My Night as a Literal Trophy

The Fight

"Why don't you keep your eyes to yourself, before I rearrange your face?"

Michael was getting tiresome. We were supposed to be celebrating his raise, and I wanted to give him a treat by wearing his favourite outfit: a simple black top, a miniskirt that shows off my legs, and a pair of heels that were a bit too expensive, but what the hell, a girl needs to treat herself sometimes. He loves my legs - it's one of the reasons he asked me out in the first place - so he should have been enjoying the view, and maybe even resting a hand on my knee under the table. Instead, he was sending dirty looks toward any man in the bar who glanced in my direction. He was spending more time watching them than looking at me.

He's a great guy, don't get me wrong, but sometimes his jealousy gets tiresome. I had been looking forward to a fun night out, then going back to his place where he could take this skirt off and have his way with me. And, sure, yes, I had also been looking forward to the glances I knew I'd be getting from other men. Nothing wrong with enjoying a bit of lascivious attention, before going home and slaking that lust on my boyfriend! But instead, I found myself trying to finish my drink as quickly as I could so we could get out of there, and he could stop glaring at every hetero male in the bar. But he was too busy glaring to drink his drink, so it didn't matter how quickly I guzzled mine, we were going to be there for a while.

Most guys in the place started to realize what was going on, and just averted their gaze. It might be fun to look at a nice pair of legs, but not if it's going to cause drama with a jealous boyfriend.

As anticipated, I finished my drink long before he finished his, and decided to go up to the bar for a refill. Probably not a smart idea - now the legs would be in motion! - but I was too pissed at him by this point to care. He could growl all he wanted, but if I was going to put up with his macho bullshit, I needed alcohol in my system!

I was at the bar long enough to down a shot of J.D. and get a refill on my appletini, then I was heading back to the table. I was slightly unsteady on my heels, due to the fact that I was drinking faster than usual, but mostly OK.

And then I heard the voice behind me:

"Well I'll be damned! Her ass is as fine as those sexy legs!" Apparently someone in the bar hadn't gotten the message about the jealous boyfriend. Or didn't care. As I got back to the table I was blushing with embarrassment. (Mostly.)

Michael was immediately on his feet. "Who said that?" he barked. "You wanna go outside, asshole?"

"Drop it, Mike," I said, as I took my seat. "Let's just finish our drinks and get the fuck out of here."

"No," he responded, "I want to know who's perving on my girl!"

"'Your girl.' Right. Jesus Christ," I muttered. "What a night."

"Why don't you calm down and shut up, kid, before someone gets hurt?" It was the same voice that had praised my ass a few seconds ago, and when I got a look at him I was much less flattered at his "compliment." The guy was a douchebag. No, not a douchebag; what's the white trash equivalent of a douchebag? Redneck? He was one of those.

He was in a pair of dirty jeans, a white t-shirt, and, honest to god, had a pack of cigarettes in his sleeve! Whatever you'd call him, I didn't like the idea of him ogling me the same way he'd beat if off to some cut-rate pornstar in Jugs magazine.

Despite the warning, Michael was having none of it. "Let's go outside, and see if your fists work as well as your eyes!" was his brilliant reply. I made one more attempt to calm things down by putting a hand on his arm, but when he shook it off I gave up caring what happened to him. If he went outside and got beat up, it was his own damned fault. Sure, I'd end up hearing about it for the rest of the night - probably even tending his bruises - but maybe he'd learn to stop being a dick when we went out together. If you're gonna have a hot girlfriend you should enjoy it, not spend every minute in public airing your lack of self confidence for the world to see.

To my surprise, the redneck decided that yes, he would like to go outside and teach Michael a lesson, and Michael was stupid enough to go through with it. I mean, he was in pretty good shape, but had he ever actually been in a fight? And were two men really going to go outside and fight, in this day and age, because one had "looked at the other's girl"? I sighed, took a final gulp of my drink, and followed them out.

A crowd was already gathering, and to my surprise it didn't seem like anyone was going to bother calling the police. I was tempted to glance at my phone, just to confirm we were still in the year 2017, but instead I tried to figure out how I was supposed to handle this situation. They were, after all, fighting over me - or at least the right to look at me - so should I have been supporting my man? Or playing it nonchalant, as if this happened all the time? ("Of course two men are fighting over me! It's Thursday!")

