Powder Burn Flash - #115 - Keith Rawson

GIRL'S NIGHT OUT, Part 1

"I'd fuck me." It was stupid line from a stupid movie that most of the world considered a cinema classic. "I'd fuck me hard." But there was no better line to bolster one's confidence before a night out.

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Brandon Hall rubbed his crotch through his pants for the millionth time. He was going to rub himself red and raw before he hooked up tonight and the caps of Viagra he'd popped a couple of hours ago would be absolutely pointless. Not that Viagra was necessary, Brandon just happened to be a gentleman rapist. Most guys, they went for the quick bang, 2 or 3 minutes at the most and then they zipped up and dashed off to weep about how their mother's never loved them. The way Brandon figured it, grabbing a woman off the street was an awkward, and, let's face facts, frightening experience, so why shouldn't the woman get a little something out of it? Brandon was a 10 minute man, bare minimum.

The street was dead tonight, most of the freaks worth his time were cruising using the buddy system; pretty girl/ugly girl teams. The buddy system was hard to penetrate, you typically had to follow the duo into a club and finesse the pretty one with free booze and time on the dance floor, and then you'd have to hit her when she took a bathroom break and hope that they went in alone, which never happened. Brandon wasn't a fan of club jobs; he didn't exactly have deep pockets and cover charges and drinks emptied his wallet quicker than 15 minutes at the titty bar, and date rape was strictly a frat boy thing. The struggle, the fear, the utter shock in a woman's eyes, that was his thing.

Shit, too many groups, if a freak of his liking didn't come along soon he'd have to hit the suburban strip malls and grocery store parking lots. Soccer moms and retirees doing late night errands weren't exactly his thing either; women dried up as they got older and less desirable, but they were good in a pinch.

Whoa!

Now that was more like it. Little freak just seemed to pop up out of no where. She was a half a block away, and from what he could see she was just about perfect. Long curly brown hair down to the middle of her back; it looked lank and moist under the dim glare of the street lamps. In four inch black come and fuck me heels she was maybe 5'5; Brandon loved the vulnerability of short chicks. Her legs and ass were what drove him wild. The skirt was an ultra short turquoise blue and rode up the cheeks of her near perfect ass with each step. And the legs! Dear lord she must've spent two hours a day of the elliptical to get her calves so sleek and perfect.

Brandon picked up his pace; he knew an alley way was coming up to the left of the drug store the freak was walking past. He kept his movements smooth and nonchalant, keeping his eyes on vehicle and pedestrian traffic, the last thing he needed at this stage was some looky-loo or cop stumbling across him knees deep into the freak. He made the grab, throwing his full weight onto her back, driving them both into the alley.

Wow, the bitch was solid. There wasn't any of the typical fattiness you expected on most females. If she decided to struggle, Brandon figured he'd have a real fight on his hands—yummy! Brandon twisted the freak hard onto her back and spread her legs with his knees. She hadn't made a single noise since the tackle except when they hit the asphalt and the air was driven from her lungs. He punched her in the face hoping for a scream, a grunted squeal of pain, some kind of fear, all he got was the hard packing sound of knuckles against cheek bones. He went for the panties that always drove the point home of what was happening  The panties were as he expected; smooth, silk, and clinging.

And what they were clinging to was cock.

Brandon's eyes went wide and he yanked his hand back, bile crawling up his throat.

"Fuck me." Brandon burped.

"No thanks," the brunette rumbled in a near Barry White-esque voice. "But I will arrest you."

The brunette pistol whipped him hard enough across the mouth to knock out four of his teeth.

BIO: Keith Rawson lives in the Phoenix, Az. suburb of Gilbert with his wife, daughter, and dog. He works as an Education counselor and has been writing off and on for the past fifteen years. He love crime fiction and other such degenerate literature.