I met a middle aged man in a quaint little restaurant. We sat near the back, though the place was small so every time anyone had to go to the bathroom they would walk right past us. I ordered food, slid my heel off and put my foot in his crotch. I pushed and kicked and ordered him a shot of tequila. “No I can’t drink tequila” he protested. “Make it the coffee syrup tequila” I told the waiter.
When dinner was finished my foot was tired of poking this dude in the nuts. I ordered the chocolate lava cake. It came with pink sherbet and was covered in dripping gooey chocolate. It was hot and sticky and for all intents and purposes looked like a steaming shit served with sorbet. “Open wide” I told him at I pushed a spoonful of this dark viscous nightmare into his mouth. I let him swallow and I did it again. Then one more time before he had a sticky brown mess around his lips. “You should have some” he sputtered. “I don’t eat cake” I told him with a smirk on my face. He looked worried.
I stood up and moved toward him. I brought the spoon full of sticky brown with me. I dipped my finger in it and put a glob of this nasty mess on the end of his nose. I smiled. He looked more concerned. I put my finger in the mess again and this time painted him with war paint on both cheeks. Then I put some in his ear, rubbed my hand through his hair to get the goo off me, shoved the spoon into his mouth and went to the bathroom to wash my hands. “Stay” I told him.
When I returned the spoon was still in his mouth and the wait staff look panicked. I took the spoon, rapidly fed him the rest of his mess and asked for the check. “Tip them more” I instructed, “more, more still. Oh give me that wallet” I said as I grabbed his wallet and left a tip large enough to ensure that I would be welcome to eat in this joint again.
“Give me your keys and your mobile phone” I demanded. He forked them over. “Now we go.” I stated, motioning for home to get up. “Go where?” his voice cracking a little. “What do you care? We can’t stay here.” I pointed out the obvious to him and we headed out the door.
We walked and walked and walked, until I found the perfect little hole in the wall. “Here” I said. We waked in past a bunch of punks with mohawks and screaming music so deafening that I no longer had to listen to this bitch talk to me.
We went to the bar, I ordered drinks for us, I had his wallet so I paid with its contents. We sat down to sip our drinks and assess the place. “I have never been here before” I told him “look, a stripper pole.” I smiled and sipped my drink assessing the crowd and their tolerance level.
I was wearing a business suit in a punk bar. I had a middle aged man and a stripper pole. I got up, grabbed him, hauled him to the pole and said “dance.” “What I don’t know how to do that” he said looking like a very pathetic poo covered bitch. “Oh fuck, I have to teach you everything” I mumbled as I jumped up onto the platform. “Watch and learn. Pay very close attention” I ordered. “Yes Widow” he promised.
I showed him how to hold the pole, how to shake his hips, how to spin around it. “Your turn” I instructed. He jumped up and started doing what I showed him and one of the punks came along with a camera phone and snapped a photo. Shit.
I went over to the offending punk, in my fucking business suit. “Would you please delete that picture and not take pics of us?” I asked. “The manager told me it was alright” he said. “Yeah well this guy is someone really important and it would be super uncool of you to take pictures of us in here, so maybe I can get you and your friends a round of drinks, you can delete the picture and everybody can have a good time, sound cool?” I explained to this heavily pierced and partially shaved youth. (I felt so old, so ‘get off my lawn you punks’ — whoa, who the fuck did I become?) “oh no problem” said the punk “I didn’t know it was a problem.” And that was that. I told the bartender that we would get a round of drinks for that group of punk rock photographers and then we all had a good time.
My bitch kept dancing. I showed him several ass-shaking, booty-popping, stripper pole moves and he was able to pull off a fine little show. I almost considered offering him a spot dancing in a club, renting it out one night a month, and seeing what he could do. His ability to spin on the pole was pretty super. I really had not seen that coming.
