Ryans Story Pt 01

Author's note: This is the first story that I've written. It's a little rough and it's slow burning. I welcome feedback and constructive criticism. I'd also enjoy positive thoughts, but I'll take what I can get.

*

He knew he shouldn't have been there.

Her bedroom was quiet. The cotton sheets felt warm on his bare back. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, following the ever changing orange-red sea of light given off by the ten or so tea candles that dimly lit the room. As he lay there he imagined the shifting lights as a sea of warmth, and as he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself in that sea—the warmth of the candle light carrying and buoying him. He felt the soft lick of waves on his chest, warm, subtle, and comforting. The longer he floated the harder it began to separate the end of his body from the beginning of the seemingly infinite and benevolent ocean of light. He began to relax, something he desperately needed. The water churned sending larger waves down his neck, his chest, his stomach, finally swelling around his groin. The water moved back and forth over his groin, providing a pleasurable warmth and as the pulsing water continued he began to feel himself getting hard.

Then the waves stopped. And for a brief moment everything was still. He lay blissfully warm, aroused, and comfortable in this mental ocean of light. Then the water began lapping at his ear, at first a soft spray of water, then a flow transformed into words. The ocean of light became pierced with bubbles of shifting darkness and he opened his eyes to find himself staring into Samantha's pitch black hair.

"If you're going to sleep through this, I can leave you tied up and let you grab a few hours of sleep." Samantha straightened her back slowly, letting her fingertips drag down his chest as she fully arched her back, pushing forward her perfectly shaped breasts. She ran her hands through her hair, undulating her hips as ran her hand through her hair. The movement was a practiced affectation. Ryan watched mesmerized as Sam's breasts swayed with the movement of her arms, only to be pulled out of his trance by the grinding of her groin against his rigid cock. She began to gyrate with more strength and urgency, her left hand holding a handful of hair, her right moving to cup her breast. As she rubbed on his rigid member, he believed, or imagined, that he could feel her wetness through the sheer panties she wore. Sam's breaths were coming in short bursts through her nose, her bottom lip was firmly held between her teeth, and her right hand was pinching and rolling the hard nub that was her right nipple.

Ryan was trapped in that moment. Sweat soaked, glowing in the candle light, she looked like a sexual idol. Something to be worshipped. He could feel everything inside him boiling and seething. He wanted...no he

needed

release. He felt like his cock might explode if he was forced to watch, feel, or hear any more of Sam's self-induced pleasure. But all of that didn't change the fact that he shouldn't be here.

Three days earlier.

Ryan didn't like dance clubs. They were loud, hot, smelled of stale alcohol and, perhaps worst of all, he was almost always compelled to

dance

. He seethed at the thought. Ryan distaste for dance didn't spring from a feeling of self-consciousness. At around six feet tall, 180 lbs of well-muscled surgeon, Ryan felt comfortable in most social settings. Quiet opposite to a feeling of self-consciousness, Ryan felt a disdain for dance because

other

people danced so poorly. Grinding, in his opinion, was a poor substitute for actual fluidity of motion. But there he stood in the middle of this dimly lit, blaringly loud, overly sexualized mosh pit called a dance floor with a tall brunette "dancing" against him.

He let himself fall into the rhythm of the music, the drum track beat against his chest as his dance partner pressed her ass into him. He responded by placing his hands on her hips, pushing her against his rapidly stiffening cock. He realized he was being hypocritical, but he decided that was a moral quandary for another day. His tall brunette leaned into him, snaking her hand behind his head, pulling his lips against hers. The kiss began much like the dance, without pretext and with a very obvious meaning.

I want to fuck.

Her firm lips, combined with ass gyrating in rhythm to the music were removing any puritan reservations that Ryan may have felt about his soon-to-be fuck buddy.

He moved his mouth from hers, kissing slowly down her neck. Her skin tasted sharply of salt, the result of vigorous "dancing" in a crowded space. He loved it. This was not going to be an affair with white sheets, clean smiles, and loving embraces. It would be an appeal to his basic desires. Tonight would be about lust. About fucking. About dominating. About physical satisfaction and emotional degradation. The binge drinking before the hangover. He bit down gently on his partner's neck as his right hand moved down to the hem of her absurdly short skirt. He rested on her thigh for a moment, feeling the intense heat from legs at work on a dance floor. He felt the elastic of Y's (he taken to thinking of her as You) tights resist slightly as he scratched his way up her legs, pulling the hem of her skirt with him. Y responded in kind, her hand moving behind her back to rest on Ryan's now very firm cock. She gripped it as best she could from behind, keeping up a soft gyration to keep up the pretext of dancing, her firm ass brushing his leg as she stroked his member.

