Dereliction
- 3 years ago
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Derelict free porn video
“How long has it been?”
“A long time.” I opened my desk drawer pretending to look for anything.
“Fess up. How long?”
I tried to deflect. “You first. How long has it been since you had sex?”
“This is such an enriching meaningful work discussion that’s vital to completing Nick Shaw’s final report. Isn’t it? Oh, let me answer.” Vivie loved to pry, but she rarely gave up salacious information about herself. “No, it isn’t. But since you insist I go first, you should know that I had sex last Saturday.”
“Shocking, Vivie! Can’t believe you gave it up! And with whom did you share your coitus connection?”
“No, no. You’re next.” Vivie insisted. Although she didn’t tell much ever in the three years I’d known her, she did keep my personal business confidential.
“It’s been a minute.”
“What’s a minute?” Vivie cut across a field to the pending business at hand. “Hey, you’re gonna complete the schedule and footnote seven, right?”
“A year and yes.”
“A year?” Vivie closed her laptop and covered her mouth with her fingertips.
I know the bitch is laughing at me.
“Yea. Now tell me who got your cookie last Saturday.”
Vivie, a brilliant accounting manager with a promising future, was such a skank. She had an underground reputation amongst colleagues of being an easy get. She would never tell it, but those that got always did. Couldn’t believe I was getting the foul tidbits from the cow’s mouth.
“James... His name is James.”
“Oh? Where did you two meet?”
“We met at a club.”
Woo, she is a hoe.
“Met him at the club, huh? That was a one-night stand, or are you two serious?”
“Neither. Vivie has needs, my friend. Sad but glad to say, James is my little fuck toy. We met about two months ago, and we get it in two or three times a week. James isn’t hubby material, but he gives it to me real good. I get the benefits without the hell and hassles, you know.”
“You’re a naughty girl, Vivie.”
“You should get yourself a fuck toy, girl. That will keep you from missing out... on years of smashing. C’mon, let’s go for drinks now and see who we can find for you.”
“No, not me, Vivie. I don’t have it in me to give it up to just anybody from the club or off the damn street now.”
“Aw, c’mon. It’ll be fun.”
“Nuh uh. Plus, it’s Friday, and it’s too cold outside. I’m going home, light a fire, make some dinner, and enjoy a good book. My purse can wait,” I lied. But Vivie didn’t need to know about my masturbatory activities.
“Well, I tried. I’m meeting up with James later tonight. You enjoy your weekend, okay?”
“You too, Vivie.”
*
My ears perked up at the scraping, the dragging of a stool across my hardwood floors toward my kitchen isle. The piercing pitch was sure to leave a gutter in the maple finish that no amount of scrubbing or waxing would cover. Took me six months to strip and re-finish that loft floor. My head dropped, chin meeting chest as the vile screeching came to an abrupt stop. That was a relief short-lived, because the incessant shuffling of hard bottom shoes against bare floors began. There was a thump of a body landing on a stool and then calm.
Stillness matched his silence as he made himself at-home. A loden green and black tweed coat draped over a mystery: his body, his flesh buried. Just beneath the coat, layers of street, last year’s worries, and yesterday’s breakfast were discernible. Not sure how many pairs of pants, underwear, and socks he sported, but he was looking, well, padded – hefty and thick. Thick folds of cold-worn, filth-laden skin made his brown eyes look navy blue. The blue-brown glare cut my soul at its core; probably the sole soul affected amongst hundreds.
Hundreds maybe even thousands of people walked over this man laying on the sidewalk everyday, including me. I’d failed to take the time - to make the time to recognize that the lump I walked over was a human being who deserved decency, cordiality, and respect. I’d failed.
Head down, I watched my crimson painted toenails, bright gold toe ring, and shimmery anklet decorate my sandals. Head down, I watched my toe cleavage pressing from my pumps provide a peek-a-boo that looked like the divide between two breasts heaving from some fancy brassiere or ass crack hanging out of some low-riding jeans. Head down, I watched my ugly, but sensible snow boots make an edgy design in the freshly covered sidewalk. Head down, I sent and viewed hundreds of texts and raised my head up, for a brief moment only, to navigate the walkover.
I cared more about the nuances and reflections of my well-dressed, sophisticated gait than I cared about a lump, a human settled on concrete. Seasons came; seasons went, and I walked over him everyday speechless, uncaring, and cold.
But there was something about the bitter cold that day, something about the ashen sidewalk and cutting winds that made me look at him. On the way home from work, something made me speak to him, a familiar stranger: the recognizable landmark, a lump of a human being whom I did not know. Something made me offer him food, warmth, and a bath, not necessarily in that order.
Surprisingly, it seemed as if he’d forgiven my past transgressions. Maybe he’d never noticed my walkovers, because he quietly followed me home.
“I have decaf going. Thinking a nice tomato bisque and a golden grilled cheese would be good right now. What do you think? Or would you prefer hot cocoa?”
Navy blue-browns stared at me with lips sealed shut. Didn’t receive a head nod or wave off from him for my troubles. I was the recipient of a morbid silence.
“I believe I have some turkey, tomato, bacon, and avocado that I could add to your sandwich,” I added, as I twisted my waist length hair in a tidy knot on top of my head. I opened the refrigerator searching to confirm my proposal. “Are you a purist, or would you like something a little extra?”
Without even looking up from my fiddling in the fridge, I knew that he wasn’t going to respond. Out the frosty window, daylight savings time had already dictated the darkness to set in. And my hasty offer was entirely too far-gone to rescind. He was in my loft, in my space. I had to commit and see this crazed altruistic attempt through.
Really, what (in the name of everything that is right and decent) was I doing inviting in some homeless stranger? The aroma of doom, besides his funk, wafted in the air. I pondered calling my mother or Vivie fearing that I was about to die.
Then it started. As if he were reading my mind, he began striking matches repeatedly. I heard a rip, a strike, an igniting, and then a breath. Hot breath extinguished the orange flickers; wisps of slate smoke followed. He struck a match, another, and then another, throwing the remnants wherever. That was the pattern.
A damn pyromaniac, is that who I’d invited into my house? Is this what I get for extending kindness? Really, did I deserve to have my home torched now?