The only one who actually did seem nonchalant was the redneck who'd been looking at my ass. To look at him, you wouldn't have assumed he was about to engage in fisticuffs on a public street; he was calm, cool, and collected, with just the hint of a wry smile on his face. And it didn't help that he was egging Michael on, either.

"So you don't like guys looking at your girl, eh? What happens if I win? Do I get to keep her? Or do I just get to borrow her for a night, and send her back to you tomorrow, spent and broken?"

"Keep talking, asshole, because you're about to get a lesson in manners."

"Enough, Mike," I said. "Leave it alone, and let's go inside." I was hoping that this would give him an excuse to stop the nonsense; maybe he could walk away if it was clear he was only doing it because "his girl" was making him. (The more I thought about it, the more that phrase "my girl" was really bothering me.)

It didn't work.

"Shut up," he said. "I'm handling this."

In our years together he'd never told me to shut up. My irritation flared into full-blown anger.

"Well you'd better," I said, "because if he kicks your ass, like it's appearing he will, maybe I'll go home with him tonight, instead of you!" An empty threat, of course, there was no way I'd go home with this dickhole, but I wanted to say something that would bother Michael. Not that it worked; he knew as well as I did that I wasn't going to do any such thing. Besides, he was in full fight mode, now.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

Michael waded in, getting ready to throw his first punch, but before he could even get one in, the asshole popped him one, square in the centre of his face, and Michael went down hard. Whack, plomp, and he was on the ground. The second "half" of the fight played out just like in a movie: Michael started to get up, and the asshole warned him to stay down; Michael didn't listen, and as he was getting unsteadily to his feet, he received another shot to the face. The second time he went down, he went down for good: he was out cold.

"Well legs?" the asshole asked. "Ready to go back to my place and get that tight little skirt off?"

I heard laughter from the small crowd that had gathered. We weren't living in the stone age; clearly I wasn't going to go home with someone who had "won" me in a fight. However, I was seething at Michael's behaviour, and I figured it couldn't hurt to teach him a lesson.

"Let's go," I responded. I'd figure out a way to extricate myself from him later, but for now, I wanted a crowd of spectators eager to tell Michael (when he woke up) what he'd most feared: "his girl" had gone off with the guy who clocked him.

"My car's this way," he said, and led me through the alley.

The Alley

As we walked into the alley together, he casually slipped an arm around me, letting his hand rest on my ass.

"Easy, sunshine," I said. "I want to make him jealous, but let's not get any ideas about what's going to happen here."

"Oh no?" he asked. "You think I don't see how turned on you are by all of this? I bet you're just soaking through those panties!"

To my surprise, he backed me up against the brick wall, right beside a dumpster, and reached a hand up my skirt.

"Just as I thought!" he said, with a hand sliding around my wet panties. "I bet ol' Mikey hasn't turned you on this much in months."

I turned my face away from him, embarrassed at the fact that he was right: I really was soaked. I don't know when my juices had started flowing; when he put his hand on my ass? When he decked Michael? Way back when he'd said I have a nice ass?!? At some point I'd gotten turned on, and this Neanderthal could read it on me like it was written on my forehead in plain English.

I realized that he wasn't just pawing my panties; he wasn't just flaunting my embarrassment at me. He was fingering me. And dammit if he wasn't good at it. As I resolutely kept my face turned away, he started working my clit like someone who knew what it was for; I wasn't just lubricated by this point, I was also getting warm. I wasn't convinced this guy would be able to read the menu at McDonald's without calling a friend, but he had a PhD in fingering a girl.

Before too long he pushed my panties aside and slid a finger into my pussy. "Oh fuck," I moaned, showing how much control I'd lost of my own body. Another finger followed the first, while he continued to use his thumb to work my clit.

It didn't take too long for me to cum on his hand. Nothing about this situation was a turn-on for me: not the asshole whose fingers were inside me; not the idea of getting fingered in a public alley; not even cheating on my boyfriend. Nothing about this was good. But, adding it all together, I couldn't deny that I was having one of the better orgasms of my life, and whimpering through it like a virgin on prom night.