He began to move his mouth up her neck, his teeth leaving a trail of light red marks up to her ear. His hand mirrored the movements of his mouth moving slowly up her thigh, stopping just short of her crotch. Suddenly he groaned as he felt the warmth of her hand wrap around his cock. Ryan was momentarily impressed by her skill with a zipper before he let out a low moan into her ear. It was as Ryan was thinking about the finer points of pleasuring Y without revealing their intentions to half of the dance floor when Y spun in his arms.

"Take me to the bathroom.

Now

." Her last commanding word was more a hiss in his ear than an actual intelligible word, but he inferred her meaning from a wealth of experience, and he smiled to himself as she led him off the dance floor.

Unfortunately for Ryan and Y, the lines to both bathrooms were prohibitively long and guarded by an obscenely well-muscled body guard, no doubt set to prevent the sort of mischief that Y had been about. Undeterred, Y pulled Ryan towards the stairwell that led to the VIP section of the dance club. Together the ascended to the first bend in the staircase—a dark, abandoned little heaven for him to fuck Y's brains out.

Y, seemingly able to read his mind, abruptly sat on one of the stairs and began jerking at the buckle to his belt. In the dim light, Ryan could see Y lick her lips, her dully lit eyes staring up at him hungrily. Soon he heard the metallic clink of his belt buckle being thrown wide, and he felt the button to his pants being undone by experienced, nimble hands. The air felt cold on his thighs, calves...and balls for that matter, as Y casually yanked his pants to the floor. His penis bounced slightly, pulled by the hem of his underwear as she pulled. At seven and a half inches, Ryan wasn't huge but he wasn't embarrassed to have a stranger looking at his cock, either. He smiled slightly as she shifted effortlessly from her seated position to one on her knees. She positioned herself so that her legs rested on his now crumpled jeans, with her firm, pouty lips positioned directly in front of his cock's swollen, reddish purple head.

Ryan felt Y's breath on the head of his cock—a moist cloud of warm air passing over the first inch and a half of his penis. Y moved her mouth down slowly, deliberately, expelling warm breath all the way down his shaft, finally stopping to exhale breathily onto his balls. Then, abruptly she moved her lips back the head of his cock and let her mouth sink down three inches. Ryan let out a guttural moan, feeling a tension he hadn't even known that had been building, lift. Her mouth was hot, the warmth that came from a night of heavy drink, arousal, and adrenaline. Y slowly bobbed her head up and down. Ryan felt her tongue flick as she brought her lips to the head of his penis, and each swish of her lively tongue sent electricity down his spine.

After what seemed like an eternity of careful, deliberate ministrations, Ryan decided to take matters into his own hands...literally. He grabbed a handful of Y's hair in his right hand and pushed, firmly down, sending her four....five....six inches down his cock, then he held her down. Y resisted slightly, but soon she started snaking her tongue around his cock moaning around him as he held her down. Ryan let a fleeting moment of admiration ficker into his consciousness one more time before he pulled her up for air. Y gasped and coughed a little as her mouth released him, but she looked at him with a challenge in her eyes. She raised an eyebrow and flicked green eyes to his member, slowly, achingly slowly, opening her mouth. She gave the most innocent stare as her lips rested mere millimeters from Ryan's dick.

If she wants to play innocent, I can play rough.

Ryan entwined his other hand in her brown tresses, and with two hands he forced his cock into her mouth and down her throat. Rather than simply letting her rest and suck as she pleased, Ryan began sliding his dick in and out of her mouth. He pushed deeper with each thrust feeling her throat give way with each thrust. Her hands moved to his ass, grabbing in time with his flexing muscles. Soon she was most of the way down his member, seven inches down her throat. Ryan decided to hold her down, feeling the contractions of her throat around his cock. As he was holding her, he met her unmoving, unflinching eyes. She blinked passively as her throat contracted, again.

God. She's good at this.

