Raw Deal

// This story is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in it are 18+ of age.

// As usual, I'm very happy to receive any and all feedbacks, whether it's about the writing or direction of the story, other works you wanna see, or just chat in general. Thank you for reading!

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My name is August.

It's supposed to mean "great" or "respected one" or something lofty like that. Sadly, the truth is always plainer than you'd expect. My parents simply picked that name because I was born in the month of August. No grand destiny, just a calendar page.

Such a boring reason probably reflects my own average life. It's a very mundane cycle, from my apartment to university, then work, and back to the apartment. But it makes up a pretty nice, normal life, in my opinion.

My only source of enjoyment comes from my night walks in the city's slummy streets. They're probably going to get me mugged one day, but the freedom born from the empty streets and silent alleys allows me to breathe and let go of my stress and worries.

Such an empty routine way of living is probably why I ended up with Ernie, a guy whose life seems to be constantly on fire. He's definitely not my boyfriend or anything, and while I might call us fuck buddies, I think we're not quite that either. Maybe you'd call me his mistress or something? Except that Ernie is not married. At least, I don't think so...

I'm 26, but people say I look younger. My soft black hair and light beard just add to the boyish impression somehow. I used to be annoyed by it, but I got over it. My body is lean, not skinny, but not thick. Ernie's the opposite. He's thick and hairy, scruffy black hair and beard that put mine to shame, his square face rough but with a hidden handsomeness to it, like a statue that wasn't preserved properly. I always find myself staring at his face and wondering whether he's really handsome or if I'm reading too much into his features.

If you ever come across Ernie, you'll most likely find him wearing his blue running suit and glued to his archaic flip phone, texting like a maniac, a cigarette dangling hands-free from his lips. You'll also probably immediately tell that his temper's a landmine, ready to blow at the drop of a hat. I'm lucky to dodge most of his shitstorms by virtue of being a calm bystander. I think he purposely avoids directing his outbursts at me, but I have no way to tell if that's truly the case.

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It's Monday night, and we're in my apartment.

It's a shoebox with bare but clean white walls, a sagging couch, and a fridge that sputters like it has pneumonia. The bed creaks loudly, sheets are twisted at our feet, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and musk.

I'm on all fours, ass up, gripping the headboard as Ernie drills into me. He's crouching behind me, one hand on my hip and the other on my shoulder. His grip is strong and a bit painful, as if he's trying to stop me from moving an inch. His hairy body slams against mine, both of us slick with sweat, and his muscles ripple under his skin as he holds the difficult position while his cock plunges in deep, each thrust a jolt that rips a moan from my throat. Loud and raw, bouncing off the walls. My hair's sticking to my forehead, and my body is trembling, barely able to hold itself as it gets lost in the fuck. My dick throbbing and leaking against the sheets as it sways back and forth with his thrusts.

"Fucking hell, Auggie," Ernie growls, voice low and guttural, not sweet but heavy, like he's purging something.

"This ass is so fuckin' tight, takin' me deep."

His words are raw, spilling out like he's possessed, his beard scraping my shoulder as he leans in, breath hot and smoky. His cock stretches me wide and the burn is fierce. His solid head hitting that spot that makes my vision spark. I push back greedily, my hips rolling to meet him, needing every inch. And I do feel every inch of his warm tool rub my insides. My movement is erratic as I try to chase that pleasure his cock gives me. My moans turn to broken and desperate gasps as the bedframe rattles on like it's gonna collapse.

"Fuck, don't stop, give it to me," I pant, voice cracking as he pounds harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the room.

My body's on fire, every nerve screaming. My dick is so hard it hurts, and it spews precum left and right.

"Ain't stoppin' till I cream your ass," Ernie grunts, one hand moving from my hip to my lower back, pressing me down, making me arch more. He smacks my ass, hard, the sting sharp and electric, and that makes me hornier as I clench around him, milking his cock and pulling a deep, "Fuck, yeah," from him. His other hand grabs my hair, yanking my head back less than gently, forcing my back to bow.

