Summer Shorts

by Huck Pilgrim

  “Hold on,” she says.

  She lets go of his hand, but he can sense her body is still close by. Don hears a cord pull and the room lights up. She opens her arms, as if to present the room. A narrow mattress on the floor, clothes stacked in piles. A tall mirror leaning against the wall. She pulls off her jacket and then sits on the mattress, patting the area next her.

  “Sit,” she says.

  Taking off his jacket, Don sits down next to her. He holds his muscular body stiffly. Feels awkward. Wonders if he should leave. She busies herself, tugging off her boots. Once both her boots are off, she says, “Hold on.” And then leans over him, reaching for something on the floor on the other side of the mattress. She smells like lavender and cigarette smoke.

  “I'm sorry,” she says.

  Don can feel her warm body press against his chest. He places his hand on her hip and she twists her body and then his hand ends up on her bottom. She laughs and looks back over her shoulder. She was reaching for a towel, which she now has in her hands. Slipping off the mattress, she kneels in front of him. Mops her face and chest with the towel, tilting her head down, a waterfall of blonde hair.

  “You're very attractive,” Don says.

  Without looking up, she says: “I didn't know you felt that way about me.”

  His cock is straining against his wet pants. They are going to do this little dance of theirs—Don is sure of it now. Their little act—the pretense—feels all very obligatory, but somehow necessary. She is lonely, he is weak.

  Don leans forward. Their dry lips meet.

  It's brief, perfunctory kissing, all lips and closed eyes, the kind of kissing reserved for johns. Don’s rain damp clothes stick to his skin. He puts his hand on her chin, tilts her face up. He licks her lips and then position himself closer to her on the floor.

  “Can you—” Don pauses, not sure how to present it. “Do me a favor,” he finally asks.

  Don is all euphemism tonight.

  She looks up. She knows what he wants from her. Don smiles and she nods her head, silently acquiescing.

  “Let me check you out,” Don whispers.

  She closes her eyes, and he runs his hands between her legs, along the insides of her thighs, over her hips and tummy. Damp cotton, wet denim. Such a tight, athletic body. So young. He watches her face, her breathing getting rhythmic, deeper.

  Don stands and opens his pants, unzips his fly. She remains on her knees, gazing up at him.

  He fishes out his cock and presses it against her flush face. She closes her eyes and opens her mouth. Slipping his cock inside, Don positions himself so that he can watch her in the mirror. His pants are at his thighs. He rocks his hips back and forth, sawing his cock in and out of her warm mouth. One of his hands is on top of her head, the other holds up his shirt. For a forty something man, he has a flat stomach. He watches her nuzzle her face against the soft dark matt of hair on his stomach, and then slip his cock back into her mouth. She uses both hands to stroke his shaft. Don hasn’t had head this accomplished in a long time.

  She pushes back suddenly, his cock spilling from her mouth.

  Wiping her chin and mouth with the back of her hand, she says, “Please don't come in my mouth.” Her lips are puffy, her voice thick with sex. Don is mildly surprised. There is a beat of quiet where he doesn't say anything.

  “Please,” she repeats.

  Stroking his cock, Don realizes he really doesn't care if she takes him back in her mouth or not. Ninety percent of what he needed from her, he got when she said “Please” in that husky voice.

  “No, no,” he mumbles, finally finding his voice.

  She nods. Pauses.

  “I won't,” he says. He means it.

  She lowers her head and goes back to work.

  Don hears soft sucking noises and feels her wet fist slide and pump. He watches her in the mirror, her face hidden by her long hair. He enjoys seeing her head softly bob. Likes the idea of taking this girl without removing her clothes or even learning her full name. He watches a little longer and then decides that he is going to finish in her mouth.

  Don understands that by filling her mouth with his semen he is disrespecting her. He doesn't mean to treat her so poorly, but he can't help himself. There is something about a girl as needy as this—a girl willing to use her mouth to satisfy a man twice her age simply because she was asked. He feels compelled to make her a victim of her own desires.

  When he is finished, she will swallow his come. Before he breaks, he will place his hand on the back of her head. Perhaps at the very end she will realize and try to resist, possibly pressing her palms against his thighs, or arching her neck and shoulders. But he will have the superior position. At some point she will have to surrender, to relax, to use her throat to accept what he has to offer.

  She stops again.

  “Okay,” she says, wiping her mouth with her free hand and not looking up. “You can come in my mouth.” She is speaking into his cock as if it were a microphone, her hand still slowly stroking him.

  “Okay?” Don asks—he is genuinely surprised.

