Chapter 14: The Bar and a Stranger's Name
The vinyl dress was a cold second skin. Iliana stood before their bedroom mirror, adjusting the strap that cut across the sharp line of her collarbone. The dress was backless, a plunging neckline that descended between her breasts like a dare, stopping just above her navel. The 650cc implants formed a solid, immovable shelf, pushing against the stiff material. Every breath made the vinyl creak.
Atlas watched from the doorway, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “We don’t have to go out.”
“We do,” she said, not turning. She applied a dark red to her lips, blotting them on a tissue. “I’ve been in scrubs all week. I need to feel something else.”
“You could feel something here.”
She finally looked at his reflection. His kind, tired face was a portrait of anxious love. It irritated her, this devotion. It was a weight. “Put on the gray shirt. The one that fits you in the shoulders. And don’t ask any more questions.”
The bar was all muted gold and deep shadows. The air hummed with a bassline from hidden speakers, conversation layering over it like static. She felt eyes on her the moment they entered—a slick, approving pressure against her skin. She led Atlas to the bar, her heels clicking on the hardwood.
“Sit here,” she instructed, pointing to a stool. “Order a whiskey. Neat.”
He obeyed, sinking onto the stool, his posture rigid. She watched him for a moment, a stranger assessing prey. Then she walked away, melting into the crowd near the restrooms. She counted to sixty, watching the bartender place the amber glass before him. Then she approached from the side, the persona settling over her like a cloak.
She slid onto the empty stool next to him, crossing her legs high. The vinyl dress rode up, exposing the taut skin of her thigh. She signaled the bartender. “Gin martini. Very dry.”
She didn’t look at Atlas. She let her gaze wander the room before letting it slide, casually, to his hands wrapped around his glass. “Rough day?” she asked, her voice a notch lower, unfamiliar.
He flinched. She saw his throat work as he swallowed. “You could say that.”
“I like your hands.” She took a slow sip of her martini, the olive brine sharp on her tongue. “They look like they know how to work. My name’s Iliana.”
“Dmitri,” he said, the name a ghost on his lips. She’d texted him the rules in the car: You are Dmitri. You work in import/export. You saw me across the bar and you had to buy me a drink.
“Nice to meet you, Dmitri.” She leaned in, the movement causing her breasts to press together, deepening the valley the dress framed. The scent of her perfume, something dark and jasmine-heavy, cut through the bar smell. “I have to tell you something. I’m a very bad girl.”
Under the polished mahogany bar, hidden from the world, her hand found his thigh. She moved it inward, feeling the muscle tense under the wool of his trousers. Her fingers traced the shape of him, soft at first, then hardening rapidly under her touch. She cupped him, squeezing gently.
He choked on his whiskey.
“Shhh,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. Her breath was warm. “Just sit there and drink your drink, Dmitri. Let me play.” She unbuttoned his fly with deft, clinical fingers, slipped her hand inside. His cock was hot, springing heavily into her palm. She began to stroke him, a slow, rhythmic pull, her thumb smearing the bead of moisture at the tip.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his knuckles white on the glass.
“That’s the idea,” she murmured. She pressed her cheek against his, watching their reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A handsome, nervous man and a slut in vinyl, her arm working subtly beneath the counter. “I have these huge fake tits, Dmitri. You like that? I had them made for strangers. For men like you who just want a handful. I want a stranger’s cock in me. I want you to use mine like they’re yours. Can you do that?”
He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion.
“I’m so wet just thinking about it,” she lied, her voice a low purr. “I’m wet and empty and I need you to fill me up. I don’t want you to be gentle. I want you to forget my name.”
She increased her pace, her grip tightening. She could feel the pulse in him, the frantic race toward climax. She stopped abruptly, giving him one last, cruel squeeze before withdrawing her hand. He gasped, a pained sound.
“Not yet,” she said. She finished her martini in one cool gulp, stood up, and smoothed her dress. “Come with me.”
She took his hand, pulling him from the stool. He fumbled to button his pants as she led him, weaving through the crowd, toward the back hallway. A single, unisex bathroom sign glowed. She tried the door. Locked. They stood in the dim hallway, the music muffled. She could smell the faint, acrid tang of urinal cake.
A man stumbled out, adjusting his belt. He leered at Iliana’s chest, opening his mouth to speak. She stared through him, dragging Atlas inside before the door swung shut.
She locked the bolt with a definitive click. The room was small, tiled in white, reeking of industrial lemon and underlying bleach. A single sink, a toilet, a flickering fluorescent strip.
