Close Encounters of the Erotic Kind

Close Encounters of the Erotic Kind

 

Two strangers surrender to their deepest desires.

After that, more encounters. Lacy’s insatiable!

 

Mille Dynamite

 

© Copyright 2025 by Millie Dynamite

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Close Encounters of the Erotic Kind

 

Tonight’s the night. Thinking I’ve been a good girl long enough to have some fun. Time to let my hair down and have a little strange. A one-night fling that doesn’t mean a thing.

 

The bouncer gives my ID a skeptical glare, but I slip in any way. Move past the fraying leather jacket crowd and sticky-floored stage where a half-drunk guitarist hammers out covers from before I was born. I’m 19, restless, and looking for something none of the frat boys back at campus can give me.

 

Fuck, this joint’s an older crowd. I saunter up to the bar and perch on a stool. The bartender looks at my card, face, back to the card.

 

“What’ll it be?”

 

Breathing a sigh of relief, I order. The fake card is good enough, and soon I’m sipping a vodka soda and trying not to think about my father and who he’s fucking this weekend. It isn’t like I a fuck my father. But we were close, and now we’re hundreds of miles apart.

 

The bar reeks of sweat and spilled beer. I fix my gaze on the crowd. Shit, they’re all older, like my father. Most aren’t in good shape, like him. I almost leave, but then I see him. Wait, wait, what’s that man, that man right there?

 

An older guy with broad shoulders and arms covered in ink, maybe 40 or even 45, exuding an animalistic rawness, making me tingle. Daddy, I think, just like Daddy.

 

The shirt he wears looks stolen from a metalhead, and it rides up enough to give me a flash of taut stomach. I like how it matches his tattoos and the rough way he sits on a stool and fakes, not noticing me. Amazingly, he wears the scruffy outlaw look I crave, as if he just rolled into town on his Harley.

 

Big bad bikers never wear helmets.

 

His eyes dart my way and then somewhere else. Back again and away. I love how he pretends not to notice me watching him, watching me. Then, this stranger in a strange place glances my way like he’s daring me to make a move.

 

Well, fuck him all to hell, I fucking will. I toss my head, drink down the shot, slip off the barstool, and make the first play.

 

Cutting through the sticky, humid air, past two other old guys in greasy ball caps, sucking down beers with frothy heads. They stink, not Daddy types, purely gross, old, fat bikers. With beer guts, gray hair, and tatts so very old, fading, and wrinkled, the ole lady one appears older than him.

 

When I get there, I put my hand on an empty stool next to him, look up into his big, blue peepers, and smirk.

 

“Buy me a drink, or keep staring. Looker’s choice,” I say in as brassy a way as possible.

 

He laughs and hooks a finger for the bartender.

 

His grin tells me he likes my daring, but his silence as we sip our vodkas says I’m the one who will have to push this past a random bar flirtation. The booze is cheap, and it burns. He leans back on his stool and spreads his legs with a relaxed edge.

 

I feel my face warm. I can’t blame it on alcohol alone. I see the sinew of his muscles through his worn T-shirt. And I love how they don’t seem like gym muscles, just the kind of hardness that comes with living a rough life. Or pounding fists into faces.

 

Then there’s the bulge in his faded jeans. I like them big, and he’s got a big gun. A forty-five or fifty caliber pussy buster. I want mine to burst wide and deep.

 

He takes his time studying me, curious if I’m for real or a cheap knock-off who’ll tuck tail and run away. Mister Biker Man’s questioning about something else, too. He’s got a buzzer in his brain screaming jailbait.

 

But I’m betting he wouldn’t turn down a pink pussy shoved in his face. He leans forward in his chair and turns to the bartender, who nods.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna call you for any reason,” I say, throwing down the second shot and setting my glass down hard. It sounds more hopeful than I meant it to. He looks at me like he’s already fucking me in his mind, the same way guys on Tinder do.

 

“Maybe I’ll call you, then,” he says, amused, like we both know it doesn’t matter. He gives me another slow-up and-down glance and takes in my low-cut top and short skirt. He stares at my legs and curves with a raw, hungry gaze.

 

The truth is I don’t want him to call. Don’t want a number or a name. All I want is just a raw, dirty fuck leaving me too sore to feel guilty for who I’m cheating on. He leans in, lets his knee bump mine, then lets it stay.

 

I leer and whisper. “We don’t need to wait for another round.”

 

He downs his drink.

 

“I’m…”

 

I cut him off with a fuck all look. “Names are for dating. We aren’t. So, it doesn’t matter. Mine isn’t important.”

 

“Well, Miss It-doesn’t-matter, what do you suggest we do?”

 

I slip from the barstool and move toward the door. I thought he might wait ten seconds. But the bartender says, “She’s 21,” and Mister Biker Man follows me. Yes, he does, like a puppy, out the side door and into the alley.

 

The fake ID is my best friend tonight.

 

His hands are on me before the door even clicks shut. They roam like they have more to say than words. Tracing the thin straps of my top, drifting to my tits, squeezing them like I’m his and no one else touched them before or will ever again. I grab him and feel the coarse scruff of his three or four-day beard. Pull him down for a kiss and taste the cigarettes and booze.

 

My fingers twist into his hair. It’s too long for the suit-and-tie assholes back at school and perfect for what I want. I let out a needy little gasp.

 

“Fuck, you feel good,” I say and run my fingers over his hard-as-stone chest.

 

He laughs at my urgency.

 

“You have no idea,” he says as his hands do more talking than his lips. He has pretty rough hands, too. Calloused, strong hands with the know-how to touch a woman.

 

His palms explore the curve of my ass and down my thighs, pushing my skirt up and leaving it there like the cold and filthy brick doesn’t matter. My hands are greedy. They run over his tattooed arms, the shoulders I wanted from across the bar, and the hard chiseled pecks of his chest.

 

The prints on his shirt don’t make sense. Some old band I’ve never heard of, and I wonder why these dead are so fucking grateful.

 

“Nice tee,” I say, a breathless tease, and he yanks it over his head.

 

“A Deadhead forever,” he says.

 

“Yeah, I don’t even know what that means,” I say.

 

“Just how young are you?” he asks.

 

“Nineteen,” I snap back at him. “How the fuck old are you?”

 

“Fifty-fucking-two,” he says. “Bet I’m older than your daddy.”

 

“You’re my fucking Daddy tonight,” I say. “But my Father’s never beat someone to a pulp, but I’m betting you have. And my old man never fucked a chick 33 years younger than him like you are going to do now. Right?”

 

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and turns into a lecherous leer. His skin is warm. His flesh is the color of pale tan leather, and the tattoos are like brands marking ownership. One of them proclaims, One Percenter.