Rightfully so, righteous indignation settled, because I was not about to allow this stranger to burn me out of my own home. I eyed the fire extinguisher and calculated how much time it would take me to pull the pin, squeeze the trigger, and sweep the hose across the impending flames. Fast forward to the mess this would make: the foam, the smoke, and the homeless man covered in double yuck. I could smell the hot garbage truck juice stink as I fought back a gag.
I took a sniff. Magically, a new aromatic helped my fight. The strong odor of sulfur dioxide seemed to push down the current funk and my freshly imagined diffuser from Bed, Bath, and Beyond: Hot Garbage by Aromatherapy. Then it dawned on me. This man was aware of his raging odor, and he was lighting matches to cover it. He thought the sulfur would alleviate his stench.
Empathetic, I picked up every one of his discarded matches, rinsed them, and threw them away. I snatched the matchbook out of his hand, walked over to the fireplace, and lit three wicks in the center of a large white tea and linen candle to help him out some. I sat the weighty chunk of wax on the counter between us and looked him square in the eye: light brown to blue-brown.
“We’ve put a bandage over this thing; we provided a temporal takeover. The root must abdicate the throne. You need a bath, a shower, and then another bath, you know,” I explained with the intention of receiving verbal confirmation; however, a tap, a nod, or a thumb up would have been sufficient.
Although the question was clearly not rhetorical, the derelict, whose name I would later find out was Adam, remained mute.
Without breaking my gaze, I folded my arms across my boobs, tilted my head to the side, pursed my lips, and shifted my weight to one leg. We had a stare off. He lost.
Adam lost his way, his will to remain expressionless. The cross-stitch in the top of his pilled olive knit cap became visible and then invisible, as his blue-brown eyes scanned my Coke bottle figure. Mesmerized by the roundness of my breasts and protruding nipples, Adam’s eyes rested there long enough to cause his dimples to come out of hiding. His ungroomed mustache and beard veiled his smile. His eerie quietude and reticence masked his intentions.
Silence still? Okay, maybe he doesn’t speak English.
Resolved, I bolted down the hall for the linen closet. From the three rows of perfectly folded and immaculately placed bath items, I gathered two washcloths, a towel, a new toothbrush, toothpaste, and a fresh bar of soap. I returned to the kitchen, opened a drawer, snatched a trash bag, and laid it on top of my gift for Adam. A quick jerk of my head beckoned him to follow. He stood and followed me into the guest bathroom.
“Here you go. You can put your clothes in this trash bag. I have some double XL men’s sweats here that should fit you just fine.”
*
In the beginning, I thought it would last forever.
He pushed the double XL sweat pants to his ankles and tugged on the waistband of his shorts. He took his time unfolding the hardness pressed up against his torso. Flickering moments of candlelight revealed his slightly rounded belly, obviously the result of one too many beers and twenty or so too many Buffalo wings. Nevertheless, the plumpness did not deter his movements, his intentions. In one quick movement, he spit into his hand and began stroking. His eyes, the glare never broke contact with my soul, not for one second.
I did not want to; I really didn’t. But I did anyway.
The décor in the entire loft was monochromatic, all white: alabaster sofas, ivory area rugs, powder bathroom sinks and tubs, and two snow covered bedrooms. White on white layers shielded me from him. A flat sheet, pearl knit blanket, and a snow goose down comforter concealed my nakedness.
Naked and covered, I peeked over the comforter to watch him rub his full length; each stroke ended in a guttural grunt. I shuffled about loosening the tucked sheets from between the mattress and box spring, finally grasping my left breast, my left nipple. I eased the dark date into my mouth. I suckled and practiced nursing the loneliness that would soon follow what we were about to do. The first drops of honey rolled down my cavern, and my vulva ached so that I wondered if I’d started my cycle.
Reluctant, I had to investigate. My cocoa mons was swollen twice its normal size. A single landing strip of hairs lay flat and damp. Midway down my crease felt sticky and ready. I shuddered as I swiped and dipped into my opening with my fingertip. I took a close look at my drippings; they were clear. Instinctively, my finger went into my mouth to relish the sugariness.
And he was standing there, pants around his ankles, staring at my naughtiness. He let go of his strength just long enough to free one leg from its obstacle, and then he made his way toward me, underneath the fluffy cloud. Without a word spoken, he snatched the comforter, blanket, and sheet off me and threw it onto the floor. With one hand, he went back to pulling himself, and with the other, he pried my finger from my mouth and placed my hand on my yoni; he had other plans for my mouth.
When I pressed the palm of my hand into my swelling, my sighing and panting answered his copious grunts. But, the freedom to express my responses was soon restricted and muffled. He began forcing two of his thick pasty white fingers into my mouth. As best I could, I tongued and coated them to ease the thrust-down. His calluses sanded my face as he slid deeper into my throat. My gagging and struggling caused his motions to catch fire, and I knew he was close. Furiously, I pushed and pulled my wrist bone over my mons to share the climax. Bone on bone, I dug into my vulva, rocking my hips determined to match his pace and strokes.
Choking, sequences of rolling, squeezing, and throbbing erupted within my woman parts. Back arched, I stomped into my mattress – squealing and moaning in sync with my glory waves. My uncontrollable movements forced him to remove his fingers from my gullet. He jerked a blur, spasmed, and baptized my belly with ropes of warm leche. Perfumed white tea and linen offered an escape from the pungent aroma of mutual masturbation. The familiar prompted the next move.
Shaking from the intensity of my rubdown, I turned over onto elbows and knees (feet dangling off the edge of the bed); I offered up my bum. But my belly seemed to be his object of interest.
He gathered and scraped his jism from my underside and spread it over my behind. Moist jerks preceded his low rumbling moans as he licked every drop of himself from my freshly glazed ass. His finger grazed my anal opening. I looked at him and commenced to beg.
“Please. Please, give it to me. Please, give it to me in my vee,” I pleaded while my cat throbbed with empty anticipation.
“Have I ever?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking, begging. Please, let me feel you inside my kitten.”
“And you would beg me? You would beg to be fucked in your cat, woman?”
“Yes, I’m begging you now. I’m on my knees begging you.”
“What did I tell you?”
“You told me that you don’t like begging.”
“Precisely. So, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to fulfill your request at this time, Carmelita,” he stated with no remorse, gave me the finger, and then slid it into his mouth.
I strained my neck to look at him in his eyes, “You won’t ever fulfill my request, will you?”
