by Betti Mustang
(05/25/05)

12:36

He likes the way the girl smells -- a mix of cigarette smoke and perfume. The perfume definitely isn't Giorgio. Giorgio's the stuff that his wife's worn for the past seventeen years. Once, it seemed to go straight up his nose and down to his dick. Now it just smells like his wife.

She looks young. She has a tight little figure and a quick wit, and when she laughs, her eyes flash something wicked. She isn't wearing any makeup, which makes her lips look naked. She's talking to him and he doesn't hear a damn thing she says. His construction crew's a sub on one of the developments that the company she works for is putting up. She has a beautiful mouth. He thinks, I wonder how it would...and then she's off, hurrying back into the site-office.

He loves looking at her ass in those dark blue, low-cut jeans. If she's wearing any underwear at all, it has to be a G-string. That's it -- a G-string, red and lacy. It dips low in the front -- just barely covering her patch of curly black pubic hair. The red cord nestles into her ass, right between her two tan, firm ass cheeks. He puts down his nail gun and grins at her back side as she walks away.

He takes a deep breath to clear his head. He's going to put a nail through his hand if he doesn't get focused.

Shit, he thinks, I'm focused as hell -- on her pussy. He feels his dick quiver, as if long fingernails were trailing up his inner thigh.

He adjusts his cock inconspicuously, checks his watch -- it's 12:42 -- and gets back to work.

12:42

Filing's a bitch when my brain keeps dropping to that heavy ache between my legs.

2:05

He doesn't know what to do with the cigar. Some hotshot real-estate broker who came to "make sure all was going as planned" gave it to him. He took it to be polite. Back in his bachelor days, the boys would come over and they'd smoke cheap, skinny cigars wrapped in reconstituted tobacco. This one was big and fat. Why would anyone go around giving out expensive cigars? he wonders. He doesn't understand all the brown-nosing that goes along with development. He understands wood -- putting it together and tearing it apart. Give him an honest paycheck, and they can keep the rest.

He looks down at the cigar in his calloused hand. He can't smoke it. Smoke drives his wife crazy. She'd complain that it gave her a headache and bitch about it for days.

There she is again -- coming toward him holding a big stack of files. She smiles. His blood feels cleaner when she smiles, like it runs faster and younger.

"Watcha got?" Her voice is playful. Her left hip sticks out.

As she tilts her head, an image of her in those red panties flashes behind his eyes. Like a curious kitten, he thinks. He watches her mouth like a tomcat watches a bowl of goldfish, mesmerized and hungry.

"A cigar," he manages to say. "Somebody just gave it to me. I ain't gonna smoke it though."

"Really? A cigar's the first thing that I ever smoked." She bites her lip, lost for a moment in thought. "I was fifteen and I thought that it was the funniest shit in the world. Never thought I'd turn out to be a damn smoker though."

She rebalances the files she's holding and takes a big deep breath. Her rib cage rises. He can swear he sees hard little nipples jut out from her tank top.

She exhales and gives him a quirky grin, "Sucks to be me, I guess."

"You can have it if you want." He holds out the cigar. I wish you'd suck me, he thinks.

"Really? You sure?"

She talks fast and chatty. He bets himself she'd be energetic in bed, somebody who likes to try new things. His swelling dick twitches.

"Yeah, I'm positive. Enjoy it."

The sound of her laugh bubbles straight into his balls.

"My hands are a little full." Her eyes scrunch up. "The only thing I have to carry things with are my teeth."

Did he hear her right? Carry things in her teeth? That would mean between her lips? Was his lengthening hard-on visible through his Levi's? He clears his throat. When words finally come out, his voice is a touch lower than normal: "What you want me to do?"

"I guess you're just going to have to put it in my mouth," she replies, without batting an eye.

Time slows for him.

A bead of sweat starts making its way down his left temple when she parts her naked lips for him. He watches his hand shake as he lifts the cigar to her waiting mouth. He wants to groan when her soft tongue scoots back, to make room as he slowly slips its thick head into...

Her teeth clamp down -- swift and sudden.

"Thanks," she says, the cigar clamped tight between her teeth.

3:58

I scored a cigar today. A pretty good one, too. The guy who gave it to me was nice -- a little strange, but nice.

Only an hour to go and I can kiss the fax machine goodbye till Monday.

5:11

He's finally in his truck, on his way home. His penis strains against his jeans. It took every ounce of concentration in him to keep his erection concealed for the last couple of hours of work.

Now that he's alone, his dick is swollen, burning, harder than he can remember it in the past fifteen years. His whole body is hot. His balls sweat. His thighs sweat. He feels twisted up like the chains on a swing, straining, waiting for its cue to spin the kid riding it out of control.

He coaxes the truck into reverse. He wants to get home.

A mile. Three miles. Nine miles to go. His dick is starting to hurt now. It pushes against his zipper like the roots of a tree.

He keeps his left hand on the wheel. With his right he fumbles with the button on his jeans.

He remembers her smoky-citrus smell. He eases down his zipper. His penis lurches out like a bull out of a bucking-shoot. The wind from the open window hits it with a cool caress. The truck swerves over the centerline. Someone honks.

Both hands back on the wheel, he jerks the truck back into the right lane. He turns on the radio.

Making love in the green grass
behind the stadium,
with you,
my brown eyed girl...

He glances down and watches two drops of pre-come glide down his shaft. Another one, caught like a raindrop in the thatch of his pubic hair.