She turned to him. “Now you’re Dmitri,” she said, her previous purr gone, replaced by a flat command. “And I’m a whore you picked up at a bar. Treat me like one.”
She bent over the sink, her palms flat on the cold porcelain. The vinyl dress strained over her ass. She reached back, gathered the hem, and yanked it up. She wasn’t wearing tights. A black lace thong bisected her. She hooked her thumbs in the sides and pulled it down to her knees.
“Spit on your hand,” she ordered, looking at him over her shoulder.
His face was a mask of conflict—lust, shame, a dawning horror. He did as he was told, spitting into his own palm, slicking his cock with a few rough strokes.
“Not there,” she said. “Here.” She reached back, spread herself open with one hand, presenting the tight, puckered knot of her asshole. “Do it.”
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. He applied his wet fingers to her, a clumsy, dry push. She winced.
“More. Use your fucking mouth if you have to.”
He bent, his breath hot on her skin. He licked her, a broad, tentative stroke. She pushed back against his face. “Harder. Get it wet. Get it ready for your cock, Dmitri.”
He worked his tongue against her, lapping at her, spitting, until she was slick and loosened. She was guiding him before he was fully ready, her hand finding his shaft and angling the blunt head against her.
“Now,” she said, her voice guttural. “Fuck my ass. Fuck it like you hate me.”
He pushed. The initial breach was a white-hot撕裂 of pressure, a fullness that stole her breath. She gripped the sink, her knuckles bleaching white. He was inside, inch by impossibly thick inch, a brutal, stretching invasion. A low moan tore from her throat, part pain, part vicious triumph.
“That’s it,” she gasped. “All of it. Give me all of it, you bastard.”
He sank the final inch, his hips flush against her ass. They were both still for a moment, panting in the antiseptic air. Her reflection in the mirror was distorted—eyes wide, mouth a red slash, her enormous breasts crushed against the cold sink.
He began to move. Short, sharp jabs at first, then longer, deeper drives. Each thrust rocked her forward, her breasts mashing against the porcelain. The pain faded, transmuting into a deep, internal burn, a shocking fullness that short-circuited thought. This was nothing like Chen. This was degradation. This was exactly what she wanted.
“Yeah,” she hissed. “Fuck me. Fuck your little bar slut. Tell me you own this ass.”
“I own it,” he grunted, the words foreign in his mouth. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the vinyl.
“Say my name.”
“Iliana.”
“No!” she snarled, pushing back hard against him. “I’m not Iliana in here. I’m nothing. I’m a hole. Call me what I am.”
He was slamming into her now, the sink rattling against the wall. “You’re a filthy fucking whore,” he choked out, caught in the current of her need.
“Yes.” The agreement was a sob. The friction, the shame, the sheer animal mechanics of it were coiling a spring in her gut. Her clit was a hard, neglected ache against nothing. She reached a hand down, rubbed herself in frantic circles as he fucked her ass. The double sensation—the invasive fullness, the direct, rough stimulus—built a wave faster than she expected.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice breaking. “Make me come on your cock, Dmitri. Make this slut come in a bathroom.”
His rhythm faltered, became erratic, pounding. With a final, deep grind, he stiffened, a raw shout stifled against his teeth as he emptied himself inside her. The hot pulse of it, the ultimate violation, was the trigger. Her own orgasm seized her, a convulsive, silent scream that locked her muscles and flooded her hand with wet heat. She saw stars in the fluorescent glare.
They collapsed against each other, a tangled mess of vinyl and sweat and spent fury. He slipped out of her. A slick, dirty sound in the quiet room. The smell of sex and bleach was overpowering.
Slowly, she straightened up. Her ass throbbed. She felt raw, used, perfectly hollow. She pulled her thong up, the lace sticking to her damp skin. She smoothed the dress down, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She looked at Atlas in the mirror.
He was leaning against the tile wall, his pants still open, his face a hollowed-out ruin of ecstasy and self-loathing. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
She washed her hands methodically, the soap foaming white. She didn’t look at him again.
“Button your pants, Atlas,” she said, the alias discarded. “We’re going home.”
She unlocked the door and walked out into the hum of the bar, leaving him to clean up the mess. The crowd seemed louder, the lights harsher. She felt the lingering ache with every step, a ghost of the stranger he’d been. It was the closest thing to satisfaction she’d felt in weeks.
He joined her at the bar entrance two minutes later, his face pale. They didn’t speak in the Uber home. She stared out the window at the passing city lights, feeling the cool vinyl against her skin, already craving the next annihilation.