Tracksuit Temptation

The fluorescent lights of Favorite Chicken buzzed overhead like dying wasps as I waited for my late-night box meal. Half eleven on a Friday, and the place was packed with the usual post-club crowd—lads in too-tight shirts, girls tottering on heels they couldn't walk in.

Then she walked in.

Kylie—I'd learn her name later—was everything the estate had promised and more. Bottle-blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail so tight it gave her a facelift. Hoop earrings big enough for a parrot to swing on. And curves that her pink Juicy Couture tracksuit couldn't contain no matter how hard the velour tried.

"You gonna stare all night or buy us a chip butty?" she said, catching me looking.

Her accent was pure South London, vowels flat as the concrete jungle we both called home. I liked it. Liked the way her lip gloss caught the light when she smiled, all sticky pink promise.

"Depends," I said, stepping closer. "You gonna share them chips?"

She laughed—a proper cackle that turned heads. "Cheeky bastard. I like that."

We ended up in the back booth, her thigh pressed against mine, hot even through the tracksuit material. She smelled like vanilla body spray and cigarettes, and when she leaned in to steal a chip from my box, her cleavage was right there, straining against the zip of her hoodie.

"Eyes up here, babes," she said, but she was grinning.

"Hard when you're putting on a show."

She bit her lip, dragging the chip through mayo with deliberate slowness. "Maybe I want you watching."

The booth was cramped, sticky with the ghosts of a thousand late-night meals. Perfect cover. Her hand found my thigh under the table, French-tipped nails digging in through my jeans.

"Bit forward, ain't ya?" I managed.

"Ain't got time for games, have I? Life's too short on the estate."

She had a point. Tomorrow she'd be back pushing a pram past the bookies, and I'd be back on the site mixing concrete. But tonight? Tonight we had greasy chicken and bad decisions.

Her hand crept higher. I returned the favor, finding the curve of her hip beneath that velour, then sliding around to grab a handful of her arse. She gasped—quietly, mindful of the CCTV—and pressed closer.

"Car park," she whispered. "Five minutes. The one behind Iceland."

She was gone before I could respond, leaving nothing but the scent of her perfume and a half-eaten chip.

The car park was darker than I expected, lit only by a flickering streetlight that turned everything orange. She was waiting by a wheelie bin—romantic, I know—smoking a Lambert & Butler like she hadn't a care in the world.

"Thought you weren't coming," she said.

I answered by pushing her against the wall, one hand in her hair, the other working that zip down. She moaned into my mouth, tasting of tobacco and salt, her tongue piercing clicking against my teeth.

"Fuck, you're eager," she breathed.

"You started it."

The tracksuit top fell open and Christ, no bra. Just full, heavy tits with nipples already hard from the cold—or anticipation. I ducked my head, took one in my mouth while she fumbled with my belt.

"Shit, right there—"

Her back arched off the brick. My hand slid down, past the elastic waistband of her tracksuit bottoms, finding her already wet and waiting. No knickers either. This girl came prepared.

"Been thinking about this all week," she admitted, gasping as my fingers found their rhythm. "Saw you at the bus stop Monday. Couldn't stop thinking about what you'd feel like."

"Yeah? What else you think about?"

She told me. In explicit, filthy detail that would make a sailor blush. Her words punctuated by little moans as I worked her closer to the edge, her hand finally freeing me from my jeans and wrapping around with practiced confidence.

"Need you," she said. "Now. Right fucking now."

I spun her around, bent her over against the wall. The tracksuit bottoms came down just enough, revealing an arse that deserved its own postcode. Round, full, a little butterfly tattoo on one cheek.

"Nice ink."

"Shut up and fuck me."

So I did.

She was tight and hot and made these little sounds with every thrust that echoed off the car park walls. Anyone could have walked past. Anyone could have seen. The danger of it made everything more intense.

"Harder—yeah, like that—don't you fucking stop—"

Her dirty talk was relentless, a stream of commands and compliments that kept me right on the edge. I reached around, found her clit, and felt her whole body shudder.

"Gonna—fuck—I'm gonna—"

She came with a muffled scream, biting her own arm to stay quiet. The way she clenched around me was too much—I followed moments later, gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

We stayed there, panting, steam rising from our bodies in the cold night air. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed.

"Same time next week?" she asked, pulling up her tracksuit like nothing had happened.

I grinned. "I'll buy the chicken."

She kissed me once—quick and hard—then disappeared into the estate, just another girl in pink velour swallowed by the tower blocks.

I walked home with a smile and the taste of cheap lip gloss.