He let me come down from my climax, still gently working me with his fingers, before finally extricating them, leaving me feeling empty. But I didn't have a chance to catch my breath before he lifted me up, one arm under each leg, and then lowered me back down - impaling me on his hard cock. I gasped as I felt him entering me; how had he even gotten it out without me noticing?!?

He wasn't quite as long as Michael was, but he was thicker, and that's what my pussy needed right now: I needed something to replace those fingers. "Oh god," I moaned, as he pressed my back against the wall, and started to fuck me. My feet weren't even on the ground, he just held me up by the legs and took me.

If anything, it was the unreality of the situation that was enabling me to act so uncharacteristically. I hadn't even been planning to kiss this guy - he grossed me out! - yet less than 10 minutes after meeting him he was now fucking me bareback in an alley like a animal, and I was moving my hips as much as I could to take him deep into me. It only took a couple of minutes before I felt another orgasm coming, and I could tell it was going to eclipse the first one. I grasped him and bit down on the collar of his leather jacket, trying to stop from screaming out.

He was right there with me. Just as I was starting to come down from my orgasm I heard/felt him grunt, and then felt his cum flooding me. He kept fucking me, in time with the jets of cum, so that he planted each blast as deep into me as he could. I don't think he was planning it; it was just thousands of years of pure instinct. Most men had evolved beyond that; this guy was more primal than they are.

In the dim recesses of my mind I was thinking that I'd probably have to get a Plan B tomorrow - and god help me if the asshole had an STI! - but that thought was a distant second to the additional orgasm that was wracking my body, as I got off on the feeling, the knowledge, of his cum filling me.

When he finished, he lowered my legs to the ground, at which point I realized that they were shaking. I had to lean against the wall just to stay upright. He, on the other hand, simply zipped himself back inside his pants, and made to leave. "C'mon," he said, "car's this way."

"Just a sec," I replied, unsure of my ability to walk.

"Oh Jesus Christ," he muttered, and then completed the Neanderthal picture by slinging me over his shoulder, so he could carry me back to the car. "And you'd better not let any cum leak out of that cunt, slut," he said, as he carried me. "I like this jacket, I don't want jizz all over it."

The only word that stuck in my head from that speech was the word "slut." I really was a slut right now. This was only the fourth man I'd ever had inside me, but I was craving his cock like I'd never craved any other; tomorrow was tomorrow, but I was going to devote the rest of this night to repeating our performance in the alley. If I was lucky, maybe we'd be on a bed the next time...

The Car

Of course he drove a Mustang. Of course he did. What other kind of car would a guy like this drive? He dumped me into the passenger seat, and we were off.

He worked the car like he had previously worked my body: no hesitation, no second guessing himself, the car was an extension of his will. He didn't rev the engine to impress me, but neither did he hesitate to gun it when he wanted to run a yellow or pass a slower driver.

It wasn't a long drive before he was parking at a rundown tenement. There were a few buildings surrounding a little grassy open area, and, since it was a nice night, there were people around, sitting on benches and enjoying the warm summer air. I made to get out of the car, but he stopped me.

"Not yet," he said, "I'm ready for round two."

He unzipped his jeans, and pulled out his cock, already hard and ready to go.

"Here?!?" I asked, looking around at all of the people. It was dark out, but there were streetlights, and it would still be clear to anyone who happened to glance over what was happening if I fucked him here in the car!

"Don't flatter yourself," he responded. "I bring sluts like you home all the time, it's not the first time they'll see this car rocking. Now get to it; the sooner I cum, the sooner we can go in."

It was the second time that night he'd called me a slut, and I was definitely feeling slutty. The way my body had reacted in the alley, I couldn't deny the pleasure he'd given me. But it was one thing to do it in an alley, could I really do it with other people literally watching?

As a partial answer to my own question, I positioned myself over him, hiked up my skirt, pulled my panties aside, and lowered myself onto him. As a more full answer to my question, though, I wasn't feeling any pleasure this time: I just wanted to get it over with, make him cum quickly, and get inside, out of view of these people. I hoped the reflection of the streetlights off the windows would prevent spectators from actually seeing us.

