Cheaters never prosper, they used to tell me. I've made a life of cheating, and while I wouldn't say I've prospered, I wouldn't complain.
My wife never really understood me. Hell, I never much understood her. But over the years, we managed to develop an "understanding". We don't pry too deep into each other's affairs, business or otherwise. I still remember the first time I broke those solemn vows to love no other but my lovely, frigid, back-biting, bitch wife. I mostly remember that girl's tongue.
Her tongue tasted of rye whiskey and cloves, the flavor not unlike the woman. Rough but welcome. The waxy texture of her lipstick was smeared across my chin as we parted ways long enough for a sharp intake of air, before suckling at each other's tongues again.
This girl wasn't the sort you'd expect to see on a magazine cover, with their plastic perfection that was cut, stitched, and inflated. No... hers was the charm of an old bordello whore.
Clearly she'd been cut, but not by a surgeon. There was a jagged mark beneath her collarbone. There was a crescent shaped scar that I somehow knew was from a broken bottle. Bar room brawl or sadistic lover, the scar had a story all it's own, I was sure. I wasn't sure if it was better than the story that accompanied the bruises on her wrists. It looked as if she was just recovering from a nasty rope burn. There was another variety of burn on her shoulder-blade. As she'd slid out of her coat, baring her shoulders earlier, I'd noticed what looked like a brand etched into her with a coat hanger and white heat.
With so many scars and stories, I knew she wasn't a delicate flower. She'd earned every scar and wore them proudly. Her body was a road map of pain, and her fingers had traced every angry red line that was raised across her ebony flesh.
I can't say I bothered to ask her name. In the weeks that followed, it became my obsession, that name I never thought to get. It would have made it a lot fucking easier to find her, I was sure. But at the time, it seemed... invasive. Almost rude.
Odd that I should be so shy, but I remember distinctly wondering what to call her. The thought occurred to me as I grasped the rough lace of her panties, and jerked at them savagely until they ripped free leaving an angry welt across her thighs, exposing her desperate cunt to the air conditioning of the hotel room. The scent of her lust mingled with the mildew stink of the cold air.
I don't know why, but it made me hard.
I'd met her in the hotel bar in Texas. She had been sitting silently, a thin streamer of smoke wandering from her cigarette. The ash had grown to almost two inches in length as it burned itself away untouched. Motionless as she was, it was easy to overlook her. Indeed, it wasn't the woman who broke the silence, but rather the ice in her long empty glass as it settled with a merry tinkle. Though there was already a second glass in front of the chair next to her, it was still quite full. A scotch or rye perhaps, the amber liquid had ashes floating in it, as if someone had butted out a cigarette in it.
Her lithe form was hunched over the table. Dressed in equal parts for a brawl or a fuck, her boots suited her personality. She wasn't too hard on the eyes, and the way she crouched over her empty drink was somehow fetching. It was the crude slouch of someone suffering silently with only a glass keeping them company. Though the act itself wasn't particularly attractive, it was clear that she thought no one was watching.
It appealed to the voyeur in me to sneak a peek at someone behaving naturally when the camera was off. There was an honesty in people that was hard to find when they knew they were being watch. As I spoke, she didn't startle, but that moment of honesty was gone as she straightened in her seat, "... mind if I sit?"
She didn't.
At least she didn't say otherwise, and she didn't strike me as the type of woman that would be timid about telling my type of man to piss off. She wasn't the type to exchange many pleasantries and any feeble attempts at conversation were stifled by the feel of her toes against my groin.
She was as dark as licorice, with the bearing of a tomboy that had come into her own once puberty hit. She knew what she wanted and had no time for those who couldn't give it to her. Hers was a careless sort of beauty, short black hair cropped conservatively at chin length, and highlighted the natural way, by too much time in the sun. The sun had also kissed her skin, gracing her form with the sheen of pure ebony. It was slick and shimmering from her sweat, the skin glistening in the twilight heat.
I scooted closer, wrapping my arm around her waist. Her skirt was denim and clung to her hips like a lover. Already we had an understanding of sorts. She hadn't said a word, her legs parting as I dug my fingers into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. I could feel her heat, her excitement palpable in the warmth that radiated from her. Her thighs trembled as I traced the pattern of her lace undergarments. They were stained already with her excitement, leaving my fingertips damp.
Her teeth descended on my collarbone. It wasn't a playful sort of nip. She almost drew blood as she bit me. It was painful even through the fabric of my oxford, but it was the kind of pain one could easily grow addicted to, as she nuzzled at my throat. Her lips left a sticky trail of her red lipstick across my neck. It stank of artificial cherry and need.
Those tiny fingers of hers came down hard on my shoulder, and I almost fell off the stool as she pushed me away. I knew she was meaner than she looked, but that didn't scare away the stray thoughts I kept having about what her cunt tasted like. I was already well beyond the point fear could cool my prick down. Wordlessly, she got up from the table, her firm ass peaking beneath the hem of her skirt as she made her way to the toilets.
I thought I saw her offer me a subtle invite. Whether the invitation was there or not, I knew I had to let myself into her. The door to the ladies room hadn't managed to shut itself before I'd gotten there. I pushed open the door, the girl waiting for me in the flickering light of the fluorescent. She stood there, dark and nameless as we made eye contact again. I felt as if we had an understanding, because she didn't say a word as she rested her hand on the bulge in my trousers.
As she lowered herself to her knees, my zipper was clutched in her fingers, and descended as well.