Four writers for the price of one blog
Every now and then opposites meet, there’s a blue moon, and cool water on a hot day. Three evenings in a row, sometime between sunset and nightfall, she watched the same man run by. He wasn’t from in town and she didn’t know him. He didn’t wear a shirt. His abdomen and back glistened. His muscular legs hit the dusty road hard. The last several evenings had been the hottest of summer. Humid mists rose out of the fields under a waxing moon and lightning was always on the horizon.
She heard him before she saw him. She was sitting on her porch bench with a shot of scotch and lemonade on a little side table. The dirt road was just a short driveway down from the house so when she called to him, she didn’t need to call loudly.
“Hey,” she said.
He turned, slowed.
“Hey,” she said again, her stomach weightless, “you got a minute?”
He hesitated. “Sure.”
“You wanna’ help me minute?”
The man looked down the road, then jogged up the driveway and walked up the porch steps. The wooden steps creaked. She could smell him—his sweat. There was another odor she recognized. She liked it.
He approached her, hands on his hips, breathing rhythmically. The muscles of his stomach were split by the porch light. She leaned as if to stand up, but she didn’t, She looked up at him and she hooked a finger’s tip over the ties of his running shorts, just above his cock, and pulled them down. She looked at it, still flaccid, then at him, then at his cock again, straightening as it hung, and tugged him closer by his muscular hips. She looked up at him again and sharply tugged her shirt over her tits—bunched just above..
This was no time for foreplay.
Her tongue touched the tip of his cock. She tasted bitterness, sweat, piss, maybe semen, licked again as it hardened, then cupped the head of it with her tongue, drawing the rising head between her lips and then fully into her mouth and the back of her throat.
Anyone could have seen them under.
The weak incandescent bulb above them flickered with moths. He hadn’t said a word and neither did she. She sucked him with the matter-of-fact necessity of desire. Finally, his hands touched and gently cradled her head.
The groan was music, night music like the songs of the crickets and toads, earthly, plaintive and necessary. She answered him, softly. Her sucking never let up. The back of forth sliding of her lips and tongue slid the delicate skin of his cock. She was hungry. His thick legs spread. He firmly planted his feet. She smelled musk, tasted salt, a sudden pungent familiar slipperiness that made his cock jump in her mouth.
She let the silky fluid slip over her tongue and pool at the back of her throat. She didn’t swallow. The taste was the taste of his cock. Some slipped from round of her lips and dripped glistening down her chin.
Her nipples jutted.
She didn’t know if her noticed. A car sped by, lifting dust. She vocalized and sucked faster. showing him she wouldn’t stop. His breathing had become uneven. His fingers were tightening in her hair. The muscles of his ass were clenching. She could feel them. She was holding him by his ass.
His cock leaped again, this time releasing a needle like spurt that tickled the back of her throat. He shuddered. Her mouth and lips were syrupy. She heard voices. They were her neighbors. A bank of trees separated them. She wanted to slip him out of her mouth for just a moment, to look at him, to teeter with him, this stranger, on the edge of confusion, helplessness, and release.
She didn’t slip him out of her mouth.
She almost let him slip out, stopped her motion, and met his gaze. Her lips closed just around his bulbous tip. His thighs were tightening. His cock was weeping, spitting involuntarily, tasting of his sweat, the dirt road and evening. She saw in his expression what she wanted to see.
She thrust him sharply to the back of her throat, once, twice, then hooked her finger in his ass. He uttered a shocked, choked and grateful cry. Her mouth was filled by sharp, quick spurts, like his running—vigorous. She moved back and forth slowly, swallowing most of the thick paroxysms. Some squeezed out. But she didn’t stop until the his ass had stopped pinching her finger.
She let him go and lifted his shorts.
She pulled down her top and both, with momentarily gazed at each other with an unspoken agreement and understanding. She didn’t ask if he was married. He didn’t ask if she was single. They would never see each other again. The lie, the indiscretion, if that what it was, was mutual and perfect. Each had given their sum total.
He adjusted his still erect cock, turned and continued his run.
She leaned back and sipped the scotch, her nipples still erect. She watched the stranger as far as the evening would let her, for a little while knowing and possessing his intimate and innermost taste.
William Crimson | August 12 2016