by R. Gay
Jodie searched his face for the mark of the rapist or serial killer—not that she knew what she was looking for—but his open-faced sincerity reassured her. “That would be nice.”
She drained her wine and slid off the stool. Donnie threw a couple of notes on the counter and gestured for the door. She noted he was shorter than she, but stocky and well put together, with a flat stomach underneath the plain white tee, and faded denims clinging lovingly to his muscular thighs. She briefly thought she should let a friend know where she was going. She shouldn’t be going out at all on a weeknight when she had to be up early for work. Instead she said, “I’m Jodie.”
“Donnie,” he said, and opened the door for her, a gesture as old-fashioned as it was endearing.
He took her to a backstreet Mexican café, a homey place she had sometimes passed. Over enchiladas and green chili, she told him about her work and the promotion with longer hours.
Donnie scratched his chin. “What would happen if you simply refused?”
“I think I’d find myself out of a job.”
“Is the job worth it?”
“No,” she said, simply, and her breath caught as he covered her hand with his own, rough finger pads passing over her skin in a swift caress.
“Then ‘no’ it should be.” He glanced at his watch—a simple chunky thing with a battered face. “I’m going to have to take you home now, Jodie. I have to be at work early tomorrow.”
She knew she should be relieved that he wasn’t expecting anything from her but a small—okay, a large—part of her was sorry. She’d been expecting the pass, the kisses, the fumbles, the whispered entreaty to let him come up for coffee.
“I have to work too,” she said.
Donnie escorted Jodie back to her apartment, reaching past her to release the door of the pickup.
“I like you, Jodie,” he said. “Would you come out for dinner again sometime?”
“That would be nice,” she said, and then he kissed her.
It was a swift, short passing of his lips rather than a kiss that would lead to more, but her stomach somersaulted at the touch of his firm mouth. She wanted to pull him to her and feel his agile tongue, find out how his skin felt beneath her hands.
“Tomorrow?”
She nodded.
“Come to the bar again after work.”
The next day at work, she barely registered her new boss. Her head was full of Donnie: how he’d looked, how he’d tasted in that short, sweet sip; the fresh, clean smell of him. The litigation partner looked at her appraisingly, but she was oblivious. She was counting down the hours and minutes to five thirty.
Just after six, she walked into the bar again. She’d considered going home to change into jeans but had reasoned that Donnie had seen her in work clothes yesterday, and besides, going home would take the best part of an hour. She couldn’t wait that long to see him.
He was seated at the bar, a hefeweizen and two white wines in front of him. Jodie’s eyes lingered, tracing his body with her eyes, seeing how his strong hands caressed the frosted glass of his pint. How would they feel tracing her body?
She slid onto the stool next to him. Immediately he cupped the back of her head, pulling in for a kiss.
Jodie’s nights fell into a pattern. They met at the bar for happy hour. Two wines, buffalo wings for appetizers, and then they ate at small backstreet cafés—Mexican, Thai, Japanese, a family diner and back to the little Mexican café Jodie now thought of as their place. Every night, a kiss and he would leave her on her doorstep. No more, no less.
She was obsessed with Donnie. She woke with the feel of his skin beneath her hands and when she realized he was only in her dreams, her fingers would curl with his absence until her nails dug into her palms. She was distracted at work and made mistakes with papers, left court documents unsigned. She was reprimanded, but she didn’t care. The litigation partner smiled to himself; he had made a mistake promoting her, but her inefficiency would make it easier to rescind the offer.
Jodie didn’t know why Donnie didn’t take her to bed. He’d come up to her apartment for a cup of coffee once, and it had been just that: a cup of coffee. She was sure he wanted her: the drugging heat of his kisses, the way his arms trembled as he held her told her so, and once she’d felt his erection against her leg. But he never asked, “Can I stay?” He had never tried to waltz her into the bedroom, had never slid his hands over her body in a proprietary way, even though she wanted him to. Oh, how she wanted him to.