After a while he grew tired as middle aged people are prone to do, and we sat for another drink. I got up and pulled him along with me “I can’t dance any more” he blubbered. “I’m not taking you to dance dum dum,” I said as we rounded the corner towards the bathrooms. I pushed open the door to the men’s room, looked around, noticed that there was a private toilet with a door, so we went that way. “Get on your knees” I ordered him. “Yes Widow” he blurted out as he dropped to the ground so hard that I heard his knees crack on the tile. Ouch.
I lifted my skirt and ripped a hole in my pantyhose. “Open your mouth and tilt your head back” I told him. He leaned back over the toiled and then it became this strange partner yoga thing where I didn’t know if I could balance on his thighs, if there was a better angle, if I simply needed to choose another spot to empty my bladder. I leaned in and shot some piss toward his mouth. Some went in his mouth, some went in his eyes. I laughed.
“Lay down on the floor” I told him. He sprawled out on the nasty floor of this punk bar bathroom and opened his big fat lips. I squatted over him and shot a mouthful of piss into his gaping hole. “Swallow” I told him as I stopped the spray. I gave him a pretty decent golden hose down in the bathroom, then I said “get up and follow me.”
I walked out of the bathroom with him trailing me. As we left that toilet another couple went immediately into the stall. I hoped they had enough room to do what they needed to do. We walked out of the joint. Everyone was outside smoking. 40 or so punk kids and some people who worked at the bar, all standing around, smoking. I tried to just leave, to walk through this punk crowd in my suit with this fucked up, wet, brown-goo covered, middle-aged man. I figured that if we just split that we could just split. But then someone stopped us and wanted to invite us to come back to the establishment. “Come back any time, we have bands some nights” the bounder told me. “Super” I retorted, wondering if anyone noticed or cared to notice the fucked up mess I had standing there behind me.
We walked around a corner and found a well light alley way. “Kneel” I demanded. This time he was not quite as reckless worth his knees. He held onto the side of a dumpster and sort of slid down to his knees. I turned around, pulled my skirt up, pulled my pantyhose down and shoved my ass in his face. “Eat my ass till I have an orgasm” I ordered. I shoved my big juicy ass into his face and delighted when the sensation of his tongue started to arouse me. I rubbed my clit as he snacked on my rump. I stood there for a few minutes enjoying myself. I was so turned on I knew it really would only be a second before I had a really nice orgasm. I took a step forward and told him to lay on his back and open his mouth. I lowered my ass onto his face and sat there for a bit, enjoying my face seat. When I was about to cum I tilted my pelvis back a little and let a bunch of piss out into his open mouth. It came in spurts.
After my orgasm I stood up and looked at him on the ground. “Do you want to have an orgasm?” I asked him. “I’m not sure I deserve one Widow” he sputtered. I laughed and pissed the rest of my piss all over him. I drenched him. I shot it in his nose and waited for him to gasp for air, choking on my pee. I covered his pants, his shirt, every part of him. I was thrilled at the amount of piss I had in me, or rather the amount of piss I had shot all over him.
When my bladder was finally empty I pulled down my skirt and walked away. I got about halfway down the alley when I heard a pathetic moaning, “Widow, can I please have my things back,” and I remembered that I had his keys, his wallet, his mobile phone. “You won’t get very far without them” I said as I dug through my bag in search of his belongings. When I gave him his wallet he looked into it and said “I’m missing a credit card.” “No you are not. I didn’t touch your cards” I assured him. “Well it isn’t in here” he whined. “Obviously you left is some place so you would have a card that was not out on this adventure with us.” I tried to reason with him and explain that he was probably not thinking straight. There was nothing I could do for his pathetic little end of the night freak out. He was basically accusing me of making of with his fucking BofA debit card. I didn’t really want to be insulted, because he was not really in his right frame of mind plus old people forget shit all the time. My father is always accusing people of stealing his slippers and shit. So I just put up with this boy being totally off his nut confused about the situation. Till I told him he should look in the glove box of his car. I have been known to leave a card in the glove box in case anything happened to my purse. Ya know? I turned him around and slapped him on the arse. I’m glad I didn’t let him have an orgasm. He never did apologies for that petty accusation. This is a friendly reminder.
And if you missed the memo, apologies go better with shoes. American 7, EU 38