NSFW Erotic Writing
Sometimes the opportunities just drop out of the sky. But word gets around. If there’s a consolation for being the lower income producer in a two income household, it’s the size of the divorce settlement when you get dumped. I did OK. Enough money from the trust and the condo I got in exchange for signing over the McMansion to her. I can work on buying and selling the Mid-Century Modern collectibles I have a passion for. Occasionally the cash flow is a little tight and I found I can clean houses to ease the pinch a tad.
Clients? No problems. There are a legion of working professional women who like the idea of a man who reminds them of their ex-husband scrubbing their toilets and polishing their door knockers. And I make sure that they notice that I put the work into my swimming. I don’t flaunt my absence of a middle age paunch and fat ass, but they get noticed when I wear the 501’s shrunk to fit my body.
Tuesday I got a call from Melissa, the tax lawyer with the three bedroom row house. The heart pine floors repurposed from an old barn were a pleasure to wax and buff. And the master bathroom had that two-headed walk-in shower, plus the bidet that always piqued my curiosity as I fancied a woman using it.
That particular day I was finishing up as Melissa came home. She had a tennis lesson that had cancelled, but could not bear the thought of returning to a couple of hours of files. She would come up with the billable hours later.
Her key turned in the lock as I was putting the mop, brushes and buckets away.
“Nice work,” she said. She got out her wallet with the cash. And then…
I could feel her looking at me. She smiled then said “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You take care of your body, like modern collectibles and clean houses from time to time. Are you gay?”
“Funny I was wondering if you were a butch lesbian, what with the pant suit and that short bob of a haircut.”
“Maybe we both have secrets. Go upstairs, take those jeans off, shower thoroughly and meet me in my office.”
I did as she said. Showered and clean, I walked into her office, with the towel around my waist. She was sitting at her desk, wearing that god awful pants suit, absent mindedly tapping her palm with a ruler.
“Well here’s where we both get our questions answered. Yes? No? Maybe? Who wants to play?”
Rising from her chair, she walked toward me and with a quick jerk of her hand, pulled the towel off. I was, at that time, flaccid.
“Hmm. The mystery continues.”
“I can offer some closure”.
I drew in to kiss her. With the gesture, as our lips met and tongues explored, I was getting harder and hotter. She began to caress me, and I set to work undressing her. The tailored linen shirt and lacy bra came off. I found the side zipper on her nicely tailored trousers. Just as I began to slide the zipper down, she smacked my hand.
“Now it’s time for my surprise.”
She unzipped with her back towards me. When she turned around I saw that she was, uh, what’s the word, packing. And suddenly I knew that no amount of money could compensate me for what was to happen.
Her kisses and caresses became more assertive. I felt her fingers pinch my nipples harder and harder. And then she slapped my ass.
“Get down boy and put that ass in the air!”
And I did. I felt the wool of the carpet on my knees and on my nipples and my cheek as her fingers, now gloved and lubed, probed my asshole. I felt her move them in and out. I raised my body and my palms felt the rug. She was breathing in my ear, her tongue probing my ear, as her finger thrust into my butt.
Then the finger came out and I felt the push of the silicone phallus. And her hand on my cock. She and I were finding a rhythm. And I wondered, would she cum? How would I know?
And then I didn’t care. I felt the jism surge from my balls, up my shaft, as I spasmed and splattered onto the Persian carpet.
I collapsed, satiated. Emotionally. Physically. I had been used. And I didn’t care.
Dispatches From Dystopia 