Off the leash, I owe you one

I gripped the wheel, the car’s engine purring under my palms as I pulled out of the grocery store lot, Stacey slouched beside me, her bare feet kicked up on the dash. The bags clattered in the back—milk, bread, some random crap—jingling like a tether to the normal we’d just blown to hell. My head was still buzzing from the store: The cashier’s lips sucking me dry, that MILF’s moans ringing in my ears, the way Stacey smirked like it was all a Tuesday. I shot her a glance, her flip-flops ditched on the floor, daisy dukes riding high, her sweater slipping off one shoulder as she scrolled her phone.

“Eyes on the road, perv,” she muttered, not looking up, her voice dry as hell.

“Hard to focus with you flashing me,” I shot back, grinning as I took a turn too sharp, the tires squealing just enough to make her snort.

“Please. You’ve seen it all already.” She flicked her eyes at me, teasing, then leaned back, stretching so her shorts hugged her thighs tighter. “Try not to crash us before we get home. I’d hate to miss my popcorn.”

I laughed, rough and low. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who made driving a fucking circus earlier. I deserve a medal for keeping us alive.”

She smirked, kicking her feet down, her hand brushing my thigh—quick, deliberate, gone before I could grab it. “Medal? You got off—twice. Call it even.”

The banter flowed easy, like we’d been at this for years, not hours in this fucked-up SIM. The city streaked by—neon flickering, horns blaring, some chick getting pounded against a wall like it was a handshake. I shook my head, half-grinning at the madness. Hands itching to push further, I gripped the wheel tighter, keeping it cool. Stacey stretched beside me, legs flexing, completely unbothered. Then—her building. I yanked the car to a stop, engine rumbling low. We climbed out, air crisp against my skin, and popped the trunk. I grabbed a couple bags, she snagged the rest, her hips swaying as she headed for the stairs.

“Hey, Stace,” I called, shifting the weight of the bags. “What if I borrowed your car today? Need to hit some spots, see what’s out there. Walking’s too damn slow.”

She paused mid-step, turning to eye me like I’d just asked to screw her mom. “What, my place not wild enough? You’re already prowling for fresh meat five minutes after the store?”

I smirked, stepping closer, just enough that the bags bumped against her hip. “Nah, just stretching my legs. Besides, you’re still the gold standard. No contest.”

“Flatterer.” She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth quirked up. Then, with a lazy flick of her wrist, she pulled her keys from her pocket and dangled them just out of reach. “Fine, take it. But bring it back by morning—I’ve got shit to do. And don’t wreck it, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Deal.” I reached for the keys, but she snapped them back, grinning.

“Hmm.” She tapped them against her chin, pretending to think. “Actually, maybe I should make you work for it. You do owe me.”

I huffed a laugh. “Yeah? What’s the price?”

Her eyes glinted—that look that always meant trouble. She leaned in, close enough that her breath was warm against my skin. Her fingers ghosted over my zipper before squeezing, slow, deliberate. I twitched under her touch. “You’ll find out,” she murmured before pulling away.

Without warning, she flipped the keys at me—hard. They smacked my chest, cold metal biting through my shirt. I barely caught them before they hit the pavement, juggling groceries in the process.

“Saint,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“Saint, my ass,” she shot back over her shoulder, already heading for the stairs.

We hauled the bags up, her ass swaying ahead of me, begging for trouble. At her door, I set the groceries down and grabbed her—full-on ass squeeze, fingers digging into the denim, pulling her back against me. “David!” she yelped, swatting my hand, but her laugh betrayed her, bright and sharp. “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“What can I say? You bring out the animal in me.” I said, winking, then followed her in. Her place hit me again—sweet, musky, couch still dented from where we’d fucked earlier. I dropped the bags on the counter, slid my hand along her hip—slow, possessive—and she shoved me toward the door. “Go play, horn-dog. I’m crashing.”

“Sweet dreams,” I called back, already halfway out as she slammed the door shut behind me, laughing.

I jogged down, keys jangling in my pocket, slid into the driver’s seat, and fired it up. The city sprawled ahead, neon pulsing, a playground I could tear apart, and I was solo now, free to chase whatever hit me.

I tapped the wrist device, screen flaring.

“Simone,” I said, voice steady but itching, “what’s worth my time today? Pubs, lounges, anywhere with a heartbeat—hit me.”

Her voice crackled in, smooth as sin.

“Oh, look who’s off the leash. Thought Stacey would’ve tied you down by now—properly, I mean.” She let the words hang, waiting for the image to sink in before rolling on. “Alright, hotshot, here’s the lineup: dive bar on 5th—sticky floors, dirt-cheap drinks, regulars who get way too friendly after beer number three. Lounge downtown—plush seats, overpriced cocktails, people getting handsy in corners like they forgot it’s not a strip club. Then there’s the joint off Main—back-room poker, front-room dancing, and somewhere in between, a good chance you’ll walk in on an orgy.”

I huffed a laugh, tapping the wheel. “Damn, Simone, you make this city sound like a porno with bad lighting.”

“Am I wrong?” she shot back, tinny and smug. “Or would you prefer something classier? Fine. Speakeasy under the bridge—low lights, sultry jazz, and a crowd that’ll fuck you on the bar if you wink right. Take your pick, Romeo. Or should I just pick out a nice park bench for you instead?”