  Looking up, she says: “You're just going to anyhow.” Don can see there is a fine bead of sweat on her brow.

  He grins.

  She licks her puffy lips and says, “I might as well let you.”

  Goodbye Roger

  Joanie Salinger grins into the camera, her face filling the entire frame: hazel eyes, head tilted to the left, a hesitant smile that reveals a delicate overbite.

  “Does this work?” she asks. “Is it on?”

  She's got a smatter of freckles across her nose. She laughs, places the camera on something, her hands momentarily covering the lens. Blackness.

  Seconds later she removes her hands.

  The camera is resting somewhere at about the height of the Joanie’s waist, canted low, toward the floor. Moving across the room, she sits on the floor in front of a couch. A slim body. Thin dark-blue hair cut just above her shoulders. She is wearing a too small grey T-shirt with the name of the local high school stenciled in red letters across the chest, CARNAL HIGH.

  To keep her bangs out of her eyes, she constantly flicks her head, or uses her hand. Barefoot, her midriff exposed, she crosses her legs Indian-style, and then rubs her hands on her denim thighs.

  She is chewing gum and talking to someone, but you can't see who else is in the room or make out much of what she is saying. The audio is bad. A radio, tuned to a Top 40 station, plays in the background.

  She reaches into the front pocket of her pants and retrieves a cell phone. Head bent, she punches buttons on the phone’s keypad. Whoever else is in the room protests at the interruption. She raises her head and grins.

  What a great smile.

  “Hold on,” she says. “This is Roger. This is text from Roger fucking Bones.”

  More protests from the other person in the room. She stops grinning. Tossing the phone onto the couch, she slips onto her knees.

  “C’mere,” she says.

  She scoots forward on her knees, reaches for something just out of the camera’s view. A young man appears, tugged into the frame by the girl. His head is out of the frame. Shirtless, a muscled torso. You can tell by the hairless, unblemished skin that he is young. Just a boy, really.

  She tugs him toward her by the waistband of his sweatpants.

  She places her hand on the front of his pants, rubbing the bulge growing there. “I already told you,” she says, “Roger and I are done.”

  Tugging the boy’s pants off his hips, she watches his thick cock spring out.

  Looking up, she says, “Finished.”

  She smiles, tilts her head. He strokes his dick with his hand. Leaning forward, she takes him in her mouth.

  The young man puts his hands on his hips.

  All you can see is the back of her head and his strong chest and flat, hairless tummy. She uses both her hands to stroke him. He moans. Her little bottom bobs on her heels as she twists her back and works her
head.

  Grunting, he thrusts his hips forward. Takes her head in his hands.

  She stops, kneels back. Her bottom rests on her heels, his hands go to his hips. Fishing her fingers into her mouth, she pulls out gum.

  “Hold on,” she says.

  She stretches her lithe body to toss the gum into an ashtray on an end table near the couch. Her phone starts to flash. Scooping the phone off the couch, she starts working the keypad. The boy protests, his hand now lazily stroking his thick cock.

  “Wait, wait—” she tells him.

  She settles onto the floor in front of the couch. Stretching out her arms, she points the phone at the boy’s crotch, a big grin on her face.

  The young man laughs, shakes his wet dick.

  She snaps a picture, then punches a few more keys on the phone.

  “Where did you send that,” he asks.

  An impish grin lights her face.

  “Roger,” she says.

  “Bitch,” he laughs. “Turn that thing off.”

  Getting up from the floor, she clicks off the phone, tosses it on the couch and walks toward the camera. The frame zeroes in on her waist. More blackness.

  Seconds later, the camera rests on a table and she is bent over, looking right into the lens, adjusting its angle. Satisfied, she stands. The camera points at her exposed navel, a small tattoo of a flower peeking from her waistband of her jeans.

  She pops the button on her pants, slides them off her hips and down her legs.

  When she stands, you can see a dark patch of wispy hair between her legs, a gap between her slim thighs. She steps out of her pants. Leaning over, she crosses her forearms in front of herself and then rests her weight on the table. Filling the frame with her face, she turns to the young man. “C’mere,” she says.

  He stands behind her, his face still out of the frame.

  She reaches between her legs to help him mount her. Brining her hand to her mouth, she licks three of her fingers, and then reaches down between her legs again. You can tell by the look on her face when he finally penetrates her. Joanie gasps. Her mouth falls open. She turns her head, places her hands on either side of the table to brace herself. The young man has his hands on her hips. He rocks his torso, her brows knit together.

  A phone rings, the familiar jangling of a land line.

