Otto Burnwell

On-Call for Break-Up Sex

You’re the one she calls for break-up sex. If you knew who it was she keeps breaking up with, you’d buy him a drink, shake his hand, and say thank you. Whatever it is he’s doing means you get some of the angriest, most satisfying sex you’ve ever experienced. Maybe ever will experience. That’s worth a drink and a handshake.

Whatever bar you’re in, lingering over an after-work drink, she finds you. Summons you. You still don’t know her name. You just go.

The first time? You were catching that after-work drink. Something to smooth the way for the train ride home. That first time, she marched into the bar, didn’t bother taking off her coat. She looked familiar, despite the dim lights, like you knew her from somewhere. Maybe the bar here, though you had a twitchy feeling you’d seen her a number of times, but somewhere else. She didn’t bother asking if the stool next to you was taken. She yanked it out, wedged in close to the bar and pulled the stool under her. She took a moment to order. Like she wanted something nasty, so she didn’t lose the anger she felt. A single malt. Something burnt and smoky. The smokiest you got, she said. Bartender poured it up. Double it, she said. She took it, sniffed at it, then knocked it back. Given how pricey a drink like that is, you had to look over at her.

Scheisse, das ist gut, she said. Not like she spoke German, but like she’d learned that one phrase all by itself to pull out and use in places like this.

Then she turned to you. Do you fuck, she asked.

Only if money doesn’t work, you said. It’s all you could think to say. No one’s ever asked you that before.

What are you drinking, she asked. You were about to say gin in case she was going to buy you a round and turn this into a hookup. You didn’t want to deflate your pecker with anything too strong.

But she didn’t wait for you to say. She knocked back the rest of your drink, pulled two twenties from her wallet as she crunched the last of the ice, and set the empty glass on it. She gestured to the bartender so he noticed the cash, then said to you, come on.

She slid off the stool and headed for the door. She didn’t look back to see if you followed. Of course you followed. Do you fuck? Of course you do.

That first time, you walked behind her all the way to her apartment. She wouldn’t slow down enough to walk side-by-side. She would speed up if she felt you getting close. She made no small talk beyond telling you when to cross the street, where to watch your step for the broken concrete in the sidewalk, then to wait at the bottom of the steps up to the brownstone of her apartment—you guessed—while she unlocked the front door, then to come on, like you were dawdling. Which you did, like she was a schoolteacher and you were late handing in your homework. You didn’t want to seem overly anxious, like a kid looking forward to his first taste of pussy, or act too smug like you were some big shit lover—in case the alcohol or the nerves soft-boiled your hard-on. Which grew in your pants, of course, watching her power walking ahead of you the whole long way, knowing all that determination was for you.

Inside her apartment, you had no time to look around, check for any sign of a roommate. Or a boyfriend. Or a husband. Or whatever. She shucked her coat and dumped it on the floor just inside the doorway and headed for the living room, leaving you to close the door and put on the deadbolt. You left your own coat hanging on a doorknob. She was pulling off her top as she went, stopping just long enough to kick off her heels and step out of her skirt. She wasn’t wearing pantyhose or stockings. Just a black lace thong and a pale blue bra.

She grabbed the remote and turned on the television. While it powered up, she unhooked her bra and flung it at an easy chair where it landed cups upward. The thong followed, missing the chair and landing on the floor. If she planned to stream a little porn to get you going, you didn’t need it.

She punched the buttons on the remote, hard, and the channel changed to a couple of guys slugging and kicking and dancing around a ring. Ultimate fighting, it looked like. She stood a moment, as if making sure she was on the right channel.

You were confused. You didn’t think you’d been brought here to watch television. Nor were you invited to remove your own clothes. So you stood, waiting. Then she put down the remote and came to you. Again, no small talk, no foreplay, unless you counted her fumbling, furious fingers yanking at your belt and fly, stripping your clothes off, barely waiting for you to get your feet free of your trousers, then your underwear, before she was throwing them aside.

You were glad your pecker was at the ready. Not fully gorged but showing a keen interest in the proceedings. You hoped she took it as a compliment.

She placed one hand on your shoulder and with the other she grabbed your cock. She began tugging and twisting, like she knew a secret trick for unlocking your penis to get its whole length pulled free from your body. Which, kind of, she did, because now you were fully filled out, stiff, stretched. Her hands on you, a stranger’s hands, sent electric thrills down the shaft, the sizzle branching off down both legs all the way to your ankles.

