Help Me Rhonda

Help Me, Rhonda

He'd been in the bar before, but normally with group of other people. They'd sit somewhere in the back and order an odd collection of drinks. He always had Guinness, and that was what he was drinking tonight, although usually not so much. Sometimes they'd play pool. The woman almost always won, hustling other players for drink money, while the men watched. There was a big guy with them, African-American, always wore a hat. He never drank, at least nothing with alcohol. And the guy with the glasses couldn't hold his liquor for beans.

But this guy, the older guy, good looking, grey hair, was obviously the leader. They looked to him for all their decisions, like when to order and when to leave. He was obviously fond of all of them, but to Rhonda's practiced eye, it was like a giant neon sign flashing boldly, that he was in love with the woman. He never touched her, other than a pat on the forearm, or a hand hovering at the small of her back, but his face, whenever he looked at her spoke volumes. So when he came in here tonight, and proceeded to get drunker than most men on payday when their wives were out of town, Rhonda knew it had something to do with the blond.

“So, Jack, can I call you a taxi?” she asked, looking at the clock. It was one am and they were closing. He'd had more than enough to drink two hours ago, so she wasn't letting him leave under his own steam. She found out his name, when he handed her his credit card, and even drunk as he was, and he was as drunk as she'd ever seen a man, he was still fine looking.

“I thought I'd leave with you Rhon-rhon-rhonda,” he said, slurring only when he got to her name.

“Awww, you don't mean that, Jack,” she said, giving him the eye, flirting, because it was as much a part of her job as serving drinks.

He leaned over and grabbed her elbow. Not hard enough to hurt, but leaving nothing ambiguous. “I do, Rhonda. I do mean that.” He looked at her confused for a second, as if he'd forgotten what he was talking about. Then he blinked and a smirky smile crossed his face. It made him look smug and self-satisfied and fuckable as all get-out. Rhonda took a deep breath. “Take me home with you,” he said, reaching for her hand. He leaned even further forward, his lips by her ear. “You won't be sorry,” he said.

Knowing how drunk he was, having heard it all before from hundreds of other drunks, Rhonda couldn't help herself. She shivered. The man oozed sex, and even shit-faced, she knew, somehow, he wouldn't disappoint. The sound of his voice did things to her, a little coil of want heating up in her belly, down low.

Normally Rhonda was a sensible woman. She was even a little hard, seasoned, you might say. She'd been working in bars since she was sixteen, and she was well beyond those tender years now. She'd seen drunks of every stripe, sweethearts with ready cash and a generous nature, mean bastards searching for a woman to abuse, men looking to cheat on their wives, people trying to drown their sorrows in whatever vaporous liquid a thick-bottom glass might bring. She was rarely moved by their stories anymore. She was much too smart for the average joe, and too savvy for the canny ones. Her skin was thick, and her bullshit detector was on high. And yet...

There was something about this man... Jack. Strong, fast, powerful, he exuded physical prowess and confidence. It made her insides tingle to watch him move around the bar with his friends, shifting from foot to foot, sucking on a beer bottle, his glance seemingly casual, but sharp as hell. Nothing escaped him. Nothing got by him. On more than one occasion he'd defused a bar fight with little more than a few well placed moves. Nothing violent, just positioning himself between opposing forces, creating an immovable presence that made aggressors think twice before attacking.

But there was pain in him, she could feel it. With all her experience with people over the many years, with all her knowledge of men and their tricks, she knew this man had agonizing pain, an ache born of life-long suffering, some of it physical, but most of it emotional. She saw it in his eyes as he looked down into his drink. She saw it in the way he watched his friends, the woman especially, but all of them: affection, loyalty, fear and certainty of loss. Sometimes it made her want to cry. Like right now, his hand on hers.

“Jack,” she said, trying to deflect him, if only to protect herself. “Don't you think I should call one of your friends? Maybe they can come and get you.” In his face she saw the answer before he said it. There was need. There was want. There was pain. He released her hand.

“Naw,” he said, turning away on the bar stool. “They're busy tonight. I'm on my own.” He hunched his shoulders forward, pulling in on himself. Despite her best intentions, Rhonda couldn't help herself. She put her hand on his back and rubbed comfortingly. He rotated his face toward her, partway over his shoulder, his eyes hooded, and looked at her, predatory, possessive. He licked his lips, and she wondered, without wanting to, what that tongue might be capable of, if she let it.