He removed his thick middle finger from his mouth with a suck, smacked my rear, and then pressed his finger into my ass, “No. I am not the one.”
“Damn! You could accommodate if you had one smidge of compassion. It’s a simple request. This is about give and take. You seem to be doing the bulk of the taking.”
“Last time, love! You knew what you signed up for; don’t play ignorant! And for the record, I have compassion...for your sexy bottom. Now, here’s something for you to take.”
With that, he coupled his sword and finger and impaled my tail. Burning, my flesh was burning. No spit, no lubrication – this is what we’d come to, and I was sick of it. He must have hurt himself to some degree, because he stopped all efforts, spit into my cavern, and softened his approach. His new attempt was successful; his bulbous circumcision eased right in.
Pressing my forehead into the mattress, I held my ass cheeks open, took a deep breath, and relaxed my sphincter. I took in half his length, my usual. But he was determined to sink his entire shaft. Little by little, he drove past the point of my breaking. As uncomfortable as it was, I knew the pull out and shove in would be even more delightful - not. I inhaled as he pulled back; I exhaled as he pressed in – all the way.
“My god,” escaped my lips, and I reminded myself that this was it. I let go of my butt cheeks, and reached for my pleasure, my relief – my cat.
As if he were not in as far as he could go, he put his left foot on the bed and plunged in further. Repeatedly, flesh balls smacked my hands, as I massaged my soggy vee lips and eased three fingers inside kitty. My thumb and pinky deterred its mates from reaching my g-spot, and I was too far away from the night table drawer to grasp a toy. So on the outstroke, I included my pinky in the mix and dug in a little deeper.
The gauge on my back and front read ‘full to capacity.’
He pounded my ass much as I’d imagined him hammering my cat. I traded strokes. He drove in as I pulled out. I pressed in as he backed out. Each movement was a departure from pain; each movement landed in pleasure. The essence, the aroma of hedonism bloomed. Sweat rolled free, and scratches satisfied itches.
It was finished. We were done. He wanted marriage, but I just couldn’t commit. Although we both worked in finance, we were too different. Our commonalities were too thin, and nobody wanted to compromise. I loved an all white; he loved a bright red. I loved everything in its place; he didn’t care where he left his things. I loved sexually diverse experiences; he loved anal sex, period. I was intense; he was indifferent. After three years with this man, my relationship with Michael was over. He left his weekend stuff – clothing, books, toiletries, and miscellaneous crap; Michael never returned to claim a thing, not even me.
One year passed since that night. Now, the sweats, the heather grey double XL men’s sweats belonged to Adam.
*
An hour later, I cracked the guest bathroom door to see what I could see. Then I realized that I really didn’t want to see it, so I shut the door with quickness. The steam escaped though; the moist hot gave me a special sample of what was really going on. The soap fragrance was trying to cover Adam’s Eau de Vagrant, but just barely. For over an hour, he soaked, scrubbed, and then soaked some more, or so I believed. Sounds of water draining from the tub gave me the impression that he was finished. But no, moments later I heard the swish of the shower.
Au revoir, hot water. I didn’t want a hot shower anyway. Plus, there’s nothing like a cold shower in sub-freezing temperatures. So, go ahead...hog the hot water.
My work was waiting on the counter, anyway. I concentrated my energies on preparing something hot to eat with the full understanding that a hot meal would be the only thing hot I’d have for the night. I diced tomatoes, and dropped some slices of center cut bacon into a skillet. The sizzling, the crackling, and the scent of the bacon hypnotized me, transporting me to a place of overwhelming comfort considering the bed I’d made for myself.
I should have grabbed a drink with Vivie. Damn! Why did I do this to myself? Really, all I wanted was a hot shower, a bowl of tomato soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a healthy hour or so with my kitty.
I placed the last slice of bacon on the rack to drain, and turned off the burners. The shower was still going on full when I heard sounds from my past. The whirring of Michael’s electric razor and the buzzing of his hair clippers reminded me that his electronic devices were still in my possession.
Adam was taking full advantage – good for him.
Boudoir bound, I took advantage of the time too. My knockers needed a release from the boulder holder. I peeled out of sweater, bra, skirt, and tights and slid into some black yoga pants and a white tee. A fan of neat stacks and lines, I kept moving until my shed clothing transformed into folds of compactness, and then I placed them into the hamper.
Busy was a buzz in the bathroom still, so I stretched out on my bed for just a moment.
*
Adam pushed the double XL sweat pants to his ankles and tugged on the waistband of his shorts. “Are you a purist, or would you like something a little extra?”
Clean and talking now – articulate and tempting in fact. He had nerve standing at my bedroom door – brazen in fact. This - I would never tell Vivie.
“Is head considered a normal ritual or is it something a little extra?”
“That depends on your definition of head,” Adam explained with no shame in revealing his goods. “By the way, I’m Adam, and you’re called?”
“Carmelita.”
“Nice to meet you. Thank you, by the way. Head?”
“Let me see... Head... You might call it the knob slob or rocking the mic. For me, head would involve me looking at the top of your fresh buzz cut from between my legs while your lips meet my lips. It would involve your baby soft dimples massaging my inner thighs while your tongue meets my gem. It would involve your manicured fingers drilling my holes while my juices quench your thirst. Do you require more clarification?”
“Mmm, no I don’t. And to answer your question, head comes before and during the meal. Just tell me one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Do you have condoms?”
“But of course. I’m always prepared and ready.”
“It’s just that simple for you?”
“Being prepared and ready? Yea, it’s that simple.”
“No. I mean do you normally bring home prospects from off the street?”
“It’s a standard of mine. Doesn’t everyone indulge?” I was lying, but I had to see where he was going with his dauntlessness. I should have told him my name was Vivie.
“It’s dangerous behavior, Caramel.”
“Carmelita. My name is Carmelita. I’ve gotten ahead in life by taking risks.”
“I could run with that response, but I’ll let it slide since you’ve been so detailed in your definition and description of head. You need to know that I’ve been watching you for a long time Miss Carmelita.”
“Is that right? Tell me, what’ve you been watching?”
“Your gorgeousness.”
“Any one thing in particular?”
“All of it.”
“And you were hiding a lot underneath that coat,” I stated, noticing that street did a body good.