I immediately started sliding up and down on him, building up a rhythm. At first I was trying to be careful, fucking him as hard as I could without causing the car to rock and draw unnecessary attention, but then I looked him in the face and saw the amusement written there. So I went harder; the car would bounce, sure, but it would speed things up. At one point I glanced around, and realized that nobody was paying any special attention to us. One old gentleman glanced over, and tipped his beer at us in a salute, and then went back to his conversation with the other duffers.

"I told you," he said, "they're used to a parade of skanks coming through this parking lot. Now are you gonna make me cum, or are we just gonna canoodle?"

Not only did I redouble my efforts, but I also pulled my shirt up, and stuck a breast into his mouth. (Luckily I hadn't worn a bra.) Men like tits, so I figured allowing him to play with mine would help hurry him along. More importantly, I didn't want him constantly comparing me to the tramps he usually brought home, so I wanted to keep his mouth busy.

I was tempted to try talking dirty to him, to up the ante even more, but wasn't sure I'd be able to pull it off - it would have come out sounding too stilted - so instead I just moaned a bit, faking pleasure. At one point he bit down on my nipple, hard, and it sent a tingle straight into my clit - perhaps I was enjoying this more than I'd realized.

Finally he started to grunt, and then I felt his cock start to twitch as he came in me. I hadn't had my own orgasm, but I did have an absurd feeling of pride at taking his second round of the night into me.

Before I could think about it too much, or adjust myself to look more presentable, he jerked open his door and dumped me outside the car, before getting out himself. I managed to catch my balance, so that I wouldn't fall to the pavement, but I was standing there in the open, my shirt hiked up exposing my boobs and my skirt hiked up exposing my pussy. It only took a moment for me to come to my senses and adjust my clothes, but it felt like an eternity, while I dithered about whether I should cover my tits or pussy first. Blushing furiously, I pulled my panties back over my pussy and pulled my skirt back down, before pulling my shirt back down over my tits. (Why hadn't I worn a bra?!?)

"Careful now," I heard one old-timer cackle, "don't get any sperm on the pavement! We don't clean it every day!" Some of the others around him laughed. It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire life, and also the moment when I realized: I probably wasn't any better than the usual sluts he brought home. How many other women had done what I had just done, in this very spot, thinking they were better than all the others? Standing here in this public space, finally covering my nudity (and feeling his cum start to pool in my panties), what right did I have to judge anyone else?

"Let's go," he said, as he locked his car. "This building." And he gave me a light tap on the ass to guide me in the right direction.

Inside

We got in the elevator, along with a middle-aged lady. He pressed the button for the 12th floor, and we all dutifully looked up at the numbers as the elevator made its way up. I guess she was going to the same floor.

As we did, I felt his hand cup my ass. After the way he'd been using my body so far, this act seemed almost tender by comparison. He then moved it under the skirt, and slipped it inside my panties, which was still nice, having that skin-to-skin contact. But then he shocked me - literally - by sliding a finger into my asshole.

With all of the willpower at my disposal I prevented myself from gasping out loud at the intrusion, but all the willpower in the world couldn't prevent me from tensing up. If I was a cartoon, my eyes would have been bugging right outside of my head! Michael and I had done a bit of ass play in the past, but it wasn't something I'd ever gotten used to, and having a finger suddenly thrust in there with no warning was beyond surprising.

He didn't finger fuck my ass or anything, he just left it resting there. In my asshole. Standing beside some woman I didn't know.

When we got to our floor she got out first, and we followed her - still with his hand under my skirt, finger in my ass. I did my best to walk naturally, but I'm sure it didn't work. Her door was first, and as we passed by she addressed him:

"Try not to be too loud with her tonight, alright? I've got an early day tomorrow. And it doesn't look like she's used to that finger up in there, so maybe work your way up to doing her ass, so her screams don't keep me up, alright?"

I didn't think I would still have the capacity to blush, after all he'd done to me already, but I did anyway, alright?