He groaned as she flicked her tongue out. Eventually he let her up, a trail of saliva leading from the head of his cock to Y's bottom lip. Y smirked and coyly said "Do you think you're hard enough to fuck me now? Or do I need to beg like a bitch?" Ryan decided that the stairwell wasn't the best place to make what was already an elongated encounter into an even longer one. He bent down and picked her up the waist, pushing her roughly against the wall. A low, but audible moan, let him know that his rough touch had the desired effect. Rather than dealing with pulling down her tights he decided to rip them. If someone came down the stairs he'd be able to pull out and Y would be able to feign innocence. Ryan thought of himself as nothing if not a gentlemen.

Ryan made short work of the tights, ripping a hole exposing Y's ass and pussy, and despite her verbal complaints about her ruined garment Y liked the permanent reminder of what was about to happen. Ryan quickly affixed a condom and pulled aside her panties. Given their mutual state of arousal Ryan was easily able to enter Y, and both moaned loudly, Ryan exhaling right into Y's ear. He then began to push. Y was tight, and each inch required pressure and each inch brought new pleasure, warmth, and wetness. He persisted until his entire length was buried inside her. Ryan's body was pressed firm against Y, who was pressed hard against the wall. As Ryan paused, deep within Y's dripping cunt, he slid a hand inside her bra feeling an erect nipple and decided to have a little fun. He began twisting and pinching the hard nub, eliciting a slight shriek and a giggle. As time dragged on, with his dick deep inside her and his hand playing with (what were unbeknownst to Ryan) very sensitive nipples, Y began impatiently and breathily begging for Ryan to,

"

Fuck me.

Fuck me. Fuck me."

Ryan complied. His hips began to move with increasing frequency—each thrust pulling out everything but the tip of his member and sliding in all the way to the base. Faster and faster he pushed into her. The sounds of flesh on latex covered flesh could be heard echoing in the stairwell. Ryan slid his free hand to her crotch, rubbing small circles around her swollen clit as he continued to ram her from behind.

Y, as it turned out, was vocal in her enthusiasm for their fucking. Her audible moans and pleas to a very observant god would have been audible on the dance floor had it not been for the blaring trance music. Ryan mentally revised his position on the volume of the music in clubs. As their fucking became frantic in pace, Y begged, in frantic and ragged gasps, Ryan to bend her over and fuck her on the stairs. Eager to oblige he picked her up and roughly set Y down. She grunted both in pain and in pleasure, as the rough landing had injured her knees and set Ryan's cock against her G-spot.

Ryan began frantically ramming his cock into Y's waiting cunt. He ran a hand up her back, feeling the sweat soaked skin (bless open backed dresses) under his fingernails as he raked towards her neck. He let his hand get entangled in her hair, using his grasp as leverage to push himself more completely inside Y. The world dissolved into a series of grunts and groans for Ryan and his so-dubbed "Y." And as he felt his own orgasm approaching, Ryan slapped Y's clit—on a hunch that rough play helped nurture Y's growing orgasmic tension. To his satisfaction Y yelped and squealed, pushing back on Ryan as he ground his hips against her firm ass. Together they approached climax and together they went over that pleasurable cliff.

As Ryan was exploding inside of his newly, internally christened, dance/fuck-buddy he heard the click of heels coming down the stairs. He looked up to see a short, woman with straight black hair staring at him with her eyebrow raised. She raised her right hand to her mouth and imitated a blowjob before winking and walking out the exit on the landing above Y and Ryan's coupling. It was at that moment that Y gave out under him, her legs shuddering. The last thing he saw was the door closing behind this mysterious and yet seemingly...sexual woman.

Ryan and Charlotte, which he'd learned was her name as she straightened her dress parted ways. Ryan chose to stay behind disposing of his condom, pulling up his pants, and staring up the now seemingly quiet staircase. For some reason he felt compelled to climb the stairs, drawn by the image of that woman. Black hair cascading down a pale neck, drawing his eyes to a gorgeous chest—not large, but perfect in shape and figure, designed to be a handful, designed never to sag or age. He felt his heart pounding as he climbed, imagining fucking this beauty, pushing her to the ground and ramming his cock into her. He trusted his intuition that a girl who would feign a blowjob while watching him finish inside another girl wouldn't be the type to want those clean linens and clean words. He came to the top of the second landing, pushed open the doors, and was greeted by the drum and bass music.

The crowd surrounded him, the way it had at the beginning of the night. Without Y,

Charlotte

, he reminded himself, the press of bodies was nothing but a hindrance. He felt warm breasts, sheer satin, lace, denim, and firm asses press against his body, but they were nothing but distractions as he searched for the girl on the stairs. Unfortunately, Ryan would spend three hours surrounded by what he considered bad dancers, bad music, and unpleasant aromas for an additional three hours as he looked for his mystery lustful muse.