  She bites her lower lip. You can hear the soft slap of skin on skin: his pelvis against her bottom. The phone rings again. She closes her eyes and sets her chin. The phone rings twice more.

  From a telephone answering machine, you hear her voice —a sweet chirp of a greeting, in sharp contrast to the sweaty, contorted face of the girl in the camera right now— and then you hear a long beep.

  Finally, this: “Baby, it’s Roger—I said I was sorry. Baby, I meant it. She meant nothing to me. I swear. Fucking nothing.”

  She pitches her head to the side and groans.

  The boy increases the rhythm and intensity of his thrusts. The picture begins to shake. You hear something crash and then the radio goes silent. She lets go the sides of the table to steady the camera, even as she pitches her head.

  “Who is this in the picture you sent me? Who are you with?”

  With the radio off, her moans seem to grow louder. Roger is also raising his voice, but it’s hard to make out his words.

  Finally she takes a deep breath, raises her head almost out of the frame, stretches behind herself to grasp for the boy, and then holds her body very still. The boy grinds himself into her. His hands go from her hips to her shoulders, seemingly impaling her onto his cock.

  “You fucking bitch, you fucking bitch!,” Roger shrieks. “Don’t fucking do this!”

  She exhales loudly and collapses onto the table. Her face fills the frame once again. Her cobalt blue hair falls into her eyes, sticking to her moist forehead. Behind her, the boy resumes a slow driving rhythm. As he methodically pumps, she begins to match his thrusts with loud breathy exhales.

  “I’m sorry,” Roger says. His voice is intense, but much lower now, more contrite.

  The boy stops. He dismounts and steps out of the frame.

  She looks over her shoulder. Wipes the hair from her eyes. She follows the boy with her head as he takes a position closer to the camera, but just out of its field of view.

  “Please,” Roger says.

  The boy’s wet cock suddenly looms hard and large into the frame. Without saying a word or even looking up, she takes him into her mouth.

  “So sorry,” Roger says. “Please. . . ”

  The top of her head fills the frame. Surely this was the very act she had hoped to capture on video all along. The boy places one of his hands on the back of her head and holds her face to his groin.

  The picture fails. Blackness.

  For the last few seconds of runtime, there are only these sounds: her contented nuzzling; eventually a low moan of relief from the boy; and, of course, the pitiful sounds of Roger whimpering softly in the background.

  New From Pilgrim Press

  Summer Shorts 2 from Pilgrim Press is coming in late 2011.

  Watch for more Summer Shorts volumes in 2012. If you like the work, let us know with a rating, a review, or a visit to the Pilgrim Press blog: http://huckpilgrim.wordpress.com.

  If there is something you’d like to see in a future volume, let us know what it is. We’re happy to consider any suggested plot lines for future stories.

  SUMMER SHORTS 2

  Summer Shorts 2 features three erotic stories from the small town of Carnal, where it’s always burning, no matter what the season. You’ll find some of the same characters from the original Summer Shorts, as well as a few new ones.

  In “Bench Warrant,” Gloria Dean is back. This time the police find Gloria in a compromising position in a public park. When the Canal police play “good cop, bad cop,” you better believe they aren’t looking for a confession. But sweet Gloria doesn’t know this. After she finishes satisfying the kind young officer, she learns—much to her chagrin—that she will have to ride the nightstick of the surly older cop that spoke so harshly to her, too.

  In “Tricked,” Jimmy Manley, a student at Carnal High, learns something he didn’t know about hustling gay men from Roger Bones, a high school dropout and ne’er do well. For a small fee—and unbeknownst to poor Jimmy—Roger has offered some gay men from the local mall a taste of young Jimmy’s cock. If Jimmy can hold it together, he will learn some surprising things about hustling gay men, Roger, and maybe even earn a few dollars for himself.

  In “MENS,” Joanie Salinger returns, still angry with Roger Bones, her previous boyfriend, whose infidelity earlier this summer has essentially made her lose her mind. A student from the local Catholic high school, Joanie’s fury knows no bounds. One of the nuns has suggested that Joanie find a creative outlet to take her mind of her pain. Joanie has decided to use her own body as a canvas, to create a masterpiece of sexual abandon. Hiding out in the Men’s room at a local high school basketball game, Joanie intends to give herself to the first boy through the door. Don Manley—Mr. Manley to Joanie—walks in and stands at the urinal.

  Summer Shorts 2 is an adult work that features three short stories, totaling about 12,500 words or fifty printed pages. Find it wherever erotic e-books are sold.

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