“Thanks again for the bath, the shower, and the bath. Now, I want to show my appreciation in the best way I know how. Do you approve?”
“Please, show me your gratitude,” I purred as my kitten began to drip.
The Isley Brothers’ song,’ In Between the Sheets’ was playing in my mind.
“Oh, I am. But first, a little foreplay...where are your cleaning supplies - bleach, sponges, scrub brush...you know – for the bathroom?”
And Adam dragged the arm of the record player across the vinyl.
“Um, yea...wow. The supplies are in the laundry room – down the hall and to the right,” I explained with a scowl.
“You have a diagnosis of OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, don’t you?”
What the hell? My Zoloft isn’t in the guest bathroom. Where’s he getting his information?
“Who are you, and where did that question come from?”
“Answer my question first. OCD, right?”
“Yes, but...”
“Let’s just say that I have experience with the disorder. Allow me restore your all white bathroom back to its former state of spotlessness. So that when I return to you, there will be no distractions. Understand? Just relax and I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Sure. But when you return, I’ll require that you expound on your knowledge of my personal business. I don’t know you, and you certainly don’t know me. Your revelation seems to be coming from thin air, and now you want to clean. Clean? Does my house seem dirty to you? I guess it does. So, clean then,” I spouted. Cursing under my breath, I turned over, snatched my trapped clothing out of my turn, and closed my eyes.
One breath later, he was on top of me - naked, in all of his splendid deliciousness. He gyrated and rocked in between my long extended gams until I felt the extent of his breadth. Rolling beads of perspiration added to the flood in my canal. Flesh smashed against flesh, as he rode my clit with his tip.
“Fuck me,” I pleaded.
The Isley Brothers’ ditty, ‘In Between the Sheets’ resumed playing.
Blood-engorged mad bone massaged and pushed around my opening - first a nuzzling on the right, a slide, and then a gliding on the left. His movements reminded me of an inexperienced college boy having difficulties finding the buried treasure, until he repeated his sequence. Then I knew I was in for the most torturous delay.
“Put it in!” I demanded.
He moved his hand to cover my mouth and eased in three fingers, “Not yet, not quite yet.”
My pleas turned to moans as I thrust my hips in an attempt to make him miss his mark.
“Oh no, not yet. You see... I need to consume that pussy that’s been walking over me for well over a year now. I need to devour you from your navel to the beginning of that split on your back. And those feet that you pretty up so nice in the summertime, I need to suck every toe, and then feel the wetness of all ten against my cock. Then, I need to squeeze and feed on those melons you flaunt on the street as if you’re selling something. Finally, I need that pretty little mouth of yours to engage in a face fucking like you’ve never experienced in your life.”
With both hands, he latched onto my face.
“But I need to be fu...”
And he promptly shut down my requests by resting his mouth on my mouth. Grinding and pressing underway, he guided his tongue along the outline of my lips twice before slithering inside to meet my tongue. Tongue chases lead to top lip sucks. Upper lip sucks lead to lower lip bites. Nibbling and licking made me squirm and buck in a fury to catch my prey off guard.
However, Adam wasn’t falling for it, he was the predator. He released his rule over my mouth and began his journey down my body, fulfilling every need he’d expressed earlier. He lapped and kissed a trail from my titty to my kitty.
Breast kneading, nipple pinching, and skin marking gave way to a body tasting. My body offered saltiness from my sweat paired with sweetness from my honey. Kitty’s wings opened on the first tongue flick, and my gem came out of hiding, an amuse-bouche for Adam. A devouring in one mouthful, one movement sparked a massive eruption in my loins.
Adam didn’t permit one minute to recoup from my convulsion; he licked his way down my right thigh and my calf until he reached my foot. He lathered every toe with his dribble, as promised, with slow purposed circular laps that tickled and awakened places I’d been unable to reach during my self-love sessions. He sandwiched his cock between my feet. He held a grip on my toes and a press so tight on my arches, that when he sawed he began leaking milky white: an amuse-bouche for me.
Adam painted my mouth with his cream. Upon taste, the modicum was sugary and suggested that pineapples must have been included in his street intake. The sample made me eager for the face fuck.
I expected him to latch onto my head with both hands again, but he allowed me to lead.
“I’m doing this first, but I need my kitten pounded when I get finished. Agreed?”
“Mm hmm, agreed, Miss,” he responded while propping my back with an extra pillow.
He straddled me and pointed his gun. Although the barrel was right in my face, I launched my attack on the underside of his sack. I sowed butterfly kisses and soft licks. I planted gentle sucks and faint nibbles. With double-handed grasps and twists, I massaged and manipulated his barrel while maintaining my oral position. I sowed, planted, massaged, manipulated, and watered Adam well until I reaped shots of warm emulsion.
“Miss,” Adam yelled out as he came.
“Fuck me now!”
Adam backed down my body, opened my legs, and laid his barrel, the tip at my opening, “Miss!”
“Yes, fuck me! Do it to me now!” I needed to feel the thickness in my kitten.
Adam opened his mouth to kiss me, and his breath smelled like tomato soup and grilled cheese, “Miss?”
*
“Miss, I’m sorry to wake you. You seem to be having quite the dream,” he stated holding a tray of food.
Well damn. That wasn’t even a fraction of a fuck. Oh my god.
“Yea, I guess I zoned out for a moment. You’re talking.”
As I came to, I couldn’t help but notice that my mute houseguest cleaned up well. He was sparkling, smelling fresh, and sexy as fuck. He made the double XL sweats look good.
“Yes, I talk. Are you all right?”
Cold sweat covered my body, and when I went to sit up, I could feel the flood in between my legs. “Yea, I’m okay.”
“I’ve been trying to wake you for a while now. Hey, do you know that you talk in your sleep?”
“Do I?” I was beyond embarrassed.
“Yea, you do,” he laughed.
“Tell me something... what is your name?”
“Adam. And yours?”
“Carmelita. It’s nice to meet you, it’s nice to hear your voice.”
“Thank you for inviting me into your home. While you were sleep, I made you some dinner: tomato soup and a grilled cheese with bacon,” Adam said and handed me a tray with my dinner all laid out.
“Thank you, Adam.”
Adam pushed the double XL sweat pants to his ankles and tugged on the waistband of his shorts. “Are you a purist, or would you like something a little extra?”
