Coming Together: With Pride (31 page)

The sound of the elevator brought me out of my reverie. I opened the door leading to the stairs and prepared to step inside. A quick peek assured me it was David. Somehow, I had missed seeing him drive up. I stepped into the stairwell and waited. When I heard the door close, I peered into the hallway. He was inside the apartment.

In regard to most things, David was a creature of habit, so I knew I had a few more minutes to wait before making my entrance. His lovemaking was the same. First, some small talk. Then he'd kiss her neck before moving to her lips. His hands would caress her breasts, while his thumbs and forefingers tweaked her nipples. He'd remove her clothes. His would already be off. He loved to strut around with his dick bouncing to and fro. I loved it, too.

Every time I'd see his handsome cock, I'd drop in front of him and lick the tip, lapping the pre-cum that would rest at the slit. My tongue would tease the opening before encircling the purplish helmet. I'd push back the foreskin and engulf his cock, then I'd clutch his butt cheeks and pull him closer. That way I could get his dick to slide as deep as possible into my throat. The suction from my mouth would keep him anchored so my fingers could play with him—toying with his asshole and cupping his balls.

He'd rock on his heels, and I'd know he was ready to shoot his spunk. His fingers would entwine in my hair, and he'd hold my head as close to him as possible while he fucked my face. His pubic hair would brush against my nose. He'd smell of a mixture of baby powder and aftershave.

David roared when he climaxed, and I loved that sound. He tasted like salty almonds, and I enjoyed every drop, licking him clean. Then he'd want to go down on me. If I had been kneeling, he'd pick me up and drop me on the bed, like I was a sock. Before I could get settled, his face would be buried in my pussy. He loved my cunt. It never took long before my toes curled, and I'd chant his praises, urging him to keep it up or go faster and harder. I'd open my legs as wide as possible. My fingers would be holding onto locks of his hair, while I'd be thrusting my hips upward, driving his tongue deeper and deeper.

He was an attentive lover. After his first climax, his penis would remain hard for ages. David always made sure I had several orgasms.

Music drifted down the hall. I knew it came from the whore's apartment. She must be a rowdy woman, since David had all kinds of bruises on his body. He never had marks on him when we made love.

I cradled the gun and kept the fire of revenge burning by imagining him having sex with the slut—touching all her private parts, when he should have been touching mine. I started to pace. David should not have his face buried in some other woman's crotch. Those are my kisses not hers. My caresses. He's my husband.

When I thought I'd waited long enough, I proceeded to her door. The one part of the plan that worried me was that her door would be locked. In the trial runs I'd made, the knob had turned easily in my hand every single time. Although I'd never opened the door, I could tell the music came from an upstairs room. So, I figured her bedroom was up one of those winding staircases.

I took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and stepped into her apartment. To my left was the staircase. The music was coming from upstairs, just as I'd figured. I kept my right hand in my pocket and ascended the stairs. When I reached the step that put my nose level with the floor, I stopped to check out the surroundings. I almost gasped out loud at what I saw. The walls were covered with mirrors, including the ceiling.

David and that woman had their arms around each other. I watched my husband make moves that I'd didn't know he was capable of. He was a gorgeous man to watch. She twirled, as if trying to elude him and take him with her at the same time. He tried to twirl too, but mid-spin he faltered, his legs twisted, and he fell to the floor. It was almost funny, but his groan told me he'd hit the floor hard. My poor dear man.

She helped him to his feet.

I decided to leave when the music suddenly stopped. The woman said, "David, I believe we have an audience."

David turned and gasped. "Muriel! What a surprise. I wondered if you'd ever check on me."

"You knew I was here?" It was my turn to gasp.

"Of course. I spotted your car weeks ago, and I've seen it regularly after that. I figured you were thinking of renting one of the lofts for your dance studio."

I was astounded. He remembered my dream. We hadn't discussed my studio idea in a year or more. "Why didn't you confront me?"

"Because I wanted to finish these dance lessons. I figured if you didn't mention it, I wouldn't either," David said. "And don't feel bad that the sewing lessons didn't work."

"You knew about that, too?"

"Some woman called the house and said she'd be sending you a refund check."

"I'm sorry that I interrupted. Continue dancing. I'll just go."

The woman stepped toward me. "That's okay, Muriel, please stay. I'm Rachel. Your being here will be helpful."

"How's that?" I asked.

"Since David will be dancing with you at the Crystal Ball, it would be better if he'd partner with you now. My technique may be different than yours. Besides, I think he'll relax more if it were you instead of me."

I gasped and stared at David. "You're going to the Ball with me?"

"I'm sure the hell not going with anyone else!"

"Stay, Muriel. Toss your jacket on a chair, and we'll start the dance over."

I slipped off my jacket and put it on the nearest chair. David and Rachel were talking, and I hadn't taken three steps to join them when the jacket slid to the floor with a clunk.

"What was that?" David asked.

"Keys," I said and flew into his arms. "Let's dance, my love." A fire burned within me, and it would take a lot of ice cubes to put it out.

