Summer Shorts (2 page)

She turns her head from him, looks out the window.

Flicking his cigarette out the window, Joe quickly puts his hand on her knee. “Nothing to be ashamed of, honey. You're a good looking girl. Tight little body.”

Joe can feel her bony knee under the tight denim. Leaning toward her, he takes his hand from its position on her knee and puts it across the back of her seat.

“Slim hips, dark skin,” he says.

His upper body is in her personal space. Joe puts his other hand on her knee. “A lovely girl,” he whispers.

She cocks her head and Joe can see a hesitant half-smile. She enjoys this praise for her body, but she keeps her head mostly averted, her body very still. Likes to play it coy.

“Nothing wrong with a little sex.” Joe’s hand moves to her thigh. “A girl your age.”

Joe glances out the windows and into the mirrors to make sure they remain alone. Moving his hand to the inside of her thigh, he returns his attention to her.

As he moves his hand to her sex, she squirms slightly, almost imperceptibly, in her seat. His fingers play across the intersection of thick seams at her crotch and she draws in her breath. She's damp.

Joe draws his hand back, then lets his knuckles brush across her hip, the bare part of her waist where her shirt has drawn up.

“How did it taste?” he whispers.

She looks at him sharply, trying to judge if he is fucking with her. Her lips are parted. He can see her eyes are hooded with lust and maybe even a little fear. Brushing his hand across her chest, he can just make out the nubs of her nipples with his thumb. She likes this—she burrows down into the seat, opening her legs. Joe puts his hand on her pussy and lightly strokes her damp crotch. She moves her hips forward to meet his hand and then he draws his hand away. From somewhere down in her throat, she makes a soft needy sound, half whimper.

Sitting up, Joe checks all the windows and the mirrors again. They're fogging up.

She is still splayed out on the seat. Joe puts his hand back on her thigh, and she looks up at him hungrily.

“How did it taste?” he asks again, keeping his voice even.

Now she understands that he is trying to humiliate her. Her cigarette has burned untouched in her hand and she flicks the long ash out the window, then changes her mind and tosses it all away. His fingers are tracing lazy circles on the inside of her thigh. She looks at him, then resigns herself to having her needs met.

“Salty,” she says. “Hot.”

Taking his hand, she guides it between her legs.

She smiles. “I liked it.”

Her voice is a throaty whisper.

“She liked it,” Joe repeats, delighted.

He begins to give her what she wants, massaging her sex. “Liked having her pretty little mouth fucked, liked having her tummy filled with a boy’s warm come.”

He undoes the button of her pants, opens her fly, and then slides his hand into her panties.

“Such a pretty little girl,” he whispers. “So easy, so eager.”

Joe’s hand is now wedged into her pants, under her panties. He can feel the soft down of her pubic mound, the slick wetness of her slit. She is working her hips to get off on his hand. Eerily quiet, except for the occasional grunt from exertion, she has her eyes screwed shut and remains intent on moving her hips to maximize her pleasure against his hand. Joe doesn't try to penetrate her or do much of anything with his fingers other than to keep his hand in her pants.

Moving his lips near her ear, he whispers, “Slutty little girl.”

She bucks her hips into the air and then suddenly holds herself very stiff and moans, a low guttural sound that fills the cabin of the car.

Joe laughs.

Cupping his hand over her slippery pussy, he watches her body tighten with what may very well be her first orgasm ever—certainly her first orgasm riding the hand of a man over twice her age.

Sex Anonymous

Don Manley pulls the car over where she wants to get out and leaves the motor running, the wipers beating the windshield. She is cute, young. Calls herself Natasha. Hard to make her age, but Don bets she is nineteen or twenty. Thin blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, worn jean jacket. Thirty days sober. He smiles at her and wait for her to slip out.

She reaches for the door handle, then stops.

“Do you want to come up?” she says.

Her face is turned from him, looking into the street. He’s surprised, speechless. Don is a tradesman, used to making quick decisions. He keeps his intense blue eyes on the back of the girl’s head. His wife knows when the meeting ends but is usually asleep by the time he gets home. He reminds himself that he’s been sober for as long as this young lady has been alive. He feels his cock swell, his breath quicken.

“Sure,” he says. “You got coffee?”

Looking him in the eye, she grins. Her smile lights up her face. “Tea,” she says. She is one attractive girl. Small upturned nose, clear blue eyes. Never been in Carnal before this month.

Don parks the car and they run to her door. She has a room over Leo’s Bar and Grill, near the main entrance to the mill. Don stands in the rain as she fumbles in her purse, and then with the lock. He keeps lookout for familiar cars, but the street is mercifully empty. By the time they get inside, Don is soaked. They go up some stairs and she unlocks another door.

The upstairs is dark. She grabs for his hand and leads him down a corridor. He can hear the sound of a television, a baby crying, and someone having a conversation in another room. She pulls him through a door. Another dark room.

“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.”

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.