Prophetic dreams... I never told Vivie one detail about my weekend.
“A long time.” I opened my desk drawer pretending to look for anything.
“Fess up. How long?”
I tried to deflect. “You first. How long has it been since you had sex?”
“This is such an enriching meaningful work discussion that’s vital to completing Nick Shaw’s final report. Isn’t it? Oh, let me answer.” Vivie loved to pry, but she rarely gave up salacious information about herself. “No, it isn’t. But since you insist I go first, you should know that I had sex last Saturday.”
“Shocking, Vivie! Can’t believe you gave it up! And with whom did you share your coitus connection?”
“No, no. You’re next.” Vivie insisted. Although she didn’t tell much ever in the three years I’d known her, she did keep my personal business confidential.
“It’s been a minute.”
“What’s a minute?” Vivie cut across a field to the pending business at hand. “Hey, you’re gonna complete the schedule and footnote seven, right?”
“A year and yes.”
“A year?” Vivie closed her laptop and covered her mouth with her fingertips.
I know the bitch is laughing at me.
“Yea. Now tell me who got your cookie last Saturday.”
Vivie, a brilliant accounting manager with a promising future, was such a skank. She had an underground reputation amongst colleagues of being an easy get. She would never tell it, but those that got always did. Couldn’t believe I was getting the foul tidbits from the cow’s mouth.
“James... His name is James.”
“Oh? Where did you two meet?”
“We met at a club.”
Woo, she is a hoe.
“Met him at the club, huh? That was a one-night stand, or are you two serious?”
“Neither. Vivie has needs, my friend. Sad but glad to say, James is my little fuck toy. We met about two months ago, and we get it in two or three times a week. James isn’t hubby material, but he gives it to me real good. I get the benefits without the hell and hassles, you know.”
“You’re a naughty girl, Vivie.”
“You should get yourself a fuck toy, girl. That will keep you from missing out... on years of smashing. C’mon, let’s go for drinks now and see who we can find for you.”
“No, not me, Vivie. I don’t have it in me to give it up to just anybody from the club or off the damn street now.”
“Aw, c’mon. It’ll be fun.”
“Nuh uh. Plus, it’s Friday, and it’s too cold outside. I’m going home, light a fire, make some dinner, and enjoy a good book. My purse can wait,” I lied. But Vivie didn’t need to know about my masturbatory activities.
“Well, I tried. I’m meeting up with James later tonight. You enjoy your weekend, okay?”
“You too, Vivie.”
*
My ears perked up at the scraping, the dragging of a stool across my hardwood floors toward my kitchen isle. The piercing pitch was sure to leave a gutter in the maple finish that no amount of scrubbing or waxing would cover. Took me six months to strip and re-finish that loft floor. My head dropped, chin meeting chest as the vile screeching came to an abrupt stop. That was a relief short-lived, because the incessant shuffling of hard bottom shoes against bare floors began. There was a thump of a body landing on a stool and then calm.
Stillness matched his silence as he made himself at-home. A loden green and black tweed coat draped over a mystery: his body, his flesh buried. Just beneath the coat, layers of street, last year’s worries, and yesterday’s breakfast were discernible. Not sure how many pairs of pants, underwear, and socks he sported, but he was looking, well, padded – hefty and thick. Thick folds of cold-worn, filth-laden skin made his brown eyes look navy blue. The blue-brown glare cut my soul at its core; probably the sole soul affected amongst hundreds.
Hundreds maybe even thousands of people walked over this man laying on the sidewalk everyday, including me. I’d failed to take the time - to make the time to recognize that the lump I walked over was a human being who deserved decency, cordiality, and respect. I’d failed.
Head down, I watched my crimson painted toenails, bright gold toe ring, and shimmery anklet decorate my sandals. Head down, I watched my toe cleavage pressing from my pumps provide a peek-a-boo that looked like the divide between two breasts heaving from some fancy brassiere or ass crack hanging out of some low-riding jeans. Head down, I watched my ugly, but sensible snow boots make an edgy design in the freshly covered sidewalk. Head down, I sent and viewed hundreds of texts and raised my head up, for a brief moment only, to navigate the walkover.
I cared more about the nuances and reflections of my well-dressed, sophisticated gait than I cared about a lump, a human settled on concrete. Seasons came; seasons went, and I walked over him everyday speechless, uncaring, and cold.
But there was something about the bitter cold that day, something about the ashen sidewalk and cutting winds that made me look at him. On the way home from work, something made me speak to him, a familiar stranger: the recognizable landmark, a lump of a human being whom I did not know. Something made me offer him food, warmth, and a bath, not necessarily in that order.
Surprisingly, it seemed as if he’d forgiven my past transgressions. Maybe he’d never noticed my walkovers, because he quietly followed me home.
“I have decaf going. Thinking a nice tomato bisque and a golden grilled cheese would be good right now. What do you think? Or would you prefer hot cocoa?”
Navy blue-browns stared at me with lips sealed shut. Didn’t receive a head nod or wave off from him for my troubles. I was the recipient of a morbid silence.
“I believe I have some turkey, tomato, bacon, and avocado that I could add to your sandwich,” I added, as I twisted my waist length hair in a tidy knot on top of my head. I opened the refrigerator searching to confirm my proposal. “Are you a purist, or would you like something a little extra?”
Without even looking up from my fiddling in the fridge, I knew that he wasn’t going to respond. Out the frosty window, daylight savings time had already dictated the darkness to set in. And my hasty offer was entirely too far-gone to rescind. He was in my loft, in my space. I had to commit and see this crazed altruistic attempt through.
Really, what (in the name of everything that is right and decent) was I doing inviting in some homeless stranger? The aroma of doom, besides his funk, wafted in the air. I pondered calling my mother or Vivie fearing that I was about to die.
Then it started. As if he were reading my mind, he began striking matches repeatedly. I heard a rip, a strike, an igniting, and then a breath. Hot breath extinguished the orange flickers; wisps of slate smoke followed. He struck a match, another, and then another, throwing the remnants wherever. That was the pattern.
A damn pyromaniac, is that who I’d invited into my house? Is this what I get for extending kindness? Really, did I deserve to have my home torched now?