She made a decision. On Friday, when he dropped her home, and after his customary kiss, when he said, “Tomorrow night?” she replied, “Only if you’ll stay the night.”
He drew back and traced her cheek with his finger. “If that’s what you want, Jodie. If that’s what you really want.”
She nodded. “Do you ?”
“Oh, yes,” he breathed, and the space between them was suddenly tense and molten with promise.
She dressed with care on Saturday: lacy boyshorts and matching bra, jeans worn soft with age that hugged her ass and flattened her stomach, a Western shirt and cowboy boots. She left her hair loose and it curled to her shoulders.
When she reached the bar, she saw that while she had dressed down, Donnie had dressed up. His jeans were black, his shirt pristine white, and he wore a bolo tie with a silver and turquoise clasp accenting his swarthy skin and sleek brown hair. There was no happy hour on Saturdays, so they left immediately, and Donnie turned the pickup toward the more genteel suburbs, away from the local cafés they usually visited.
“We going up market?” she teased.
“You’re worth it.” He squeezed her hand lightly and withdrew.
Donnie took her to a steakhouse, and they ate butter-soft filet and baby vegetables. Jodie’s vision was filled with Donnie: his voice, his hands, how he met her eyes, and the thought of how he would feel inside her later.
They drank red wine and lingered over dessert, even when Jodie was so aware of every movement he made, every touch of his fingers to her hand, that her skin felt like a living canvas, stroked and lighted by his touch. But when the waiter offered coffee, she couldn’t stand it any longer and refused.
Donnie picked up the tab, and they walked to his pickup. Drawing her into its hulking shadow under the streetlight, he stroked her face once more.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She expected seduction and soft, tender words. Donnie was considerate, and she thought his lovemaking would be… respectful, controlled but ardent.
Inside her apartment Jodie found him staring at her with undisguised hunger. She went to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, slanting her mouth over his.
He devoured her. The control and restraint were gone, evaporated into the humid air. His tongue smoothed a pathway into her mouth and his fingers made their own explorations over her body.
Jodie thought briefly of the neatly laid tray for coffee and brandy in the kitchen—no time, no need. She responded to his ardor with her own passion. His body was hard and muscled beneath her hands, and when he pressed his hips into hers, she felt the insistence of his erection against her belly. Oh, my. He was hard and ready for her, and a rush of liquid heat coiled through her belly.
When Donnie plucked at the hem of her shirt, she pulled away, unfastening the buttons and letting it slide from her shoulders. The heat and appreciation in his eyes warmed her, and she continued, removing the lacy bra she’d chosen for him with such care, then sliding her jeans down her legs.
Donnie dropped to his knees, his arms around her waist and his cheek pressed to her belly. Jodie wound her fingers into that thick brown hair and held him there, feeling his arms enclosing her so tightly. Donnie shifted and pressed his mouth over the lace of her boyshorts. The heat of his breath reached her skin through the lace. And then Donnie’s fingers were pulling down the lace, and his nose bumped her pubic bone and all she could see was the top of his head as he buried his face in her curling pubes
. He parted her with careful fingers, and she thought she would faint with the pleasure of anticipation as he hovered for a moment before pressing his mouth to her pussy, his tongue sweeping in and around and over. An agile tongue stroked the side of her clit in flat, broad movements, then flickered over the tip with such a light feathering touch that her knees buckled.
Donnie’s hands supported the backs of her thighs. “Easy now,” he said, his words muffled by flesh and hair. Then he was lifting her onto his mouth, pulling her into him, subsuming her while his tongue and lips worked their magic.
One part of her wanted him to stop, open his zipper and push into her so that she knew what he felt like. Another, greater part, wanted him to stay there on his knees with his mouth melded to her pussy until she fractured into a million shining pieces. The decision wasn’t hers to make. Donnie was in control, and as he suckled her, as his tongue flickered and darted, she knew she was going to come so hard her atoms would be spread around the room with the force of her implosion. Her knees buckled, she grabbed at his hair, and then in a keening wail the ripples built to a crescendo and she came in jerks of ecstasy, huge gulping spasms that left her belly sore and her pussy swollen and wet as a monsoon.
