I Say Yes

By Britni TheVadgeWig | Published: November 21, 2009

“Here I come when I better go
I say yes when I ought to say no…

I get around.”

I didn’t even have to turn around to know that he was there. He had a schedule; Monday, Thursday, and Saturday nights. He’d be there those nights without fail. He was a creature of habit. When I started to feel that itch, get that craving, all I had to do was show up on one of those nights and it would be taken care of.

Sitting at the bar and talking to the other regulars, I would catch occasional glimpses of him in the mirror in front of me. He never looked my way, never made eye contact. If he walked by my barstool on his way to the bathroom, I might be lucky enough to get a, “Hi,” in passing.

Closing time would come, and everyone would be paying their tabs. I might get a text with nothing more than the words, “Follow.” I may get the first eye contact of the night and a nod, with no words exchanged at all. But words weren’t needed. The message was clear, and dependable. “Follow me, “ the text meant. “Let’s fuck,” his eyes said. I always said yes, when I should have said no.

We were always careful to leave at different times, a few minutes apart, or to take different routes to his place. My car would be parked down the block. I know his friends, and they know me, too. It would have been very easy for them to figure out what was going on, and that was the last thing he wanted.

I’d enter his house and lock the front door. Grab a beer from the fridge and head up the stairs to his room. Open the door and walk over to the sink where hanging out, waiting. Grab the back of his head and kiss him, hard. He’d kiss me back harder. He’d hand me the straw and unscrew my beer, knowing that I always cut my hand on those damn bottle caps. His hands would wander up my skirt, pulling down my panties. His pants would fall to his ankles. He didn’t like wasting time. I was no use to him when his dick wasn’t inside me.

I was always already soaking wet when he entered me, despite the fact that our foreplay had consisted of 30 seconds of swapping spit. He’d fuck me hard from behind as I watch him in the mirror. I loved that image: me, bent over the sink, still half dressed from the bar that night, getting railed by this man that was twice my size. “Come on!” he’d growl, and his pumping would quicken. That was the sign that he wanted me to come. And so, I would.

After my orgasm, he’d stop for a while. We’d talk, drink, and fuck. Those were my favorite hours of my week. The six or seven hours spent holed up in his room, just the two of us. He was real with me there, and for the moment we were friends. Lovers. Partners. We’d always shower at some point, at his insistence. And then, when the booze was gone and he’d shot his load, we’d go to sleep.

It would be 7, 8, 9 in the morning, and we’d both know that his alarm was set for soon, for work. When it went off, I knew I couldn’t linger. My head would be pounding, my vision would be cloudy. I’d slide off the bed and slip back into last night’s dress. My underwear would be nowhere to be found, or maybe an earring had vanished. I’d find one shoe under the bed and another by the closet. There’d be a run in my stocking. A half-drank bottle of wine on the counter.

“You can’t tell anyone at the bar about this,” he’d say. I’d robotically respond, “You don’t tell on me, and I won’t tell on you.” As I turned the door handle to head back down the stairs, looking and smelling like I’d been ridden hard and put away wet, he’d say, “So, next week… same time, same place?” He already knew the answer. I always said yes, when I should have said no.

“You know it.”

Photo source.

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This was a challenge post between myself, Coquitten, Amy, and Z. The challenge was, as suggested by Facts and Friction, to write a post based on the song I Get Around by Drogonette. You can watch the video here, and read the lyrics here. And go see what the other ladies came up with!