Rightfully so, righteous indignation settled, because I was not about to allow this stranger to burn me out of my own home. I eyed the fire extinguisher and calculated how much time it would take me to pull the pin, squeeze the trigger, and sweep the hose across the impending flames. Fast forward to the mess this would make: the foam, the smoke, and the homeless man covered in double yuck. I could smell the hot garbage truck juice stink as I fought back a gag.
I took a sniff. Magically, a new aromatic helped my fight. The strong odor of sulfur dioxide seemed to push down the current funk and my freshly imagined diffuser from Bed, Bath, and Beyond: Hot Garbage by Aromatherapy. Then it dawned on me. This man was aware of his raging odor, and he was lighting matches to cover it. He thought the sulfur would alleviate his stench.
Empathetic, I picked up every one of his discarded matches, rinsed them, and threw them away. I snatched the matchbook out of his hand, walked over to the fireplace, and lit three wicks in the center of a large white tea and linen candle to help him out some. I sat the weighty chunk of wax on the counter between us and looked him square in the eye: light brown to blue-brown.
“We’ve put a bandage over this thing; we provided a temporal takeover. The root must abdicate the throne. You need a bath, a shower, and then another bath, you know,” I explained with the intention of receiving verbal confirmation; however, a tap, a nod, or a thumb up would have been sufficient.
Although the question was clearly not rhetorical, the derelict, whose name I would later find out was Adam, remained mute.
Without breaking my gaze, I folded my arms across my boobs, tilted my head to the side, pursed my lips, and shifted my weight to one leg. We had a stare off. He lost.
Adam lost his way, his will to remain expressionless. The cross-stitch in the top of his pilled olive knit cap became visible and then invisible, as his blue-brown eyes scanned my Coke bottle figure. Mesmerized by the roundness of my breasts and protruding nipples, Adam’s eyes rested there long enough to cause his dimples to come out of hiding. His ungroomed mustache and beard veiled his smile. His eerie quietude and reticence masked his intentions.
Silence still? Okay, maybe he doesn’t speak English.
Resolved, I bolted down the hall for the linen closet. From the three rows of perfectly folded and immaculately placed bath items, I gathered two washcloths, a towel, a new toothbrush, toothpaste, and a fresh bar of soap. I returned to the kitchen, opened a drawer, snatched a trash bag, and laid it on top of my gift for Adam. A quick jerk of my head beckoned him to follow. He stood and followed me into the guest bathroom.
“Here you go. You can put your clothes in this trash bag. I have some double XL men’s sweats here that should fit you just fine.”
*
In the beginning, I thought it would last forever.
He pushed the double XL sweat pants to his ankles and tugged on the waistband of his shorts. He took his time unfolding the hardness pressed up against his torso. Flickering moments of candlelight revealed his slightly rounded belly, obviously the result of one too many beers and twenty or so too many Buffalo wings. Nevertheless, the plumpness did not deter his movements, his intentions. In one quick movement, he spit into his hand and began stroking. His eyes, the glare never broke contact with my soul, not for one second.
I did not want to; I really didn’t. But I did anyway.
The décor in the entire loft was monochromatic, all white: alabaster sofas, ivory area rugs, powder bathroom sinks and tubs, and two snow covered bedrooms. White on white layers shielded me from him. A flat sheet, pearl knit blanket, and a snow goose down comforter concealed my nakedness.
Naked and covered, I peeked over the comforter to watch him rub his full length; each stroke ended in a guttural grunt. I shuffled about loosening the tucked sheets from between the mattress and box spring, finally grasping my left breast, my left nipple. I eased the dark date into my mouth. I suckled and practiced nursing the loneliness that would soon follow what we were about to do. The first drops of honey rolled down my cavern, and my vulva ached so that I wondered if I’d started my cycle.
Reluctant, I had to investigate. My cocoa mons was swollen twice its normal size. A single landing strip of hairs lay flat and damp. Midway down my crease felt sticky and ready. I shuddered as I swiped and dipped into my opening with my fingertip. I took a close look at my drippings; they were clear. Instinctively, my finger went into my mouth to relish the sugariness.
And he was standing there, pants around his ankles, staring at my naughtiness. He let go of his strength just long enough to free one leg from its obstacle, and then he made his way toward me, underneath the fluffy cloud. Without a word spoken, he snatched the comforter, blanket, and sheet off me and threw it onto the floor. With one hand, he went back to pulling himself, and with the other, he pried my finger from my mouth and placed my hand on my yoni; he had other plans for my mouth.
When I pressed the palm of my hand into my swelling, my sighing and panting answered his copious grunts. But, the freedom to express my responses was soon restricted and muffled. He began forcing two of his thick pasty white fingers into my mouth. As best I could, I tongued and coated them to ease the thrust-down. His calluses sanded my face as he slid deeper into my throat. My gagging and struggling caused his motions to catch fire, and I knew he was close. Furiously, I pushed and pulled my wrist bone over my mons to share the climax. Bone on bone, I dug into my vulva, rocking my hips determined to match his pace and strokes.
Choking, sequences of rolling, squeezing, and throbbing erupted within my woman parts. Back arched, I stomped into my mattress – squealing and moaning in sync with my glory waves. My uncontrollable movements forced him to remove his fingers from my gullet. He jerked a blur, spasmed, and baptized my belly with ropes of warm leche. Perfumed white tea and linen offered an escape from the pungent aroma of mutual masturbation. The familiar prompted the next move.
Shaking from the intensity of my rubdown, I turned over onto elbows and knees (feet dangling off the edge of the bed); I offered up my bum. But my belly seemed to be his object of interest.
He gathered and scraped his jism from my underside and spread it over my behind. Moist jerks preceded his low rumbling moans as he licked every drop of himself from my freshly glazed ass. His finger grazed my anal opening. I looked at him and commenced to beg.
“Please. Please, give it to me. Please, give it to me in my vee,” I pleaded while my cat throbbed with empty anticipation.
“Have I ever?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking, begging. Please, let me feel you inside my kitten.”
“And you would beg me? You would beg to be fucked in your cat, woman?”
“Yes, I’m begging you now. I’m on my knees begging you.”
“What did I tell you?”
“You told me that you don’t like begging.”
“Precisely. So, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to fulfill your request at this time, Carmelita,” he stated with no remorse, gave me the finger, and then slid it into his mouth.
I strained my neck to look at him in his eyes, “You won’t ever fulfill my request, will you?”