With shaking hands she tucked her damp hair behind her ears and reached for him, pulling him up along her body until she could kiss his salty lips. Then she reached for him, shucking his white shirt—not so pristine now—and kissing the small and shapely breasts she found beneath, running her hands firmly over his abs, tracing their definition.
“Jodie,” he whispered, his breath coming fast and hot. “You know that—”
“Sssh,” she soothed him, and stroked the curve of his breast, bending to take his nipple between her lips.
She contemplated letting him take her against the door, on the table, somewhere were it would be fast and hard and furious, but in the end she led him to her bed, where the light pooled in soft golden circles.
There she undid his jeans, pushing them down over his hips, then the white jockey shorts, until his cock stood free. She traced the straps that held it in place, learning how it was held there, then let her fingers drift along its jutting length, before finally dipping lower, and using her own anatomy as a guide, she stroked in a delicate touch.
Donnie jerked in surprise, hissed through his teeth.
“You don’t want this?” she asked. “Let me make you come before you fuck me.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s—”
“Shh,” and she cut him off with a kiss. “Later. Tell me later.”
“Later then,” he replied, and emboldened, she redoubled her efforts, her fingers walking pathways so familiar, yet so strange.
He didn’t come. Although his body shuddered, and her fingers were drenched with his juices, he controlled himself tightly. Abruptly, Jodie found herself pushed back on the bed, and Donnie hovered over her, his muscular body above hers. Instinctively, she parted her thighs, wanting him inside.
He didn’t disappoint. She reached down to guide him, taking the warm shaft, maneuvering it so that the tip slid between her wet pussy lips. Her fingers dug into his buttocks so fiercely she felt the warm wetness of blood.
Donnie slid home with one sure, hard thrust, and then they were fucking, the bang and crash of a fierce coupling, the thrust and withdrawal. Her pussy clasped him, clenching around his hard pole, and the tightness and welling of sensation deep within told her she’d be coming again.
She didn’t know if he could come like this, and she wanted to wait for him, but as he thrust even harder, she knew, with a sense of helpless fatality, she couldn’t wait. He had her that much out of control. As she spasmed around him, she saw Donnie, his face contorted and red with effort, muscles rigid. When he collapsed on top of her, sliding over her in the sheen of their combined sweat, she realized from his breathing that yes, he’d come.
Donnie was too much of a gentleman to crush her, though she could have stayed forever in his arms. He rolled away, swooping back to kiss her, one of his hard, probing, drowning kisses, the sort that had made her fall for him in the first place.
There was an ease in his eyes that had been absent before their lovemaking.
“You knew,” he said, simply.
“I guessed. Did I do it right?”
He laughed, a deep, tender chuckle. “Honey, there is no wrong way.” He hesitated. “But you’re not into men like me.”
“Honey, I’m into you.”
“I was afraid…” he began, but she silenced him with a kiss. She knew what he was going to say and it didn’t matter, not now, not now that they were lovers.
“I bought breakfast food,” she said, suddenly shy. “That is, unless you want to go out for breakfast, or unless I’m presuming too much?”
He propped himself up on one arm and smiled down at her. “Presume all you want to. You have no idea…”
“Oh, but I think I have.”
GOOD NEIGHBORS
Jennifer Geneva
It was hot—a steamy Sunday night—and I couldn’t sleep. I had just broken up with my boyfriend, Jason, and I missed the sex already. It was our only area of compatibility. We fought and had rough, angry, hot sex that kept us together. I tried calling him but his phone went straight to voice mail. I hung up without leaving a message, knowing he’d see I called.