©

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Be Prepared

Storm Grant

"Really, Mason. I'll drive ya home. 'm okay. 'm fine." Jack lurched to the left, bouncing off Mason and almost careening into a birch, a trashcan, and a stop sign before correcting his trajectory and heading back along the sidewalk.

"I hardly think so, Jack. Please give me the keys, and I'll drive
you
home." Mason's hand reached up to smooth back his too-long bangs, but he quickly stopped himself from executing that or any of the other nervous habits he'd recently been informed were both predictable and annoying. As recently as five minutes ago, in fact, by his drunken friend.

The same drunken friend who was now asking a fire hydrant how it would then get home if it drove Jack's Camaro.

Stepping in for the fireplug, Mason answered. "It's a lovely spring evening. I'd merely walk the fifteen or twenty blocks to my apartment."

"No way, José," Jack mumbled. "Hey. Who's José anyway? José Ferrara? Ferrari? Fettuccini?" He stared at the moon a moment. "Hey, Mason, you hungry?"

There was additional discussion around such fascinating topics as the universe; feta vs. "real" cheese; who was more annoying—Luke Skywalker or Captain Kirk; and finally, predictably, whether it would be better to puke in the bushes or the gutter. Luckily, the debate proved to be purely rhetorical.

Eventually, they reached the car, and the argument over the keys resumed. At some point in the meandering stroll, even Jack had come to admit he was not tonight's driver of choice. Still, his alcohol-enhanced machismo refused to surrender with grace.

"You want the keys, Mason? You wan' 'em?" Jack dangled the keys from one finger.

Tiredly, and with no small amount of frustration, Mason grabbed for the keys, only to have Jack snatch them away in a moment of clarity.

"Ha ha. Try again." The jingling keys flashed streetlight and moonlight mockingly.

Mason folded his arms across his chest, leather creaking like a bat in the night. "I don't want to play games, Jack. Please, just hand me the keys." And with that attempted fake-out, Mason lunged at Jack, the momentum shoving Jack against the Camaro, pinned there by Mason's body. And the keys—the object of their mutual desire—sailed into the night, landing squarely, deftly, wetly, in a nearby storm drain. Had it been the precision diving event in the Key Olympics, even the Russian judge would have given it a 9.5.

"Oh, shit," said Jack, turning just his head to follow the flight of the keys, as he was still pressed up against his car by Mason's weight.

"Oh, dear." Mason, who now dropped his head in dismay and frustration, his forehead coming to rest on Jack's, was still shoved up against his friend, pinning him to the Camaro.

Mason made no move to move.

Jack made no effort to escape. He did shift a bit. Then rub a bit. Perhaps some grinding might have ensued if Mason had rubbed back at all.

Mason lifted his head and looked into Jack's blue eyes. "What do we do now?" he asked, his voice a hoarse murmur.

"About the keys or about this?" Jack clarified "this" by thrusting his hips forward in a very friendly manner. His point was not lost on Mason.

"Perhaps..." Instead of finishing his sentence, Mason leaned in and brushed his lips across Jack's—just a touch, just a whisper.

Jack had never been known for subtlety, patience or guile. He surged forward with arms, hips and lips, in that order, wrapping himself around Mason, and yanking him close, kissing, licking, biting. Telling Mason who he was, who he was with, and what they both wanted, all without saying a word.

The side of a Chevy Camaro can be a very accommodating place, if one's not too fussy about such things as comfort. Jack nearly devoured Mason, who, while at first demure and reserved, gradually changed his demeanour until he was pounding against Jack. Jack gave as good as he got, sparing hardly a thought for the paint job.

There were moments of clutching and moments of grappling; the soft night air was gently salted with words rarely used by either man: baby, cock, come, fuck, love, again.

Jack knelt before Mason, the harsh asphalt cutting painfully through his jeans and his drunkenness, helping him focus, helping him regain some control.

Spit and divine suction sped the task along, and soon Mason was coming in creamy bursts against Jack's hot, wet tongue, coming apart under Jack's clever mouth and hands.

Breathing heavily, Mason yanked Jack to his feet, spun him around so he assumed the position: palms flat on the cool hood of the car, legs splayed wide. Mason stood behind him pressing his spent cock against Jack's denim-covered ass as he reached 'round, unzipped him, and jerked him hard, hard, hard... good.

Mason staggered away, almost as high as Jack now—drunk on endorphins and hormones and light-headedness from hyperventilating, and from saying things he hadn't meant to say. And hearing them returned. His heart pounded, and his head spun with joy and pleasure beyond his wildest fantasies. Happiness not being his strong suit, Mason immediately began to seek out trouble.

He plunked down on one of the cement dividers, dropping his face in his palms.

Jack's concerned voice beside him said, "You okay there, buddy?" He didn't seem quite so drunk now.

"I took advantage of you. You're inebriated."

"Yeah. I was, and we did, and it was great. Can we do it again? Soon? Later tonight's good. Say, twenty minutes? Better make it twenty-five. I'm still a little shit-faced."

Slowly, Mason lowered his hands, squinting up at Jack's backlit silhouette. "You mean you're okay with this?"