"Fuckin' hungry slut," he rasps, his thrusts brutal now, each one driving me into the mattress. His hairy chest grazes my back, our sweat mixing as he drips onto me. He shifts, angling to hit my prostate dead-on, and the moment he does that, I'm sent into a frenzy. My body seizes as his fuck stick drives harder than ever into me, pushed by nothing other than animalistic urge, trying to reach deep into my bowels. I can feel his hairy balls slap against my ass as he ruts into my ass. It doesn't take long for my body to betray me and I cum, a guttural cry tearing out of me and probably alerting the neighbors. The heat from Ernie's fucking spreads from my ass and insides to my cock and before I know it, I'm spraying cum across the sheets like a hose, my arms buckling and threatening to finally give out, but Ernie doesn't let me.

His grip keeps me up, pulling me back to meet him. I fall back onto his sturdy chest as he continues to drive into me like a jackhammer. He turns my head around and attacks my mouth with his, our tongues twisting and circling in each other's mouths. Meanwhile, his cock is relentless, fucking me through the waves of my orgasm.

"That's it, baby, fuck through it, use it," he growls with a tight voice, his own control fraying. His thrusts start going wilder, making our bodies smack dangerously with every plunge. His cock batters my hole violently for quite some time before he finally cums.

With one big final thrust, he buries himself balls-deep. His roar vibrates against my skin as he unloads his hot, thick seed in the deepest part of my hole. I can feel his cock pulsing as he fills me, alive and hot and hard. The warmth from his load makes me tingle on the inside. Sweat drips from his drenched face onto my back, and rolls on the skin between us until it joins the rest of the fluids pooling underneath my hole where his cock remains lodged deep.

When he finally lets himself relax, after breathing heavily for a while as he comes down from his orgasm, he collapses onto me and we crash into the bed, his weight pressing me down. It's suffocating, but the mixture of sweat and cum and musk fills my nostrils as his hands hug my head for balance, and I feel my cock that's trapped against the bed spasm once again, the smell feeding my horniness.

We stay like that for a while, slowly recuperating, before he finally pulls out slowly with a wet 'pop' as his deflating penis leaves my asshole, letting his cum leak, the mess big and filthy. I feel the hot seed slide between my legs and coat my balls before staining my sheets. But it doesn't bother me since they're already so stained with our fluids, it might as well be their natural color.

Ernie rolls onto his back, grabbing a cigarette from the roughed-up pack on the nightstand. He lights it with a flick of his Zippo lighter and takes a long drag. One arm goes behind his head, the other holds the cig as he breathes out, exhausted, and the smoke curls upward in the stagnant air of the apartment. I take a while longer to recover, my body still buzzing from my anal orgasm. They don't always happen, but every once in a while, Ernie'd fuck like a man possessed and I'd lose myself to his mighty girthy cock. It was almost like he found new areas to fuck inside me, probing my sweet spot from new angles.

After a while, I turn around, my ass squishing the now cold load underneath me as I lay on my side of the narrow bed. I grab my phone and scroll aimlessly, the sting of Ernie's brutal pounding still lingering on my body.

"Your fridge is fucking broken. All my beers are hot as shit," he says, gazing at the roof as he draws another breath from his cigarette.

"Yeah, I already had to throw the eggs and milk out yesterday," I reply nonchalantly. Ernie exhales smoke, his voice rough. "If you know then fucking fix it or get a new one already. You're gonna give me the runs."

"Not exactly swimming in cash here, buddy," I mutter, my voice lacking the edge my retort should carry.

He opens his mouth to say something, probably curse me or the landlord or any other unfortunate human that comes to his mind at that moment, but the flip phone on the nightstand buzzes, and he abandons the conversation to read the incoming text.

"Bunch of idiots," he grumbles, frowning as his eyes scan the incoming message, "Can't catch a fucking break. Always screwing shit up."

His outburst earns a glance from me before I return to my phone. I'd be more interested if his "coworkers" didn't fuck shit up for him, supposedly. I don't know what he does, exactly, or what the flip phone is for, but it's something shady, most probably. From the round the clock texts to the random names like Vito and Carl that I catch between his curses or orders, to the incomprehensible schedule on which he operates, it's all beyond what I care to know, so I don't ask and he doesn't tell. And if there's anything I learned about dealing with Ernie, it's that going with the flow is usually the best bet.

"Need to get some sleep," he says, stubbing out the cigarette and pulling me against him, "Probably gonna be out of town for two, three days."

