Surprise Page 2
He stood on shaking legs and not caring what the other patrons thought of his current state, made his way out the door to his dusty truck. His brain foggy and his mouth cottony, he felt much drunker than he was, and paused to take a few deep breaths after he slid behind the wheel. He rested his face against the window and squeezed his eyes shut, letting the impact of the evening sink in. He wondered how Tad ever managed to come into work the next day after witnessing what he’d seen that night.
There was a rapping at the window. When he looked up, he saw it was the redhead, now fully dressed in tight jeans and a flannel shirt. Her orange hair, backlit by the lights of the parking lot, hung around her shoulders in waves. She wore the smile of someone who had just been fucked into nirvana. He rolled down the window and she said, “I’m sorry to ask this of you, but my ride left me. Could you give me a lift? It’s just a few miles east.”
“Sure,” Luke replied with bridled enthusiasm. He reached over to unlock the passenger door as she ran around to the other side of the car and wrenched open the door. She swung herself up into the truck and the cab was suddenly filled with her energy. Luke gripped the wheel in an effort to avoid reaching out to touch her.
“Thanks a lot,” she said. “I don’t mean to be a pest, but you looked like you wanted to leave and didn’t seem too drunk, so…”
“It’s alright,” he croaked, as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.
“Well, I appreciate it.” The redhead flipped down the visor to inspect her makeup and a photograph wafted down into her lap. She picked it up and inspected it. “Very cute.” She flipped it over. “So is this Mary your girlfriend?”
Luke plucked the photograph out of the redhead’s hands and let it float out his open window. “Mary who?”
Filthy New Romantics
Harper Hull
We are the filthy new romantics, looking down on the city of love from an iron tower beneath a Monet sky, my hands hard on your 1950’s hips and my lips to your right ear, whispering.
“Let me fuck you here, fuck you above Paris where anyone looking up can see us.”
You hold the railing in your fragile hands and push back from the edge, the gently swaying metal pushing movement through your feet and up to your twitching knees. I feel you squish back against me and edge my hips forward, resting my tight balls against the small of your back, on the upper slope of your Bardot ass which flexes and softens against me.
“You can drive me later,” you say, quickly glancing back at me with those castle-sieging, stone-grey eyes, your hair flicking across my mouth, (your voice becoming a whisper as men in unbuttoned shirts walk behind us, coughing) “if I can wait, the front of my dress is already heavy.”
I am completely undone by your words and move my hands around your waist, tracing the buried elastic edge of your panties with my fingertips until they plump up against your rise. Damp heat soaks all the way through the cotton of your dress as I fan my hands down into your protected creases, pushing your barely found lips together and then dragging them slightly apart, tensing the material of your underwear.
“Why can’t I have you when I need you most?” I pant into your ear as you purr like an electric kitten, the smell of your hair and neck filling my head, cocoa and butter and Cabernet. I am drooling on you, leaving glistening strands in your raven-wing hair, you are my futuristic Anna Karina swaying and pushing atop this monument to death. You slowly lift and collapse an arm behind your own shoulder, drag your Merlot nails across my open mouth and heavy tongue, then snake your arm out, down and back between us, making a tiny fist that pushes into the top of my trousers, behind the belt-buckle, before opening up and slathering my head with saliva from your fingers.
“Slow down, move down,” I gasp, not wanting my petit mort to take me too soon. “Don’t spoil your surprise.”
Your slick fingers slip slowly, wetly down my erection, your touch light and agonizing.
Pulling my face from the heady tangles of you, I lean forward and look over the chipped metal railing to the scene that spreads beneath us like an unfurled roll of God’s own carpet, from the sweeping expanses of suicide netting that hangs taut below us all the way down to the people-thronged streets, a mass of wriggling primary colors, then further, further into the distance over clipped buildings and a leveled skyline that sits low and magnifies the already huge blue sky.
I cup your breasts through your dress and rotate my thumbs over your noisette diamonds imagining the thousands of dramas unfolding and climaxing in the wondrous grid of cold humanity and warm architecture that sprawls all around us. Little cigarette-burned tableaus of pencil-skirted vixens and slim-suited rogues rattle by inside our longing, dirty minds. The artist going down hard and angry on his wide-hipped muse in a sunny studio as she smears paint and blood across his back, gasping beneath his mouth. The bored housewife inviting the baker’s delivery boy inside her parlor where she loosens her breasts so he can lap at them like a hot spaniel, his basket spilling on the tile floor. The drunken actress frigging herself in the back of a cab as the driver watches in his rearview, her skirt around her waist, his hands on wheel and stick, their eyes locked in a reflection.
We lap it up like thirsty black cats let loose in a dairy farm. In a flash of white these filthy imaginings shake themselves loose from the sprockets in our heads and it is us again, just us, hot and needy.
You turn around and face me, your granite eyes wide and full.
“She is here,” I say, almost gasping, and let you plunge your tongue between my lips, pull hard on my hair. I close my eyes as our teeth grind across each other for a moment and you explore every dark corner inside my mouth, sliding and delving, licking and tasting, as I push my tongue against the roof of your mouth.
The platform we are on has emptied of people, probably embarrassed at our unashamed displays of utter desire and want.
