Free explicit short story: The Pick-Up Artist by Alison Tyler

by Violet Blue on February 15, 2013

Image from the gallery “Hot Evening” with Aubrey and Xander (video here).

By the time you read this post Valentine’s Day will be past – but Valentine’s Day is the theme of this hot, dirty short story generously gifted for free to me and you, dear readers. I do apologize getting this to you late (I ended up with a sprained, maybe fractured toe and that’s unfortunately been the bulk of my V-Day.) But it doesn’t matter when you read this exquisite erotica short by the talented and prolific Alison Tyler. It’s more intense than you’ll expect, and pivots with a twist on a taboo – yet not uncommon – couples’ fantasy.

Please do enjoy The Pick-Up Artist. If you like it, consider checking out the rest of the collection it was written for, Gritty: Rough Erotic Fiction, edited by another of my absolute favorite erotica writers Sommer Marsden. You will also find all sorts of delish and often free erotica on Tyler’s blog.

The Pick-Up Artist
By Alison Tyler

Valentine’s Day at a singles bar. Life doesn’t get much lonelier than that. Flirty paper hearts were stuck to the mirror on the back of the bar. Shiny cupids dangled on fishing wire over head. Keith eyed the girls in their frippery and finery—so much scarlet, fuchsia, and pink. The bartender was pouring carnation-colored Cosmos and cardinal-hued Sea Breezes—anything with a bit of cranberry juice or grenadine. Keith asked for vodka—clear, not pink—and scanned the room.

Oh, look. There. The brunette with her hair piled high on her head.

God, she was pretty. In that soft cashmere twinset sort of way. He gazed at her, sitting there at the end of the bar, one of her black patent-leather high heels dangling loosely as she rocked her foot up and down. He wasn’t the only one watching. He could feel the palpable interest of several other men in the dimly lit room. This is why he moved first, trying not to startle her when he came up at her side. She caught his eye in the mirror behind the bar. He could see from the look on her face that she wasn’t the type to startle easily.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, thinking, Thank god it’s not pink.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity.”

“You know what they say about curiosity.”

“Sure, but I’m not a cat.”

She tilted her head, seemed to take him in fully. “No, you’re not.”

He picked up her drink, took a sip. Then he slid his own to her.

“Ketel One,” they said together, and then they both laughed. It was a good start.

“No Valentine?” he asked.

She made a face. He hoped she wouldn’t begin that rant about how Valentine’s Day was created by the blowhards at Hallmark. He steeled himself, just in case, but she simply said, “Not this year.”

That was good. She wasn’t whiny. She wasn’t kicked-to-the-curb depressed. Who’d kick her to the curb, anyway? She also wasn’t desperate. All qualities he could appreciate. They sipped together and didn’t say much, a few words here and there. But he could feel her heat, feel that she was moving her body slightly closer to his whenever she could. He put money on the bar and turned toward the door. He heard her shoes on the hardwood floor, and her hand on his arm stopped him. She couldn’t see the smile on his face.

No pat line. No, “Your place or mine?” No, “Where to, big guy?” She held him in place with her hand on his arm, and then stood at his side, like they were already a couple.

Valentine’s Day will do that to you.

She followed him to his apartment. There was one light on in the office, a golden glow through the papery curtains. Keith waited for her to park, and then went to the side of the car and opened the door for her. When had he last picked up a girl at a bar? That one was easy enough to answer.

He watched her step onto the pavement. His eyes did that tour of her body again—top to toe—and he smiled. He knew how to choose the right kind of girls.

She took his hand when they reached the front door, gave his hand a squeeze. For reassurance? Maybe. But reassurance for him or for her? He didn’t bother asking. He slid in the key, opened the lock, and pushed the door open. He had heard that once you lived in a place for a certain period of time, you no longer could appreciate the smells. Could she? Did she notice anything?

She didn’t seem to. He led her into the kitchen and poured each of them a fresh drink. Kettle One he had on hand. He was aware they weren’t talking much. Not even that nervous chitchat of getting to know you. He was glad that the place was so clean—almost monastic. He appreciated good lines, strong angles, no knickknacks, no clutter. She sipped. He sipped. She laughed. “So this is Valentine’s Day when you’re single.”

“New to you?”

She touched the spot on her ring finger, and he saw the white band in the skin.

“How long?”

“Long enough,” she said. He touched the spot she’d touched. He saw her shiver, and he bent and kissed the dip of her neck. She leaned her head back and sighed. That was all they needed. One kiss against the kitchen counter, and both were primed. He took her drink, set both vodkas on the counter, and lifted her in his arms.

He carried her down the hall, past the sleek, modern art on the walls. No photographs. He’d always collected the work of local artists, loved living amidst their colors. In the bedroom, he hesitated. Put her on the bed right away, or let her walk to the mattress herself. He didn’t generally hesitate. She grinned at him and said, “Are you thinking face up or face down?” and he placed her on the mattress. He didn’t bother closing the door.

