Viewing the local antiquities

The second coming 

I climb the stairs in the summer heat, and, puffing and sweating, ring the bell. Steps, the scrape of a dead-bolt: The mama-san opens the door.

"Angel, please."

"No Angel, now. You want another girl?"

"No, she's the one I want. When should I come back?"

"Half an hour. You want to wait upstairs?"

One more flight.

I lie back on the couch, stretch out my legs, and close my eyes, feeling the Viagra beat in my temples, my erection tenting my Chinos: A Japanese screen's at my back, hiding the route from the cubes to the showers and back.

Will the mama-san tell her I'm here?

Before me, sheer pink curtains, tall rectangular windows with no screens: The rush and hiss of cars in the street floats up on the breeze: horns honk, cops whistle, chatter rises and falls, mixed to the strut of rap from a boombox.

All seems quiet and businesslike. I'd hoped for an aria, or at least a few cries, abandoned quavers, top notes: but all I get is the hollow thunk of closing cube doors, when whores leave their clients to prep themselves, or return to them; the scooping plash spray spill from the shower room and the rising chirps of whore's patter; the voice of one john on his way to a cube; the mama-sans's voice and another john's, talking price, talking service, talking girl:

A late afternoon calm before the night shift begins. A Saturday silence: The calm where my father, upstairs, has fallen asleep to the Red Sox game.

She bursts round the corner: "You came to see me!"

"Yes, I did."

"Just wait half an hour—twenty minutes."

Coming once
This one was really the throwaway: I'm flat on my back, spreading myself for her by holding my legs pulled back in the air, feeling Angel load me with lube: Then she kneels before me, insinuates her finger into my anus: thin, and not far. And after slamming my balls a few times with her tongue, she bends her head and sucks one right out of me.

The procedure couldn't have taken two minutes.

"Doctor Angel," she commments.

Coming twice
As before: she rides me, we doggy, then missionary: and, though I'm hard, nothing.

As before.

We pause, talk.

And as I start to pleasure her left tit, she snakes her right hand down between her legs. I'd started off on all fours, over her torso, with my head down to suckle her, but she moves out from under me, I imagine to give her right arm the range of motion she wants. There's no reason for me to look down and back, since I'm busy erecting her nipples, but I sense her hand moving faster and faster, and echo that motion by swirling my tongue round her swollen nubbly teat then lashing it, just as her pelvis starts jerking—

"Oh!" Then she whimpers, and—"Oh! Angel is coming!"—as I sting her teat with my incisors, then suction her whole tit into my mouth and lick the base of it, she locks her arms round my head and pulls me down to her.

"You're not selfish."

I rock back on my heels, then bend down to her cunt and inhale her: but nothing, so maybe she just rubbed one out without actually fingerfucking herself.

"I feel comfortable with you."

She sighs, and opens her legs and her arms: In the instant I'm on her: though nervous of missionary I'd already decided to trust her:

On her, and all the way up her. At once, she kegels, and I'm thrusting downward, climbing down her, rappelling down her, swinging my pendulum pelvis: reciprocating:

The jouncing bed truly hardens me: To the several floors within earshot, it's clear what we're doing, though no one can see. The faint squeal of the bolts in the frame, the scrape of the frame against plaster, the bedframe as we pile it on, banging the wall—all merge:

The pounding, her clenching, her firm motte against me, the slap slap slap slap of our bellies—all merge:

My sides swell and sweeten; I summit, and cramming my cock entirely up her and raising my head like I'm dog-paddling, laughing with joyful relief I'm coming out loud—

She kegels me, clenches me, milks me, gulps me. I've come but I'm up her, still hard: She clasps me again. Down there.

"Ooooh, that feels good."

She smiles.

It's a friendily feeling, her cuntal contraction. Not really like kissing, no intimate fluids. More like a hand clasp: Her flesh to my flesh.

A greeting. A glance between intimates. A smile that cannot be seen only felt.

Angel slaps my rump: "Firm!"

I must see her again, before this brothel is closed.



All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours? Cunning Linguists Image hosted by Photobucket.com Blogarama - The Blog Directory Listed on BlogShares Listed on BlogsCanada

Where viewers come from:
Locations of visitors to this page
Auto-updated daily since 27-12-04

eXTReMe Tracker