She dragged a straight-backed chair from the dining table in the little alcove into the center of the room and spun it around so it faced away from the television. She moved you to the chair, leading you, almost like dancing as she watched your feet, guiding you sideways then pushing you back onto the chair.

She got down on her knees, and you knew she wouldn’t be down there long, since she didn’t have anything soft to save her kneecaps on that hard wood floor.

You had a pretty good idea what she would do next but you kept still, knees together, letting her know she was in charge. And you were right. She forced your knees apart with her elbows, all business, no ceremony, and began taking you deep, tonguing you, working up a mouthful of spit so the thick wetness of her saliva ran down to your balls. You gripped the chair seat under you and leaned back. The head of your cock was so sensitive you could feel the uvula at the back of her throat. Professional safecrackers work a lifetime for fingertips as sensitive. She slid down, wagging her head, like she had to work past her own gag reflex. Then on the last deep plunge you were convinced you’d reached her lungs and could feel her heart beating against the tip of your cock. Her esophagus constricted on you, and you knew for sure this is what it would feel like to be swallowed by a python, dick first.

She sat back on her heels, looked at your cock, then worked up a bit more spit and leaned over you, drizzling it on the tip of your pecker, a Sundae topping.

She got to her feet, straddled you, and guided you inside until she settled her butt onto the tops of your thighs. She leaned in, wrapping one arm around your shoulders, her head next to yours, in what you thought was a hug. You tilted your head slightly, touching ear-to-ear, and she jerked her head aside. She got back to working herself down on your pecker, like it didn’t fit right, so you put your hands on her hips, but she knocked your hands away, grunting something like, unh-unh. She went back to hugging you around the shoulders. She started again working it up and down, doing her best to keep your pecker inside her, without letting her ass touch the tops of your thighs. Her long legs helped. She was fierce, like she was trying to saw your pecker off, or pinch it off if she could squeeze hard enough. You realized she didn’t want her ass touching your thighs. You are the cock. You are the rescuer, saving her from drowning. She’s holding tight as you make for the shore. Your dick is not part of you. It’s a flotation device. It lives, and maybe she imagines it ripped from your body, like she would rip it from the body of the guy who made her so angry, but she can’t because there are laws against it, so she takes you, a stranger, and imagines it severed from your body.

That’s what it felt like.

You tried to say something friendly, to show appreciation for her as a person, thank her for her service, remind her there was an entire guy attached to the penis, in case this could lead to something more. But she growled, “shut up, shut up!” slamming her pelvis into yours with each syllable.

Then she reached for the television remote and raised the volume of the fight she was watching over your shoulder, drowning you out.

This was so not about you. All you could do was lean back and enjoy the ride, enjoy your job as the amorous salve on a wounded ego, the stiff syringe used to inject her with reassurance. Affirmation that she could still summon a penis from anywhere out of the darkness to simplify and satisfy the complexities of a busted relationship.

You knew you were close to bursting. You could twist aside on the upstroke, spew into the air, or you could go on being the disembodied dick and let fly. Instead, you started with a long, low guttural moan building to a pulsing grunt as the trembling nerves resonated with the alerts of impending ejaculation that rose from your ankles, shot up the insides of your legs, zipping to your cocktop.

She got the message, popped off, and reached between her legs to grab your cock. She thumbed you, making you shoot hard and long. Oh, sweet mother of Mercury rising, did you shoot, the contractions jerking your groin, rippling your belly.

You turned to glance at her, to smile, to look grateful, but she was still focused on the fight. Then; she twisted your cock, her hand dripping with your semen and exclaimed. Not at you, not at some orgasm of her own, but some disaster unfolding in the bout she was watching.

He punched him in the balls, she cried, pointing at the screen, he punched him in the balls!

Seeing the mess still on her outstretched hand, she scurried to the kitchen, holding out her hands, her fingers spread. She came back with wads of paper towels. She wiped off her hands while you wiped yourself down, your cock red and raw. You held the gooey toweling for a moment, in case she offered to take it from you and get rid of it someplace special. She didn’t so you left it in a dish on the end table.

She gathered up your clothes and handed them to you. She went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. Then the shower started.

Maybe this was her way of giving you time to get dressed and get lost.

You pulled on your underwear, smearing spots of the jizz you had missed with the paper towel.