She undressed at the same time he did. Speedily. He had on black jeans and a black shirt. She was in a skirt and sweater. They were both nude in a heartbeat, and then he was on her, kissing exactly where he had in the kitchen—but the sensation was different now that they were naked.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” she said when he began to work down her body. “I couldn’t be alone.”

He didn’t think she needed a response. Not more than his mouth on the insides of her thighs, his fingertips on her cunt. He licked her skin but not her pussy. With his thumbs, he spread her lips apart and ran circles around her clit. She was the opposite of alone right now, wasn’t she?

“Valentine’s Day never meant much to me before,” she said, and he thought for an instant that he’d been wrong. She was going to launch on the commercialization and all that shit. But she didn’t. “When you’re part of a pair, you take it or leave it. When you’re all by yourself, every red heart is like a smack in the fucking face.”

He nibbled at her inner thighs, and then he rolled her over. While she arched, he reached for a condom. Second drawer on the right. He had it on before she could muster a whimper.

Getting in from behind for the first time was always delicious. He slid his cock in deep from the start. He hoped he’d guessed right about this girl. She’d looked as if she would…

“Oh, god…”

Yeah. He had. She was noisy. That was good. As he slid into her, she bucked and moaned. Her dark hair, so artfully arranged at the bar, was coming loose from the complicated style. Tendrils this way and that. He would have gripped onto a handful if he’d known her better. As it was, he held her hips and moved her to his speed.

“Oh, Jesus,” the girl groaned. “That feels so fucking good.”

He wanted to make her feel even better. He slid one hand around her waist so he could rest his fingertips on her clit. She shivered all over when he stroked her very lightly. She was sensitive. He liked that.

He didn’t pay much attention to his own pleasure. This round was for her. He drove in as deep as he could, and then slowly pulled out. He got her teetering on the edge of pleasure until she had stopped moving completely—trusting him solely to bring her where she so desperately needed to go. As long as she kept making those noises, he was happy. He moved inside her, tickled her clit, caressed her skin, and then he began to do all those things faster. And faster. Her voice grew louder. Her moans extended. She came in a burst of rapid contractions, but his cock didn’t respond. He had enough training to stay hard.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t put on an act. As she was sliding into sublime, he echoed her moans, “Christ,” fucking her as if he’d come, play-acting that shy turn when he pulled out and removed the condom—unsoiled by his spend.

She looked pleased. She looked cat-who-ate-the-canary satisfied. Rolling over, basking. She looked… confused. He was dressing, handing her over her clothes. His attitude had changed dramatically. No rhyme. No reason. She fumbled, pulling her sweater on backwards, slipping the cashmere around to face front. Skirt giving her trouble, when it had behaved perfectly on the reverse. Finding her knickers and grabbing them in her fist. Shoes on. What had changed? Her eyes seemed to ask him, but he was business now. No more pleasure.

He saw when she decided not to worry. They’d fucked. Fucked away loneliness on Valentine’s Day. He didn’t give her a kiss. He didn’t ask for her number. He listened to her let herself out, then walked down the hall and locked the door behind her. He washed both vodka glasses—looked around the kitchen. Nothing of her remained.

Then he headed down the hall to the office.

“Honey,” he said as he entered the room that was right across from the bedroom. He breathed in deep. The room smelled of mandarins and honeysuckle. He always wondered why they never knew. A woman lived here. It was clear to him.

There she was—the girl of his dreams—tied and gagged on the futon. Her dark brown eyes were huge. He came toward her, bent on his knees, felt her pussy. So wet. So fucking wet. He didn’t bother taking her into their bedroom. He pulled her off the sofa and spread her out on the soft rug, her bound wrists over her head. He undid the leather thongs that held her ankles together. He needed access and fast.

Her pussy was so sweet. He pressed his face against her and licked until she came. Once. Hard. She’d earned that, hadn’t she? He wanted to hear her tell him what she’d felt like. But that wasn’t the game. Not yet. She had to be gagged for this part, had to feel his naked cock in her knowing that he’d been inside another woman only moments before.

Now he could finally get his. He moved up her body and thrust inside of her. His cock, so well trained, seemed to know that bliss was imminent. He fucked her while she moaned against the gag, fucked her while tears streaked her face. He was hers. Always. Forever. Hers. He showed that to her in the way he manhandled her, in the way he touched her. In the way that he only came when he was with her.

Like now, as he pulled out and climaxed on her belly, using his palm to spread the spend into her skin.

He didn’t know why she needed this. She couldn’t understand it herself.

But she was the girl of his dreams. And her dreams were to hear him fuck another woman—a lay he’d pick up for only a single night—and to do so while she waited in the other room, listening. Bound so she couldn’t possibly get free. Gagged so that she couldn’t cry out.

This was her fantasy.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” he said, as he set her free.

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