“Maybe they are envious,” you say, sucking on my lower lip and letting it snap back as you pull your mouth from mine, “off to shape their own breathless moments.” You look over my shoulder and I feel you shudder. I know she is there, that you see what she is holding, that it excites you even more.
I turn and together we watch the girl. You wrap your arms around my waist, interlock your fingers against the baton of my cock that rears inside my pants, and move them up and down like you are starting a slow-burning fire.
She is pretty and black-haired and very French in tall black boots and a short red skirt, a grey military style jacket with large silver buttons and a red hat. She holds an expensive looking camera in her soft girl hands and smiles at us, uncapping the lens and bringing the camera up to her face.
“Have fun,” she says in an accent that drips down my belly like syrup, “do your thing and ignore me if you can.”
You spin me back around, grasp my head hard and lick my chin.
“This is my surprise?” you ask, your eyes half-closed. “I fucking love it, I fucking love you.”
I hold your small chin with one hand and bite your lower lip, hard.
“This is your surprise,” I say. “Whatever she takes we get. It’s all arranged. We will always have this. Now, get yourself a good view of the city and show me your ass.”
You laugh, run to the corner of the platform and press your belly against the railing, lift your dress over your waist. I walk towards you, unzipping, pull your tiny emerald colored panties to one side and push myself inside you, finally. All the while the camera is click-click-clicking around us, its long lens viewing, cataloging and moving inside our private sky-shaming show.
“Fuck me like it’s the last time you’ll ever know me,” you say loudly, resting your chest against the metal rail and reaching back to pull your cheeks wide apart. I start thrusting into you, hard but slow, feeling the reverberation in your buttocks crest across my thighs with every hit. I arch my back and look down at your deep red fingernails pressing into your own whitest flesh, watch my cock slide out of you, glistening, th
en in again, your little asshole tightening above it with every thrust.
You let go of your cheeks which close around me in a hot press of flesh and hold onto the railing, pushing back. With one hand on your naked thigh I move the other around to your front and between your legs, briefly feeling my cock sliding into you with my fingertips before slipping them up and pushing your cunt lips apart, slick and warm and alive. I’m aware of the camera, held out over the long drop down before us and shooting back as we fuck on the platform. It vanishes and I think it is behind me now, shooting up between my knees. I bend my middle finger and press it up under your clit, move it up and down, round and round, deep into the folds of your pussy and back again, just how you like it.
We switch positions more than once. Face-to-face with your panties around one ankle and your legs around my hips, laughing into the lens as we kiss and bite. Sideways with one foot tossed up onto my shoulder, your ass round and white and profiled for the camera to eat up as I expose your tits and nipples in bright, colorful silhouette against the low, bouncing skyline. The French girl in the long boots is talking dirty in words we kind of understand as she skips and bends around us. It is glorious and we can’t stop laughing, biting.
You cum curved forward looking down on Paris, I cum thrown back looking up past the narrowing metal structure above us to a bright blue sky. This, we decide later as we lay naked and look through the glorious snaps in our hotel room, is the best photo of the fucking bunch.
Adam Gets Perspective
Kyoko Church
“My goodness.” It came out more like a statement than an exclamation of shock.
Surprising, really. You would expect shock from the housekeeper walking in on the man of the house furiously jacking off in front of his computer.
Which made it sound like Adam was watching porn. He wasn’t. No, he was trying to unblock his brain. He kept thinking, if only he could get the images out of his head—his ex in a black lace bra and panties giving him his own private lap dance, the dark sheen of her beautiful black hair as she went down on him in his car in the parking lot, her slim body moving to straddle him, breasts pointed high, her back arching as she climaxed on top of him—then he could get back to the task at hand. Or rather the other one. The first draft of his manuscript was due to his publisher in two months. He just wanted to come quickly, clear his head and get back to the blinking cursor waiting expectantly on the blank page. He had been tugging at his half-hard meat for twenty minutes without success.
“Shit!” Adam grabbed the nearest thing he could find, which happened to be his well thumbed copy of Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian kept nearby to inspire good writing, and placed it over his erection. He stared down at the book’s crimson cover thinking his face and dick were probably a similar shade of red.
“Mrs. Stuart, I’m so incredibly embarrassed,” he started, expecting an appalled reaction from the prim and proper woman who, for the past six months, had been keeping his house in the most pristine condition it had ever been in. When he had interviewed her for the job he’d duly noted hair: graying blonde and matronly, pulled back in a bun the likes of which he hadn’t seen since June Cleaver; dress: hem hanging a foot below the knee complete with white apron; age: he’d put her somewhere in her early sixties. He decided she was perfect. Plain, perfunctory, completely forgettable. Just what he needed. Clean house. No distractions.
Mrs. Stuart, however, did not seem in the least embarrassed. Instead of screaming and running from the room or announcing her inability to continue working for such a vile pervert, she put down her dust cloth and can of Pledge just outside the room, quickly came back inside and shut the door. Wordlessly she moved over to where Adam sat and knelt in front of him.