The shower was still running when you left. You’d paused before going out, and you could see that she wasn’t in the shower. She had the bathroom door opened a crack to make sure you were leaving the apartment. You pretended not to see, patting yourself down, checking to be sure you had everything you came in with. Then you left.

It was about a week later you saw her in the lobby of the building where you worked. That’s where you’d seen her so many other times before. You didn’t try to make eye contact, but you were sure she saw you. You pretended not to notice, dropped your backpack on the floor and rustled around in it to give her time to get on the elevator so you could take the next one.

For the next few weeks you would see her occasionally, coming in, going out, getting something at the newsstand in the lobby. Each time, you’d find an excuse to avoid eye contact, waiting on her to go first, call out, maybe sidle up to you and give you a shoulder bump, just to connect. But she never did. Even sneaking a peek over at her, she didn’t seem to have noticed you. You were a dick without a face. Unless you took it out and waved it around, she probably wouldn’t recognize you.

Then a few weeks before Christmas, she tracked you down at another bar, near where you both worked.

This time she didn’t even ask. She knocked back your drink and put two twenties under the empty glass, with that same signal to the bartender to notice you were both leaving.

Back to her place. Still no small talk, no how you been, how’s the family, any plans for the holidays? Just swing the chair into the center of the room, turn on the Ultimate Fighting Championship matches, shuck your clothes, and get down to the serious business of fucking away her dismay at her latest breakup.

This time she set the chair facing the television. She got you good and wet, but this time she straddled you facing away so you both could see the screen. Maybe she thought you’d like to watch, too. Maybe she found it in a manual for good hostesses somewhere. Then you realized it was a lot more calculated. Watching two near-naked guys beat on each other was distracting and took a lot longer for you to shoot your load. You didn’t much care to watch the fight, preferring instead to watch the calves of her legs go wire-tight, the muscles in sharp definition as she worked to use the whole of your length while keeping her butt from touching down any more than necessary. You’d watch yourself sliding in and out of her, a small mouth working a big lollipop. It wouldn’t last and her muscles would give out. She’d let go when she got closer to her own orgasm, and would land in your lap, down hard on you, wet from her own juice and perspiration.

From this direction you could see how she would ride you to the ebb and flow of whichever fighter she’d chosen for her champion. She’d ride slowly, conserving her strength when her favorite took a beating, struggling to defend himself. She’d speed up as he fought back, drawing blood, getting the best of the other fighter. You had to play mind games with yourself if you wanted to last. You focused on the sweat trickling from under her short hair tied in a stubby ponytail at the back of her neck as she grunted with the kicks and the blows her favorite landed on his opponent. She worked at herself, first with her left hand, then with her right, then her left again. She wouldn’t let you touch her. Maybe you touching her would distract her from losing herself in a fantasy moment where she rode her favorite, solid muscle mass, ripped, with a buzz cut, tattooed arms and back, and it was her juice running down his crank, wetting his thighs, and spilling onto the chair seat under him.

Maybe that’s why guys broke up with her.

It didn’t matter to you. The slick tunnel was delicious.

Her moans got louder and louder, a car struggling up a steep hill, until she climaxed, barking sharply with each spasm of exertion. You hoped the neighbors would think it was all for the love of the sport, not a fresh murder being committed on the other side of their walls.

Again, you did her the courtesy of vocalizing your approaching climax, like, oh shit, oh shit, or, oh yeah oh yeah, or that’s it, that’s it, and she hopped up, took hold of you and thumbed your pecker until you shot your load. It was a thoughtful thing to do and you appreciated it. Her small, delicate hands were a sweet relief to your effort of holding it in until her favorite managed to bash his opponent to a standstill.

She would dismount and disappear into the bathroom, running the shower until you left. She never offered you a drink or a snack or a thank you. You were best used to purge herself and her body of whoever came before, as if she were trying to reset her muscle memory for a new cock to be named later and you were the software package used to roll her back to her factory settings.

You would like to know what she does for work, why she moved to the city, why, out of the blue, she chooses you for break-up sex while watching two guys beat each other up as she rides you. Is there a reason she doesn’t consider you sufficient for something that might last? Maybe nothing would last with her, and you would be discarded for break-up sex with someone else.

Maybe.

Still. Weeknights, you linger over that second drink after work to give her time to walk in, take your drink, and leave two twenties on the bar.

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