Do you remember when
we used to sing
sha-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-dee-dah...

His eyes are feverish as they focus back on the road ahead. He can hear her laugh. He can see her grin, see her lips parting. Over and over again, he replays the moment when he slipped the cigar into her mouth. Her wet, pink, plump tongue...those naked lips. He slips the cigar in again...slow, and deep. This time, in his mind, her lips seal around it, her dark eyes close. He gently pulls it from her throat an inch at a time. Her eyelashes flutter. He hears her moan. He groans aloud in response.

His dick feels like it's humming -- standing straight up, the thin skin stretched tight, the blue vessels bulging.

She's standing in her lacy, red panties and nothing else. He shoves the cigar back between her wet lips and then pulls it out again -- faster, and faster. He watches her nipples pucker -- meaty stems on perky little apples.

The surprise of his own rough palm seizing his high-strung erection jolts him back to reality. He sees his street. Shifting down. Clutch in -- fourth. Clutch in -- third. Clutch in -- second...

5:11

I'll have a Rabbit Moment and take a hot shower. And then I'll do that cigar real good, too. And maybe I'll head out to dinner before he gets back. And smoke the fucking cigar. What the hell.

5:42

His wife's car is in the garage. His heart sinks. He's made it home before her for over a decade. Clockwork. Ritual. Of all days for things to not happen like they always do.

He lets the truck idle in the driveway for a moment, willing his cock to relax. It doesn't give a damn. The more he thinks about it, the harder it gets. He can't go in the house with this erection. It screams to be touched. He knows his wife would do more than just deny him verbally -- she'd tell him with her cold eyes and her body that he's revolting.

He needs to jack off. He needs to surrender his body to the girl who's been eating at him all day. He decides that the bathroom in the garage is the safest place. In a moment he'll be tugging on his swollen dick. The thought sends a shock of excitement through his groin. His balls tighten against his body.

With his left hand clamped around his scrotum, he kills the engine and frantically rummages through the glove box. He wants something besides his rough hand to coax the come from his dick. He wants something soft and wet around his cock -- something like the way the girl's mouth must have felt around that cigar. He finds an old chamois that's in decent shape. Yes, it'll work. When he was in high school he had a gray sock that provided just enough friction. A chamois will be even better, he thinks, velvety and natural.

Wet, he must find wet. He finds a little packet of Best Foods mayo. The foil is warm from being in his truck for hours. He can't think of a good reason not to use it, besides the fact that it's food. Her mouth was wet, her saliva thick and warm.

He sucks in his gut and gingerly manipulates his erection back into his jeans. It stands straight up, pressed against his belly. The tip of its glistening purple head peeks out of his waistband. Chamois and Best Foods in his pocket, he makes his way past his wife's car, past his toolboxes. The denim rubbing against him reminds him of dry-humping. He envisions pumping his naked cock between the thighs of the girl's dark blue, low-cut jeans.

He closes the bathroom door and flicks on the light. The space is filled with spider webs and the yellowing toilet runs. He doesn't see any of it. He's completely lost in his fantasy -- touch, sight, and smell devoted entirely to the need to fill her throat with his cock. His pants are around his knees. She's kneeling in front of him, wearing nothing but that red G-string. Her grin is wicked around the fat cigar. He pulls it from her lips, and she whimpers in protest. She wants it back, wants it heavy on her tongue.

He cradles his package in his hand. His erection dangles right above her mouth. He offers himself to her -- to fill her, to pacify her hunger. Her lips part. He enters her mouth gingerly. His fist is loose, just enough to feel as he slips the chamois over his cock. He shudders, then tightens his grip and plunges straight down to his balls through the warm, mayonnaise-slicked tunnel.

Her mouth is exquisite. He grips her by the back of the head -- hips and hand still for a moment. He could fire his cock into her face right now -- he's ready. One more thrust and it could be over, but he wants to savor it. He wants it to last.

She sucks him deep, tongue caressing his manhood, rewarding him for waiting for her all day. She scoots closer to swallow him deeper. His hips rock. His eyes roll back. In and out, in and out. He's lost.

Now she's on all fours in front of him. The cigar is back between her lips. Her little round ass is lifted high, her back arched, her round titties hanging -- apples to be picked.

Take me, she's saying with her feverish eyes looking back at him, take me, take me.

He drops to his knees. The cement floor is filthy and cold. He braces himself with one hand and runs his hands over her ass. His fingers pull the silky red cord of her panties to the side. He sees that she's wet, that her pussy is swollen and steaming for him. He nestles his dick at the hairy little opening of her cunt and then he pushes up through her ridges and folds -- and fucks her. Quick and furious. Fucks her hard -- cock slamming, balls slapping, the sounds of suction and friction filling his ears. He grunts. Her ass dances in little circles.

He's going to explode. She wants him to fill her. She wants his seed to run out of her cunt and spill down her thighs. He cries out loud -- a desperate sound. He pumps into the chamois, into her pussy, load after load of semen that make the end of his ride wetter and wilder.

Sweat blankets every inch of his body. Come is everywhere.

He kisses her lips, her nipples, her cunt. She wiggles up against him and they collapse to the ground. He holds her and she sighs. They'll rest now for a little while. As the last spasm of pleasure flows through him, he rests his forehead onto the cool, gritty concrete.

Silence.

1:26

Well, fuck it. It's almost closing time, somebody'll come along with a phone. I'm just gonna sit here and smoke that cigar. If it's not too damp.

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