He removed his thick middle finger from his mouth with a suck, smacked my rear, and then pressed his finger into my ass, “No. I am not the one.”
“Damn! You could accommodate if you had one smidge of compassion. It’s a simple request. This is about give and take. You seem to be doing the bulk of the taking.”
“Last time, love! You knew what you signed up for; don’t play ignorant! And for the record, I have compassion...for your sexy bottom. Now, here’s something for you to take.”
With that, he coupled his sword and finger and impaled my tail. Burning, my flesh was burning. No spit, no lubrication – this is what we’d come to, and I was sick of it. He must have hurt himself to some degree, because he stopped all efforts, spit into my cavern, and softened his approach. His new attempt was successful; his bulbous circumcision eased right in.
Pressing my forehead into the mattress, I held my ass cheeks open, took a deep breath, and relaxed my sphincter. I took in half his length, my usual. But he was determined to sink his entire shaft. Little by little, he drove past the point of my breaking. As uncomfortable as it was, I knew the pull out and shove in would be even more delightful - not. I inhaled as he pulled back; I exhaled as he pressed in – all the way.
“My god,” escaped my lips, and I reminded myself that this was it. I let go of my butt cheeks, and reached for my pleasure, my relief – my cat.
As if he were not in as far as he could go, he put his left foot on the bed and plunged in further. Repeatedly, flesh balls smacked my hands, as I massaged my soggy vee lips and eased three fingers inside kitty. My thumb and pinky deterred its mates from reaching my g-spot, and I was too far away from the night table drawer to grasp a toy. So on the outstroke, I included my pinky in the mix and dug in a little deeper.
The gauge on my back and front read ‘full to capacity.’
He pounded my ass much as I’d imagined him hammering my cat. I traded strokes. He drove in as I pulled out. I pressed in as he backed out. Each movement was a departure from pain; each movement landed in pleasure. The essence, the aroma of hedonism bloomed. Sweat rolled free, and scratches satisfied itches.
It was finished. We were done. He wanted marriage, but I just couldn’t commit. Although we both worked in finance, we were too different. Our commonalities were too thin, and nobody wanted to compromise. I loved an all white; he loved a bright red. I loved everything in its place; he didn’t care where he left his things. I loved sexually diverse experiences; he loved anal sex, period. I was intense; he was indifferent. After three years with this man, my relationship with Michael was over. He left his weekend stuff – clothing, books, toiletries, and miscellaneous crap; Michael never returned to claim a thing, not even me.
One year passed since that night. Now, the sweats, the heather grey double XL men’s sweats belonged to Adam.
*
An hour later, I cracked the guest bathroom door to see what I could see. Then I realized that I really didn’t want to see it, so I shut the door with quickness. The steam escaped though; the moist hot gave me a special sample of what was really going on. The soap fragrance was trying to cover Adam’s Eau de Vagrant, but just barely. For over an hour, he soaked, scrubbed, and then soaked some more, or so I believed. Sounds of water draining from the tub gave me the impression that he was finished. But no, moments later I heard the swish of the shower.
Au revoir, hot water. I didn’t want a hot shower anyway. Plus, there’s nothing like a cold shower in sub-freezing temperatures. So, go ahead...hog the hot water.
My work was waiting on the counter, anyway. I concentrated my energies on preparing something hot to eat with the full understanding that a hot meal would be the only thing hot I’d have for the night. I diced tomatoes, and dropped some slices of center cut bacon into a skillet. The sizzling, the crackling, and the scent of the bacon hypnotized me, transporting me to a place of overwhelming comfort considering the bed I’d made for myself.
I should have grabbed a drink with Vivie. Damn! Why did I do this to myself? Really, all I wanted was a hot shower, a bowl of tomato soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a healthy hour or so with my kitty.
I placed the last slice of bacon on the rack to drain, and turned off the burners. The shower was still going on full when I heard sounds from my past. The whirring of Michael’s electric razor and the buzzing of his hair clippers reminded me that his electronic devices were still in my possession.
Adam was taking full advantage – good for him.
Boudoir bound, I took advantage of the time too. My knockers needed a release from the boulder holder. I peeled out of sweater, bra, skirt, and tights and slid into some black yoga pants and a white tee. A fan of neat stacks and lines, I kept moving until my shed clothing transformed into folds of compactness, and then I placed them into the hamper.
Busy was a buzz in the bathroom still, so I stretched out on my bed for just a moment.
*
Adam pushed the double XL sweat pants to his ankles and tugged on the waistband of his shorts. “Are you a purist, or would you like something a little extra?”
Clean and talking now – articulate and tempting in fact. He had nerve standing at my bedroom door – brazen in fact. This - I would never tell Vivie.
“Is head considered a normal ritual or is it something a little extra?”
“That depends on your definition of head,” Adam explained with no shame in revealing his goods. “By the way, I’m Adam, and you’re called?”
“Carmelita.”
“Nice to meet you. Thank you, by the way. Head?”
“Let me see... Head... You might call it the knob slob or rocking the mic. For me, head would involve me looking at the top of your fresh buzz cut from between my legs while your lips meet my lips. It would involve your baby soft dimples massaging my inner thighs while your tongue meets my gem. It would involve your manicured fingers drilling my holes while my juices quench your thirst. Do you require more clarification?”
“Mmm, no I don’t. And to answer your question, head comes before and during the meal. Just tell me one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Do you have condoms?”
“But of course. I’m always prepared and ready.”
“It’s just that simple for you?”
“Being prepared and ready? Yea, it’s that simple.”
“No. I mean do you normally bring home prospects from off the street?”
“It’s a standard of mine. Doesn’t everyone indulge?” I was lying, but I had to see where he was going with his dauntlessness. I should have told him my name was Vivie.
“It’s dangerous behavior, Caramel.”
“Carmelita. My name is Carmelita. I’ve gotten ahead in life by taking risks.”
“I could run with that response, but I’ll let it slide since you’ve been so detailed in your definition and description of head. You need to know that I’ve been watching you for a long time Miss Carmelita.”
“Is that right? Tell me, what’ve you been watching?”
“Your gorgeousness.”
“Any one thing in particular?”
“All of it.”
“And you were hiding a lot underneath that coat,” I stated, noticing that street did a body good.
“Thanks again for the bath, the shower, and the bath. Now, I want to show my appreciation in the best way I know how. Do you approve?”
