Useful body hair
The hay bale pricks through my thin shorts, each stalk a tiny needle against my thighs.
I shred another handful, letting the pale fragments drift down like confetti at the world's saddest party.
The line dancers stomp and twirl under strung-up lights, boots thudding in unison, and I can feel every vibration through my tailbone.
Janey's out there; I see her hat.
Yes, she's two-stepping with some geriatric cowboy.
Bitch: she'd forgotten me the second the music started.
I drag my fringe lower, wishing desperately for a hoodie—something to hide my face, my body, my entire humiliating existence at this 'community fun night.'
If anyone from Uni sees me here, posts a picture... I can already hear the whispered jokes in the cafeteria.
The hay bale rocks as I shift my weight.
Fuck this. I'll hide in the washroom.
The venue is one of those converted barn structures, all exposed beams and artificial rustic charm.
I push through the crowd, dodging cowboy hats and spinning couples, until I spot the restroom sign: single door, single occupant, unisex.
Of course. This whole place operates on minimalist principles.
I slam the door behind me. The space smells of cheap air freshener and industrial cleaner, a chemical floral that catches in my throat. One toilet, one sink, a mirror with water spots.
I lean against the counter, studying my reflection—bored eyes, mouth set in a flat line, hair falling across my forehead.
Boredom curdles in my stomach, spreads downward between my legs.
My hand moves before my brain catches up, slipping past the waistband of my shorts, finding the heat there.
Two fingers slowly pool my own wetness, with circling and pressing.
I love the slide of two fingertips, up and down, in between my pink girly petals.
My hips rock against my hand, seeking friction.
I close my eyes, let my head fall back against the mirror, cool glass against my heated neck.
The door handle rattles.
Bursts open
Fuck!
My fingers are still buried inside myself, breath caught in my throat.
A big dude frames the doorway, backlit by the barn's main lights, and my first thought is that he must be sixty, maybe sixty-five, but built like he spends hours with iron every day.
Broad shoulders strain his dark shirt. His arms thicken below the sleeves, veins mapping muscle.
But it's his face that holds me—weathered, yes, but strong-jawed, and above his lip, a thick moustache, full and dark, well-manicured.
His eyes travel down my body, noting my hand still tucked in my shorts, the flush on my cheeks, my parted lips.
A slow smile spreads across his face.
"Let my tache tickle your tush, honey."
I haven't heard that one before.
The silliness of it, the boldness, the sheer filth wrapped in that old-fashioned phrasing—yet it sends a fresh pulse of heat through my core.
My fingers twitch inside myself, and his eyes track the subtle movement.
I'm not a girl who hides her need.
I withdraw my hand slowly, deliberately, bringing my wet fingers to my lips.
I taste myself as he watches, his jaw tightening.
Then I turn, facing the sink, and push my shorts down over my hips.
They pool at my ankles.
I bend forward, hands braced on the counter, and wriggle my bare ass toward him—a tart's offering, a trashy challenge.
The door clicks as he slides the lock.
His heavy boots cross the tiles.
I feel his breath first, warm against the backs of my thighs, then the brush of that magnificent moustache, coarse and soft simultaneously, as he buries his face between my cheeks.
His bristles tickle my balloon knot.
His tongue finds my hole with unerring precision, wet and demanding; circling, pressing, mussy, fucking into me with slow, maddening probes.
I gasp at the sink edge, my knees buckling.
He grips my hips, holding me steady, and dives deeper, his moustache tickling my sensitive rills, his tongue working me open with expert backdoor skills.
"Fuck," I moan, pushing back against his face.
"Fuck, yes— Ahh!"
He pulls back, his chin glistening, his eyes fierce.
"Like my tongue, don't you? Well, ask for it."
"Spit in my gape, you bad boy!" I demand.
Wad after wad of spittle drench my gawped hole.
He stands, and I hear the rasp of his belt, the slide of his zipper.
His cock presses against my loosened hole, thick and hot, and he pushes forward in steady increments.
He understands the prods to make space where none should exist.
"Oof! Yeah! Oof! Uhh! Yes! Mmm, mmm!"
I cry out, head falling back, my body stretching to accommodate him.
He fills me, balls-deep, and holds there for a moment, letting me feel every inch.
Then he jags and jerks—hard, relentless, his hips slapping against my ass with each powerful stroke.
I push back to meet each thrust, my tits bouncing, my mouth open in a silent O of pleasure.
The bathroom mirror fogs with our breath, our reflections blurred—me bent over the sink, him pounding into me from behind, his moustache dark and fierce above his snarl of arse domination.
"Sweetie, frig your cute little clitty," he says.
"Ahh! Aahh!"
My dot with the lot has raced too super-sensitive.
I push and press two fingers around my erect bud.
It's beyond direct touch.
The pressure builds, coils tight in my belly, his cock hitting a regular sweet spot inside me with every subterranean stroke.
My nails scratch along the countertop.
He fucks my tushy; harder, faster, the buggerising deep.
"Hnnghh!"
My clitty detonates, my body convulsing, my ass clenching around his boner.
He groans, and I feel him swell, feel the hot injection as he empties himself inside me, his hips jerking with each spurt.
We ease forward, him bracing his weight on his arms, his chest heaving against my back.
His moustache brushes my shoulder as he catches his breath.
For a long moment, we stay locked together, his cock still pulsing weakly inside me, our mingled fluids trickling down my thighs.
Slowly, carefully, he withdraws.
He tucks himself away, zips his pants, while I straighten shakily, pulling my shorts back up.
They stick to my clammy buttocks.
He turns to the sink, washing his hands, then splashes water on his face.
I watch him in the mirror, this stranger who just wrecked me in a public bathroom, and feel a weird flutter in my chest when our eyes meet.
"Name's Frank," he says.
Then adds, so cocky, "And you're gonna want my number."
My smile.
My satisfied face is too obvious.
He pulls a pen from his pocket, takes my hand, and writes across my palm—seven digits in blue ink that I'll study later, and likely call when the memory of his moustache between my cheeks needs to be repeated.
He waits politely at the door until I'm tidy.
"Ellie," I say.
He tips his hat and leaves.
I sit on a hay bale.
The line dancing reduced to background noise.
I enter Frank's details on my mobile's contact list.