His arm's heavy across my back, but I relax into him. We stink of sex and cum, but the window is letting in enough cool breeze to make the our stewing bodies bearable. The sounds of distant cars and dog barks and yelling also sneak in. I quickly drift off to the city's white noise as the smell of Ernie's cigarettes hangs in the air, the sound of his heartbeat booming in my ear.

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I wake up to a pretty grey morning sky. But the clouds covering the sun absolutely do not help with the suffocating heat. My body's heavy, thighs and ass sore from Ernie's fucking last night. I can almost still feel his grip on my body, so much so that I check myself for bruises.

The bed is cold, just me and the sheets. I have a faint memory of someone patting my head in my sleep, before the bed creaked as he got up and left. The cum from last night leaked everywhere underneath me, all soaked up by the sheets and probably the mattress, and the smell of Ernie's sweat and cigarettes is faint but present.

My phone's dead on the nightstand. Yesterday's activity prevented me from plugging it in before going to sleep. I pull out the charger and do so now to get as many percentages as possible before I leave. The clock says 7:31 a.m., and I drag myself up, feet hitting the rough floor. It looks dirty, but that's just the shoddy tiles. It bites into my soles as I wake up properly.

I shuffle to the bathroom. Quick piss, then a quick shower to wash off the sweat and cum from last night, then I brush my teeth. Ever since I started brushing my teeth as a kid, I think I only ever skipped doing it twice in my whole life. Twice a day, every day, one of my unbreakable routines.

I make myself a small cup of instant coffee and spread some butter and strawberry jam on a piece of toast. But before I dig in, I make sure to gulp down as much water as I can. It's warm and sits in my stomach, but I quickly start eating and finish my breakfast in less than 5 minutes.

The fridge groans again. I only discovered something's wrong the other day when I opened it the other day and the smell of spoiled cheese and meat assaulted me. Ernie's right, I should probably fix it. But the end of the month is near, and I can hold out till then. Otherwise, he can store his beers somewhere else.

I throw on jeans and a black polo t-shirt that I laid out yesterday, then check how much my phone charged before leaving. 12%. Oh well. I stuff two books for my university courses in my backpack, and I'm out the door by 8:15.

The coffee shop's a ten-minute walk, wedged between a pawn shop with grimy windows and a laundromat humming with dryers. The dingy neighbors only serve to highlight its chic design. 'Carla's Place', the sign on the entrance says in bright green letters. Immediately upon entering, I'm greeted with the smell of coffee beans and wood. Carla, the owner and my boss, is at the counter, hair in a sloppy bun, yelling at the new kid who's fucked up an espresso when she spots me.

"Oh, thank God!" she says, following the crying kid inside, "you're on register. I can't let him touch the espresso machine."

I nod, taking an apron from the closet and tying it on before taking my spot.

The morning rush hits hard. Many faces come and go, but I had long since given up on trying to read them. Instead, you'd have a much better time telling them apart using other things. Suits, school backpacks, a stroller, you name it. One suit in particular snaps her order like I'm her servant. I don't really mind since I don't understand where people get all that energy to be angry from. I even make a habit of observing the especially rude ones, like monkeys at the zoo. Just punch in their drinks, pour their coffee, and smile tamely as I hand it to them. Carla says that makes me great with the customers, but I don't think so.

A guy comes in, seemingly tired and sleepy, but his face perks up when he sees me. He greets me and, upon seeing my confused smiling face, introduces himself as Nate from my accounting course. That sparks absolutely nothing in my memory, seeing as I don't care enough about my university life to remember the faces of people in my classes.

Nate is tall with a toned body and well-kept hair. He chatters for a bit, trying to talk about a group project.

"Yeah, it's tricky," I say, politely but concisely, not leaving much room for elaboration. He orders after he runs himself dry of topics to chat about, and leaves as weirdly as he came. "Nice kid," I think to myself.

By noon, it's quieter, and I'm wiping down the counter with a damp rag. Carla hands me a coffee on my break. We both enjoy it black with no sugar. I sit by the shop window, watching the street as Carla drones on about her life, her husband, and her son. A guy's selling bootleg DVDs across the way, his loud voice choking when he sees a cop who turns out not to give a shit.