“Please, show me your gratitude,” I purred as my kitten began to drip.
The Isley Brothers’ song,’ In Between the Sheets’ was playing in my mind.
“Oh, I am. But first, a little foreplay...where are your cleaning supplies - bleach, sponges, scrub brush...you know – for the bathroom?”
And Adam dragged the arm of the record player across the vinyl.
“Um, yea...wow. The supplies are in the laundry room – down the hall and to the right,” I explained with a scowl.
“You have a diagnosis of OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, don’t you?”
What the hell? My Zoloft isn’t in the guest bathroom. Where’s he getting his information?
“Who are you, and where did that question come from?”
“Answer my question first. OCD, right?”
“Yes, but...”
“Let’s just say that I have experience with the disorder. Allow me restore your all white bathroom back to its former state of spotlessness. So that when I return to you, there will be no distractions. Understand? Just relax and I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Sure. But when you return, I’ll require that you expound on your knowledge of my personal business. I don’t know you, and you certainly don’t know me. Your revelation seems to be coming from thin air, and now you want to clean. Clean? Does my house seem dirty to you? I guess it does. So, clean then,” I spouted. Cursing under my breath, I turned over, snatched my trapped clothing out of my turn, and closed my eyes.
One breath later, he was on top of me - naked, in all of his splendid deliciousness. He gyrated and rocked in between my long extended gams until I felt the extent of his breadth. Rolling beads of perspiration added to the flood in my canal. Flesh smashed against flesh, as he rode my clit with his tip.
“Fuck me,” I pleaded.
The Isley Brothers’ ditty, ‘In Between the Sheets’ resumed playing.
Blood-engorged mad bone massaged and pushed around my opening - first a nuzzling on the right, a slide, and then a gliding on the left. His movements reminded me of an inexperienced college boy having difficulties finding the buried treasure, until he repeated his sequence. Then I knew I was in for the most torturous delay.
“Put it in!” I demanded.
He moved his hand to cover my mouth and eased in three fingers, “Not yet, not quite yet.”
My pleas turned to moans as I thrust my hips in an attempt to make him miss his mark.
“Oh no, not yet. You see... I need to consume that pussy that’s been walking over me for well over a year now. I need to devour you from your navel to the beginning of that split on your back. And those feet that you pretty up so nice in the summertime, I need to suck every toe, and then feel the wetness of all ten against my cock. Then, I need to squeeze and feed on those melons you flaunt on the street as if you’re selling something. Finally, I need that pretty little mouth of yours to engage in a face fucking like you’ve never experienced in your life.”
With both hands, he latched onto my face.
“But I need to be fu...”
And he promptly shut down my requests by resting his mouth on my mouth. Grinding and pressing underway, he guided his tongue along the outline of my lips twice before slithering inside to meet my tongue. Tongue chases lead to top lip sucks. Upper lip sucks lead to lower lip bites. Nibbling and licking made me squirm and buck in a fury to catch my prey off guard.
However, Adam wasn’t falling for it, he was the predator. He released his rule over my mouth and began his journey down my body, fulfilling every need he’d expressed earlier. He lapped and kissed a trail from my titty to my kitty.
Breast kneading, nipple pinching, and skin marking gave way to a body tasting. My body offered saltiness from my sweat paired with sweetness from my honey. Kitty’s wings opened on the first tongue flick, and my gem came out of hiding, an amuse-bouche for Adam. A devouring in one mouthful, one movement sparked a massive eruption in my loins.
Adam didn’t permit one minute to recoup from my convulsion; he licked his way down my right thigh and my calf until he reached my foot. He lathered every toe with his dribble, as promised, with slow purposed circular laps that tickled and awakened places I’d been unable to reach during my self-love sessions. He sandwiched his cock between my feet. He held a grip on my toes and a press so tight on my arches, that when he sawed he began leaking milky white: an amuse-bouche for me.
Adam painted my mouth with his cream. Upon taste, the modicum was sugary and suggested that pineapples must have been included in his street intake. The sample made me eager for the face fuck.
I expected him to latch onto my head with both hands again, but he allowed me to lead.
“I’m doing this first, but I need my kitten pounded when I get finished. Agreed?”
“Mm hmm, agreed, Miss,” he responded while propping my back with an extra pillow.
He straddled me and pointed his gun. Although the barrel was right in my face, I launched my attack on the underside of his sack. I sowed butterfly kisses and soft licks. I planted gentle sucks and faint nibbles. With double-handed grasps and twists, I massaged and manipulated his barrel while maintaining my oral position. I sowed, planted, massaged, manipulated, and watered Adam well until I reaped shots of warm emulsion.
“Miss,” Adam yelled out as he came.
“Fuck me now!”
Adam backed down my body, opened my legs, and laid his barrel, the tip at my opening, “Miss!”
“Yes, fuck me! Do it to me now!” I needed to feel the thickness in my kitten.
Adam opened his mouth to kiss me, and his breath smelled like tomato soup and grilled cheese, “Miss?”
*
“Miss, I’m sorry to wake you. You seem to be having quite the dream,” he stated holding a tray of food.
Well damn. That wasn’t even a fraction of a fuck. Oh my god.
“Yea, I guess I zoned out for a moment. You’re talking.”
As I came to, I couldn’t help but notice that my mute houseguest cleaned up well. He was sparkling, smelling fresh, and sexy as fuck. He made the double XL sweats look good.
“Yes, I talk. Are you all right?”
Cold sweat covered my body, and when I went to sit up, I could feel the flood in between my legs. “Yea, I’m okay.”
“I’ve been trying to wake you for a while now. Hey, do you know that you talk in your sleep?”
“Do I?” I was beyond embarrassed.
“Yea, you do,” he laughed.
“Tell me something... what is your name?”
“Adam. And yours?”
“Carmelita. It’s nice to meet you, it’s nice to hear your voice.”
“Thank you for inviting me into your home. While you were sleep, I made you some dinner: tomato soup and a grilled cheese with bacon,” Adam said and handed me a tray with my dinner all laid out.
“Thank you, Adam.”
Adam pushed the double XL sweat pants to his ankles and tugged on the waistband of his shorts. “Are you a purist, or would you like something a little extra?”
Prophetic dreams... I never told Vivie one detail about my weekend.
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