A Stranger Under the Bridge

By the time I found her, it was already done.

The plan had been simple. She’d walk through the park, stopping under the hidden arch and I’d grab her from behind. No talking necessary, just hands, a tight grip, and a fuck. She’d cry and choke and struggle, and I’d press her against the cold stone as I used her to make myself come.

Later, we’d drink a glass of wine and she’d tell me how scared she was. How for a moment it felt real, but still, she knew it was me. We’d smile and laugh in our corner of the bar, feeling like depraved little beasts. I’d touch her hand and she’d guide it under her skirt as both of us remembered the feeling of stone and fear.

But when I turned the corner in the dim light of the arch, her hands were on the wall and white cotton nestled around her ankles. Her breath was quick and one hand snaked between her legs as she touched herself. I thought I saw a slimmer of light glance off a cum-soaked thigh. She moaned quickly as she came, and I backed away uncertain of everything.

My hand shook as I lifted my wine but she was all smiles. She rested her head on my shoulder before taking a sip. She squeezed my hand.

“You’ve never fucked me so hard,” she nuzzled into my ear. “My god you felt big; I was so scared and so wet. I came harder than I thought possible.”

I kissed her hair and held my breath.

Seconds passed. A minute. Then two.

“So fucking hot,” I finally whispered. She squeezed me again and I bit my lip. I tasted wine and blood and doubt. “So fucking good.”