I wonder if Ernie's shady business is as dumb as this one, if all his boiling anger is the result of incorrect CD labels. Most probably not, but I don't know enough about illegal businesses to tell for sure. I open my now-charged phone to read some news before my break ends. There are no texts from Ernie, or anyone for that matter, but that's normal. I sip the last of my coffee, and any thought on the subject fizzles out before I return to my shift.

The rest of my shift is slow. Refilling sugar packets, cleaning the milk steamer, ignoring the laughter and cheers from Carla and the new kid when he finally figures out the espresso machine. I clock out at 2:00 p.m., stuffing the twelve bucks of tips into my pocket.

I stop for a quick lunch on my way to university, courtesy of my tip money. It's enough for a Philly cheesesteak, which I devour in minutes.

I catch a bus to campus, a twenty-minute ride through streets lined with check-cashing joints and barred-up stores. It's a never-ending sea of humans out there, and I swim across it, a drop among the masses.

The university's old buildings are draped in ivy, and the lecture halls smell of chalk and mold. My stats class is in a hot room, the professor scribbling equations while I take notes. I make sure not to write anything that's already included in the studying material and to focus on listening to him when I can. I can see Nate sitting in the front row along with some other students. He seems just as chatty as he was at the coffee shop. A girl next to me chews gum loudly, and I focus harder on my notebook to block her out.

Class ends after what feels like days but is only two hours, and I head home. Back there, I make some chicken soup with stuff I bought on the way. The portion is small so it can be gone before it spoils in my fridge. I eat at the kitchen counter, setting the phone across from me as I watch the news on it. The small fridge rattles as I open it to place the leftover food, and I'm reminded how much I need to fix it, but the discomfort it's causing hasn't exceeded the effort needed to fix it yet, so I don't.

I could study some more at home, but my skin's itching from the heat, so I decided to go for a night walk before showering and turning in for the day. I put on my running t-shirt and shorts and head out.

The city is sharper at night, all orange lights and deep shadows. The air isn't stagnant but blowing softly despite the heat and carrying the smell of exhaust and fried food. I walk through the neighborhood, past shuttered shops and walls scrawled with tags. The streets feel alive in a way that's different than the day's hustle and bustle, and some of that feeling seeps into me too. Kids shouting, a radio blasting, a group of guys smoking next to a crepe stand.

I end up at a park. It's the same one where I met Ernie ages ago. It's darker now, the benches empty, streetlights buzzing like they're tired as they cast just enough light as to not plunge the area into darkness. I sit on a bench whose wood splinters under my hands, and light one of Ernie's cigarettes. He left the pack at my place, and it only had two cigarettes remaining.

The first drag causes me to cough, my throat is not used to this. The smoke is harsh, burning its way as it goes down and comes back up, but I exhale slowly, watching it fade into the dark night.

I think about him. His rough hands, his loud voice, the way he looks at everything like he wants to beat it all into the ground. It's not love I feel, that's for sure. Not when I still don't understand most of what goes on in his brain.

It was a sweltering summer midnight when we met, just like this one. The park is still the same, a patchwork of shadows, broken benches, and grass littered with bottle caps. Streetlights buzzed like dying flies, and the air was thick with dust. I sat on a bench, also like this one, sucking on a cherry popsicle that melted faster than I could eat, red juice dripping onto my fingers. I think Ernie was there first. I don't remember precisely. He was sprawled at the other end of the bench, elbows on the backrest, texting with one hand, cigarette hanging from his mouth. His running suit was open, and his wifebeater was damp across his hairy chest with black plastic slippers dangling from his feet. He looked ridiculous to me when I first saw him.

He was muttering in a low but pissed tone, until his phone buzzed, and he cursed, "Fuck!" spitting out his cigarette and crushing it under his heel with excessive force. I must've looked too long, because he glared at me.

"You got a fuckin' problem???" he snapped, his whole body ready to move at the slightest trigger.

I blinked, popsicle halfway to my mouth.

"No, you just startled me," I said calmly. He scared me, but I remember thinking that he didn't seem that dangerous.

He squinted, anger fading a bit. "Yeah, well, go stuff you mouth somewhere else if you're this big of a pussy."