School had just ended for the semester and my lifeguard job didn’t start for another two weeks. I like working at the pool during the day but my favorite time is after the pool has closed and I’m the only one there. I take off my utilitarian red swimsuit and dive in, water stroking every inch of my skin, spreading my long, dark hair behind and around me. The swimming, the possibility of being caught and the warm air on my body usually turn me on so much I stretch out on a chaise lounge and rub my clit in just the right way until I come, biting my hand to avoid making the commotion that usually accompanies my orgasms.
I have a fantasy that gets me worked up and off every time. I’m lying on the lounge, naked, starting my private workout. I run both hands up my body to my nipples, already erect and begging to be pinched and teased. I am startled by the sound of footsteps and open my eyes to find one of the water polo players who practices at the pool standing over me. His hard cock strains against the tight fabric of his Speedo. Without speaking, he peels it off.
I sit up, put my hand around the base of his gorgeous dick and pull on it gently. He moans. I flick my tongue around its head. He pulls my hair as my mouth takes his dick in farther. I roll my tongue around it, stopping periodically to give his balls some much-appreciated attention, and stop short when he looks like he’s about to come.
I pull him onto the chair, on top of me. My legs are spread. He crawls between them and pulls them up over his shoulders. He shoves his huge cock into me and pumps me until he fills me to the edge of pain, staying on the right side. When he sees I’m about to come, he says, “Yeah,” and we lose control at the same time.
As my body bucks and trembles, he disappears. When my fantasy ends, I jump in the pool to cool off and go home after another satisfying day at work.
Last night there was nothing to cool me down. My apartment doesn’t have air-conditioning and my fan was no match for the humid June night.
I shed my tiny tank top and panties, trying to get more comfortable with a cold shower. When I got out, I stood in front of the fan, set at full blast. The heat made me cranky and my nakedness and the fan blowing cool air on my nipples made me horny.
I thought about getting myself off but I wanted to feel a real body up against mine. I wanted to sweat from more than just the hot night. I tried to distract myself: TV, reading, music. I called friends and got voice mail. I couldn’t stop thinking about sex. I was pissed Jason had gotten over me so quickly.
Completely awake and frustrated, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I looked down at my body and thought of what a waste it was that no one was there to enjoy and excite me. With my long legs, tight ass,
full tits with pink erect nipples, red toenails: it was a shame.
I guzzled the icy water, letting some cold droplets slide over my throat and nipples. I wished someone were there to lick the water from my skin. I poured myself another glass full. Looking out the large, uncovered window of my studio apartment, I saw a light on across the street. The blinds were open. I quickly forgot about the water. There was a woman standing right in front of a glass door, one hand alternately pinching each hard nipple, the other playing with her pussy. My mouth fell open.
She had long, dark hair and a luscious body, slick with sweat. We kind of looked alike, which was even hotter. A guy came up behind her, pressed up against her back and ass and grabbed her tits roughly. I imagined his hands on my nipples and shivered. He turned her around and pushed her up against the glass.
I had seen them before, coming and going from our apartments. Jason and I had noticed each other noticing them and talked about how hot it would be to have a foursome with them. We almost didn’t make it inside before our clothes were off. He knew I had never fucked a girl and assumed the man was the subject of my fantasies. But this girl was sex on a stick and he would not have been more surprised than I was that I wanted to lick her like a Popsicle.
It was agonizing to watch without being a part of the fun, but I couldn’t look away. She was on her knees now, his ass pressed against the door. I wanted to be him. I couldn’t help touching myself. When they dimmed their lights, I had a better view of her body that was anything but boyish or lacking in any way. I watched her throw back her hair and tease him, playing with her alert nipples. I turned my own lights up, pulled out my vibrator, and hoped they would see me. I moved the vibrator around my outer lips, honing in slowly and deliberately toward my clit, teasing myself with a lower setting. After only a minute or so, I turned it up, thrust it in and out of my pussy a few times then concentrated the hard plastic on my pulsing clit. I came quickly and loudly. I didn’t care about the neighbors near me. I just wanted my hot neighbors across the way to see me, especially her.