The next day.

Isabella was Ryan's best friend. At five eleven, D cup breasts, athletic build, and angelic face, Isabella turned every male head. Luckily (or unluckily) Isabella's head was only turned by women. Her personality was shaped by her beauty; she'd spent her youth dealing with horny young men, learning just how little the male form did to inspire passion within her, and fending off unwanted advances at the bar, dance club, office, school, and grocery store. As a result she had a sarcastic and derisive wit that Ryan found complementary to his own sarcastic sense of humor.

"Maybe Stairwell Slut drained your balls so effectively that you imagined this second bitch. I mean, you did say that you were mid-orgasm when she made her grand entrance didn't you?" Isabella had affected something of a demure pose on the edge of his desk. Clad in scrubs, her figure was apparent, eminent, and captivating—it was only through prolonged practice and the experience of many futile attempts that Ryan managed to focus on her words rather than her figure.

"She exists. I'm going back tonight. Would you care to join me? She's your type." Ryan smiled broadly, hoping his boyish smile would push her convince her to abandon her reticence.

"You mean she has a cunt, is thin, and looks above a 3? Well, fuck, you've found the lost Monet, haven't you? I think what you mean to say is 'Izzy, can you please get me into the VIP section? I'm just a scalpel jock with a cock and I can't do it without your amazing rack.'" Isabella laughed at her own wit, cupping her robust chest to emphasize her point.

"That too..." Ryan chuckled to himself. Isabella was smart, if not exactly his type. Honesty worked better with her than flattery so he groveled, asked for her help and, after much begging, got her to commit to going to the club that evening. As she left his office she admonished, "Who goes to a club two nights in a row? All I can say is I better get laid, or I'm going to make you lick me. And yes I'm fucking joking, close your damn mouth, fucknut."

That night.

Ryan could feel the rhythm of the music in his chest. The pounding bass provided a chorus to the primal thoughts pulsing through his mind. Each downbeat sent a glimpse of his mystery woman through his mind, the emptiness of the upbeat reminding him of the euphoric nothingness that followed his orgasm inside of Y. The music was foreplay, stroking him to arousal, getting him ready to find and conquer his mysterious hallway harlot.

Ryan and Izzy made their way through the first floor mosh pit to the stairwell, for which Ryan felt an unusual and perhaps understandable fondness, to the second floor entrance, where Ryan had spent more time than he cared to admit searching for S (his stairwell slut), to the third floor VIP entrance.

The third floor VIP door was designed to reflect the contrast between the previous two floors and the VIP floor. Composed of solid elm, it stood as the only wooden structure in a stairwell composed of steel and concrete. The two brass lighting fixtures on either side of the double doors cast a warm yellow light in the six feet immediately adjacent to the entrance to the lounge. In conjunction with the hulking bouncer who guarded the double doors, the whole setup seemed ridiculous. A satire. But it certainly did present a different view than the industrial doors opening into the mosh pits on the two lower levels. No one would wander into the lounge uninvited. This is why Ryan needed Izzy to facilitate an invitation.

As she reached the top of the stairs Isabella pulled on the hem of her dress, forcing her cleavage more plainly into view than Marc Jacobs had probably intended. Walking confidently to the well-muscled bouncer, Izzy put on her most serious and demanding expression—the kind of stare one lover might give another while confessing an immediate need to fuck the other person—a hard to resist expression under the best of circumstance.

"I'm wanted inside." Years of playing to male fantasies had taught Izzy the power of a husky voice in a willing ear. "The boss said he wanted me to do some special favors for a couple VIPs."

Looking the way Izzy did, sounding the way she sounded and doing the tedious and unrewarding job the bouncer did, he was hard pressed to turn her, and by proxy the guest Izzy was escorting, away. Soon Ryan found himself inside a new and exciting stairwell, except this one was filled with the sickly sweet smell of cigar smoke. As he and Izzy ascended the steps, the smoke grew thicker and the previously muted music grew louder. Similar to the lower levels, the music was drum and bass. A pulsing loudness that seemed to come from the walls and floor. Ryan wondered if this was just another dance floor, filled with those rich and attractive enough to buy their way into this "exclusive" section. He had just started to consider how he would find one person in this dimly lit prison when he reached the top of the stairs.