I smirked, feeling the hum of the engine under my grip. The dive bar was chaos, the lounge was indulgence, the back-alley spot promised sheer debauchery—but that speakeasy stuck, dripping in danger and velvet. Stacey’s favor lingered, a dirty IOU, but the day was mine. I flicked the turn signal, ready to pick a spot and see just how much trouble I could get into.

All those options Simone laid out were tempting, but I wasn’t looking to nibble—I needed something with claws. Swinging back to Stacey—maybe catching her mid-unpacking, pinning her to the counter while she laughed and shoved me off—was tempting. She’d have cashed in that favor with her thighs wide, no question. Her ass was a fucking dream, warm and willing. But after the store—after the cashier’s mouth and that MILF’s grip—I needed a new hit. Something rougher. Something that’d kick when I pushed.

The road flared wide, and I rolled into a sprawling parking lot, tires crunching gravel as I eased off the gas. The lineup hit me like a neon gut punch: O’Shenanigans, Grill & Guzzle, The Parched Poet, The Sewer Stop, Crimson Curtain, The Underground Lounge. Puns so thick I snorted—O’Shenanigans was drunk Irish chaos, Grill & Guzzle stank of grease and loudmouths, Parched Poet screamed pretentious beer snobs. Sewer Stop sounded like a burnout pit, Crimson Curtain some posh rope-line crap. But The Underground Lounge? That snagged me. Punk chicks, leather, that raw edge—I’d always had a hard-on for girls who’d sneer and snap their teeth while you fucked them senseless. Stacey’d laugh her ass off if she saw me chasing it—probably pinch my dick and tell me to behave.

It was early afternoon, sun still loafing overhead, so the lot was half-dead—cars scattered, no drunk herds yet. Perfect. Quiet meant room to fuck around. I swung Stacey’s ride into a spot near The Underground Lounge, cut the engine, and stepped out, beat-up sneakers smacking the ground. The place squatted low, windows blacked out, sign flickering like it’d seen better days. A punk den that’d roar later, but I wasn’t waiting. I tugged my jeans straight—still snug from Stacey’s tease—and headed for the door, her “back by morning” rule a faint itch.

I shoved the door open, hinges screeching like a kicked cat, and stepped in. The lounge hit me slow—dim lights flickering like they were half-dead, the air thick with stale beer and a whiff of burnt-out dreams, a jukebox snarling some filthy riff that scraped my nerves raw. Too early for a crowd, the place sprawled quiet, but it wasn’t asleep. I lingered at the door a sec, letting it creak shut behind me, the thud bouncing off the walls like a drunk’s last stumble. My shoes hit the warped wooden stairs, each step groaning under me, sagging like it’d seen too many spilled drinks and bad decisions. The main level opened up below, a grimy pit of scuffed floors and chipped tables, the bar jutting out ahead like a scarred-up prize.

I started down, jeans rasping tight against my thighs—my dick twitching half-hard already, itching for a fight or a fuck, maybe both. The air buzzed as I hit the floor, sticky planks catching my soles, a faint crunch of grit grinding underfoot. The jukebox growled louder, and my eyes jumped, snagging on the punk chick first. She was slouched on a bar stool, one leg swinging lazy, like she gave zero shits about the world. Short black hair—chopped jagged—stuck out wild around her pale face, an undercut buzzing the sides. Her leather shorts hugged her hips, torn fishnets snaking up her thighs, and her Slayer shirt was a shredded mess—gaping holes flashing a black bra underneath, straps cutting sharp against her skin. A studded choker gleamed at her throat, a tattoo—bright, jagged lines—twisting up her arm like a middle finger to the room. She nursed a beer, eyes sliding to me slow, hitting me with a flat, “don’t give a fuck” stare—hard, bored, like I was just another prick to ignore. My pulse thudded, already picturing that stool at hip height.

The bar stretched out ahead, wood scarred and stained, drink rings glowing faint in the dim light, a greasy sheen slicking the edge. Behind it, a blonde firecracker leaned on her elbows, rag in hand, wiping a glass like she was daring it to break. Her hair was yanked back in a wild platinum ponytail, strands spilling loose, and her black lipstick gleamed wet against a mischievous grin that screamed trouble. Her tank top clung tight, tits straining the fabric, nipples poking through like a fuck-you to modesty—she caught me looking, grin sharpening, eyes glinting like she’d already bet on how quick I’d crash and burn.

Next to her, a lanky dude with a scruffy beard slouched, sleeves shoved up, polishing bottles with slow, bored drags—hands smudging the glass, chill as hell, like he’d rather be napping than here. His eyes didn’t even flick up, just kept drifting over the bottles, half-asleep in the haze.

A clatter above the music caught my attention.

I turned. Out by the tables, a goth chick drifted through the shadows, all black lace and heavy eyeliner, her skirt so short it barely hid her ass—round, thick, stupidly inviting, swaying as she unstacked chairs and set them down, prepping the room for later. Her boots tapped soft, studs catching the light, hair—jet-black with purple streaks—swinging low. She moved like she didn’t give a damn who was watching, bent over a table to fix something, ass popping just enough to make me stare. Then she glanced back, lips twitching for a split second before she turned away, cool and untouchable.

I leaned against the bar, wood cool under my palms, pulse thumping like a drum in my chest. The Underground Lounge hummed around me—punk chick’s flat stare boring holes, blonde’s black-lipstick grin daring me to fuck up, goth’s ass swaying like a goddamn invitation. Even the bored barman’s slow bottle-polishing had a lazy pull, like he might tip me toward trouble if I played it right. The SIM was wide open, and I was itching to grab something—someone—and see how far this dive could bend.