And then, knowing she was going to get hurt, knowing she would probably fall in love with this guy and he would break her heart, Rhonda broke her own rules. She slipped her hand down his back, resting it on his belt, just above what she knew was a delicious, muscular ass. She leaned in and perched her chin on his shoulder, certain he could feel her breath in his ear. “Well, why not?” she said, figuring she could take him to her place and let him sleep it off. No harm, no foul. But she couldn't help being gratified, when he pivoted the bar stool towards her, put his hands on her hips and pulled her between his knees.

“That's my girl,” he said, looking at her seriously. For a split second she wasn't entirely certain how drunk he really was, and it scared her, particularly when he slipped a long arm behind her and pulled her closer, his other hand going to her cheek. He held her face for a moment, and then he kissed her, pressing those sculpted lips to hers, her body melting into his, as the heat of his presence, the sensuous assault of his mouth took hold of her. Despite herself, Rhonda moaned. Oh, I'm in serious trouble, now, she thought.

She didn't live far from the bar. And he wasted no time getting her up against the inside of her door, his hands on her breasts and her ass, his mouth on her neck and shoulders. She could feel how big and hard he was, how he used his hands, his lips, his tongue and his teeth to tantalize her, to tease her, to make her want to rip his clothes off and fuck him right there. She was making noises she didn't recognize, sighs and moans and cries, begging, pleading, his name mixed in, her need loud and pressing. He was largely silent, a kind of concentrated fury, nothing but an occasional grunt, as he bucked against her belly.

In less time than she thought possible, he had her mashed against the door, pinned by his shoulder, her belt buckle and jeans open, her panties pushed aside and his hand wedged into her pussy. With an expertise she'd never experienced before, he deftly slipped his long fingers through her aroused flesh, manipulating her clit and bringing her to the point of orgasm in a matter of moments. With equal speed and skill, he pushed her jeans and panties off her hips to give his hand more maneuvering room, plunging two clever fingers into her heat, his thumb working her clit, her climax rushing through her like wind through the New York City subway tunnels as an express train approached the station.

He held her upright through the whole shuddering, clenching, trembling thing, and lucky he did, or she would have fallen, gracelessly, her legs useless beneath her, to the floor. He continued to work his fingers in and out of her as she came, prolonging her orgasm, petting her clit to ease her down. Eventually she regained control of herself and was able to stand on her own, his hand slipping out of her. He pulled away, but continued to stand way too close, radiating urgency. As she regained her senses, it was his need that called to her.

“Come on, Jack,” she said, her breathing still heavy, reaching for his hand. She led him to her bedroom, experiencing a moment of panic as they crossed the threshold. It was short-lived, as she found herself naked beneath him, tearing his own clothes off, his mouth descending on her breast. In less time than she thought possible, he wound her up again. She barely realized he was ready to enter her, when she heard him speak, perhaps for the first time since they left the bar.

“Condom,” he said. It wasn't a question.

“Bedside table,” she said, pointing.

And then he was pushing into her, all of his condom-clad length, bigger than she thought, harder than she thought possible, inch after excruciatingly, sinfully hot inch, her flesh already clutching at him, her sex yielding to his inexorable force... and then he started thrusting, hard, deep, each driving push bumping into the back wall of her vagina, forcing her to stretch, filling her beyond endurance, until she was out of her mind with sensation, and teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

He pulled up from her. “I'm not going to last much longer,” he said. She looked into the blackness of his eyes and saw something wild there.

“Me either,” she said breathlessly.

As if her words were the permission he sought, he began to pound into her. His barely concealed rage, his deeply hidden fury rising in him as he pumped into her, slapping his hips into hers, ramming his cock into the slickness of her sex. It was as if he was using her body to tear away his sorrow, to blanket his fears, to assuage his madness. Her softness cushioned his fall, his need driving him. He held her to him and he fucked her. This wasn't making love. This was pure and simple fucking, sticking his dick into this woman and slamming into her over and over until her flesh tore everything from him, stripped him raw, snapping his control.

He made sure she was right there with him, twisting into her to hit the places within her body that made her cry out, but he was fucking her for his own pleasure, the release which eased all pain, which brought darkness and stopped the brain from functioning. This was what he wanted from Rhonda the barmaid. He wanted her to take his pain, to lose himself in her body, to release his need, and bring him blessed oblivion. Liquor hadn't done it. This woman's body would.

They climbed toward climax. He shifted position, without losing a stroke, and opened a whole new vista of sensation. It wouldn't be long now, he thought, her tender flesh swollen and plumb, his cock tightly bound within it. And then it was now, now, now, his own sex swelling, jerking, spewing seed into the confines of its latex jacket, her pussy convulsing, the spasms rippling around him, massaging his dick until he thought the top of his head would explode. He cried out. One word. “Carter!”