Surprise (3 page)

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, then 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.

 

 

 

 

“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 again. 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.

Her usual expertise had him stiff in no time and he started to think maybe, if nothing else, it would be a nice distraction, when the banging started again.

Bang. Bang, bang, bang, bang.
Pause.
Bang. Bang.
Even his housekeeper's talented tongue couldn't pull his brain away.
This is hopeless
, he thought, his cock hard but his mind distracted.

After a couple of minutes he began to notice something. Something was different. Her stroking was always expertly timed, she was almost perfunctory in her ability to extract the desired reaction, his orgasm, in the least amount of time. But now the tempo had changed, the efficiency vanished.

She was matching her strokes to the banging.

And not only was she matching the timing of her strokes, but also the manner in which they were delivered.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five loud, heavy bursts from the hammer next door gave his cock five strong, demanding strokes in quick succession that left him gasping. Then nothing. He waited, his cock straining now, as he listened for the banging to restart.
Bang! Bang!
Two little, quick ones and his cock got two light, feathery strokes.
Bang.
Pause.
Bang.
Pause.
Bang.
Each bang dealt matching ministrations to his burgeoning shaft. Oh god. It was just enough to keep him on edge but not enough to drive him forward. The short, intermittent banging continued like this for another minute or two as he hovered somewhere between torment and bliss. And then….

The jackhammer.

“Oh fuck!” he cried out as her mouth sucked brutally and her fist pounded up and down with the same intensity as the power tool outside. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” The consecutive rhythm, the lovely percussive bursts, he never wanted it to stop. He was getting close. He could feel his seed bubbling up, his balls tightening to his body.

Silence. “No!” he gasped as she stopped, her mouth poised over his swollen member.
Bang.
One stroke.
Bang, bang, bang.
Three short ones. “Oh god, I'm so close!”
Bang! Bang!
Her tongue and fist moved simultaneously over his angry, purple flesh and then stopped.

Suddenly she broke the silence.

“My,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I do hope you get to come before they break for lunch,” she quipped.

His eyes flew to the red digital readout. 11:58
AM
. Oh god! Would she really leave him like this? Wasn't this just a silly game they were playing?

One more minute of intermittent banging left him no longer a man but a shaking, quivering mass of flesh that surrounded his steel-like rod. He had never felt his dick so rigid, never seen the head more swollen and purple. Clear pre-come was leaking continuously out of the tip.

11:59
AM
.

This pause was longer than usual. He held his breath, panting, desperately waiting for more pounding, hammering, anything to get her mouth back on him. Could they really be done for the morning? She couldn't be serious about leaving him like this.