and sucking where my fingers had been playing, his breath hot against my entrance, opening me further. I gripped his dark curls and ground my clit against his face, feeling his tongue moving skilfully over the contours of my cunt. Far too soon, I sensed my orgasm building deep within me, then I lost all control as the warm waves broke and I came, calling out my pleasure as Rick’s clever tongue worked its magic.

I lay, recovering for a moment, as Rick hunted though the tangle of clothing on the floor for his jacket. He retrieved a small foil packet from his jacket pocket, ripped it open, and gently eased the condom down over his swollen cock. He came to me, planting a hard kiss on my willing mouth as I took hold of his latex-clad member and guided it into my waiting pussy. The hot, damp flesh of my cunt clasped his rigid dick, holding him tight and safe within me. He began to thrust, long, hard strokes that pushed me back into the soft cushions of the settee.

I linked my legs around his slender back, opening wider to take him in, deeper and deeper. His thrusts were becoming more frantic, the wild, uncontrollable strokes that told me he was on the verge of coming. I ran my hands over the smooth contours of his back, raking my nails against the lightly-tanned skin.

And then he cried out my name, once, then again, and his spunk was shooting deep into the safety of the condom. I held him close to me, kissing his hot, sweat-salty skin as he trembled and finally relaxed, safe in my arms like a child.


He told me he was spending a few days away, but that he would be in touch, and so I waited, and waited, cursing myself for having fallen for a line and giving myself so freely in what had been nothing more than a one-night stand.

Then, one lunchtime, Leigh and I were browsing through the metal magazines in a newsagent’s near work, too broke to buy any of them, as usual, and I suddenly heard her shriek and call me over to see what she was reading.

‘I’ve just seen a familiar face,’ she said. ‘I thought you told me he worked in a record shop or something.’

And there, caught on stage somewhere in Germany, dark curls blowing in his eyes as he emoted into the microphone, was Rick…

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