“Mrs. Stuart, I, I….” She ignored him entirely. Removing the book from his lap and pushing his hands away she quickly put his softening cock in her mouth. What the…? But soon all rational thought left Adam’s head as his housekeeper’s tongue and lips went to work on his cock.
She performed this task as she did all the others in Adam’s house, quickly, efficiently and with the skill of someone who had done it hundreds of times before. It wasn’t long before Adam was hovering on the edge and, sensing this, the woman firmly cupped his balls in her palm. He uttered something completely nonsensical and came in a hard gush in her mouth.
She rose quietly, subtly wiped her fingers at the edges of her mouth and patted the sides of her hair. Too flabbergasted to even start dressing himself, Adam sat with his dick shrinking in his lap, staring at his housekeeper in utter amazement.
She appeared reluctant to explain, but seeing that he was waiting for some sort of clarification, she finally spoke. “I suppose I never mentioned that my own Harold, god bless him, was also a writer.” She paused but Adam remained speechless. “Well, that used to happen to him, too. He’d get,” she gestured down towards Adam’s lap, “…distracted. Well, when that happened he would ask me to, you know, help clear his mind so he could focus on his work.” She stood stoically, almost defiantly in front of him. “It just looked like you were similarly…preoccupied.”
“Well, uh, thanks but…” Adam suddenly became aware of being half naked in front of the prim woman and started to grab at his pants. Before he could say anything else she slipped out the door.
And to his amazement, Adam swung his chair around to face his computer and spent the next four hours pounding out a steady stream of fifteen pages of some of his best work.
Adam could never have imagined coming to an arrangement like this, but after a few weeks they seemed to fall into a schedule of sorts, a blow job ritual if you will. Every morning at 9:00 AM Mrs. Stuart would arrive in his study and just like the first time, kneel in front of his chair and suck him off. Beginning the day this way unleashed not only his seed, but his creativity as well. He was writing with more clarity and fervor than he could ever remember. Storylines seemed to plot themselves as he charted them in wild strokes onto large graph paper he’d affixed across his office wall. And the words that fleshed those stories out seemed to flow magically from some other place, through his fingers, filling the pages of his screen. The blinking cursor no longer seemed his nemesis but his waiting servant. His publisher’s deadline no longer loomed large but was a manageable target.
In the evenings after she had left for the day and he was seated on his porch, relaxing with a cold Heineken and listening to Leonard Cohen on vinyl, he would get to thinking about how fucked up it all was. Fucked up that when he heard her car arrive in the driveway, her key in the lock, he would get instantly hard. That the smell of Pledge now made him horny. That the last person to go down on him was someone he called “Mrs. Stuart.” She had never told him to call her anything else and he had never dared ask. Fucked up, indeed. But he could not deny that, for now anyway, it was working.
Then, about a week before his publisher’s deadline, the Landowskis started an addition on their house.
They lived directly behind Adam. Mrs. Landowski had been working on her husband for three years to get the addition. Their little bungalow was perfect for the retired couple but Mrs. Landowski was a painter and longed for a studio where she could have the solitude to invest in her craft. Her husband, fresh out of excuses and delays, finally relented. So the construction began. And the banging.
The builders seemed to start around the same time Adam did. Usually, after Mrs. Stuart’s morning treatment he would not really notice the noise for the first couple of hours or so. But around noon the hammering pounded its way into Adam’s brain, eating into his storylines like termites into wood. Other noises like traffic, birds, dogs barking, all seemed to blend into the background. Maybe, if the hammering were a steady, monotonous presence, it would have too. But there was jackhammering, steady for three minutes and then nothing. Then it would start again, just thirty seconds this time, then stop. Then the lighter hammering—bang, bang, bang, in rapid-fire succession. Then two slow ones—whump, whump. Then jackhammering aga
in. The bloody jackhammer! How he cursed its very invention. The drilling into concrete seemed to be drilling directly into his skull. It drove Adam mad. He considered going elsewhere, to try writing in coffee shops or the local library like he heard other writers did. But he needed his huge, plotted graphs, found comfort in his familiar surroundings, and wanted the continuity of his rituals (blowjobs) to knit together his final work.
Shortly before lunch on Friday, Adam was seated at his computer desk with his head in his hands and the banging resonating in his ears. His draft manuscript was due on Monday and he was so close. If he could just get the last chapter wrapped up this afternoon, then he knew he would have the whole weekend, and the blissful silence it promised, to massage the whole work into something comprehensive.
His door was slightly ajar and so, as Mrs. Stuart was passing by, she noticed his dejected posture and came in.
“Are you quite alright, Adam?” she asked.
He was fine, he explained. It was just the banging. As if on cue the pounding started up again and he grasped his hair in his fingers.
“Fucking builders are driving me nuts!” he erupted.
“Well now, there’s no need for that potty mouth,” she scolded, and he marveled, not for the first time, how this matronly woman had learned to give a better blow job than the stripper he dated two years ago.
“Let’s see if we can’t do something about this,” she said as she moved to assume the position.
“Oh, really, Mrs. Stuart,” (cringe) “that’s really okay. I don’t even think that’s going to help this time.” But even as he spoke he caught a whiff of Lemon Pledge and his dick stirred slightly, as if in disagreement.