(When the Chardonnay conversation sours, go home.)
The plastic people had their plastic conversations as twilight, ignored again this weekend for canapés and pork tenderloin, painted the horizon with fire.
Another Saturday, another party. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Doc Landon meandered, chatting up the corporate drunks, soccer moms, liars, bitches, and upper-middle-class wannabes of Blackstone Farms. Drifting around the lopsided common area most of the pretentious stay-at-homers called “the Green,” Doc wondered when suburban culture had spiraled so helplessly that a gated community of cookie-cutter McMansions with all the personality of wet sheetrock had emerged as the new American Dream. Sipping from a crystal mug of Ben Harmond’s keg of overpriced IPA, Doc didn’t consider the question long.
The beer, $179 a barrel and not worth it, burned his chest. Too many hops. Who drinks this piss? Bearded weirdos.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Doc ignored it, understood: fifteen minutes.
One more lap, and I’m gone. Fifteen minutes. His prick gave a faint stir, anticipation rousing it.
All the regulars had gathered in an irregular splash of folding camp chairs, card tables, BBQ grills, and coolers filled with gaudy wine, iced vodka, shrimp, oysters, imported moldy cheese, fresh breads, and a gourmet menu of spiced chicken, juicy steaks, sloppy ribs, and Kristen Hargrave’s famous pork tenderloin.
Oh, and a handful of chilled Cokes for the kids.
Anyone brash or stupid enough to suggest that the revelers grill a hot dog or a hamburger would be shunned, excommunicate and anathema for at least a season. Weekend Green parties were widely accepted as everyone’s opportunity to show off, to outdo last week’s efforts, to bite their visceral dislike for one another behind whitened teeth, and – later in the evening – to smoke a bit of weed, snort a Percocet, and maybe talk the neighbor’s spouse into a clumsy quickie behind the clubhouse.
Doc Landon hated every moment of it, every forced smile, brainless off-color joke, fake tit, fantasy football reference, and collapsing marriage – his own included. From the Crescent Street sidewalk, he assessed the Green and realized that a savvy observer could infer the number of years couples had been married by the distance between them most Saturday evenings.
Less than twenty feet: married fewer than five years.
Twenty to thirty feet: married fewer than ten years and still cautiously hopeful.
Thirty to fifty feet: married ten to fifteen years and losing hope.
Greater than fifty feet: married longer than fifteen years and done.
Doc laughed quietly and searched the Green for Joan. He discovered her, sitting with Kristen and Rebecca , chatting up Gary Hallstrom, the sexy lawyer from the brick-front place on Crescent and Berkeley. “What is that?” he wondered, “seventy feet? Seventy-five?”
Doc waited another minute or two. Joan didn’t look up, didn’t appear to care where he’d gone. He figured his wife had Counselor Hallstrom in her crosshairs for the evening, and nothing short of a natural disaster would keep Joan Landon from her conquest.
Good. He surreptitiously slid a hand into his pocket, rubbed his rising cock, encouraging it along. Twelve minutes.
Ben Harmond waved him over. “Hey, Doc! C’mon, grab another beer.” A regional sales manager for a cell phone company, Ben drank enough IPA to float his wife’s Escalade out to sea. Seven days a week, from the moment he arrived home, Ben had a twenty-ounce glass of bitter amber lager he carried everywhere. Adults, children, salespeople, lost travelers, North Pole elves, Seventh Day Adventists, everyone who stopped at the Harmonds’ place was offered cold IPA. Ben was a generous, if discontent drunk. Given that Doc rarely heard Ben’s wife, Marie, discuss anything other than how much she despised their son’s algebra teacher, he wasn’t surprised that Ben’s only goal when arriving home was to sacrifice a few dozen IQ points to his kegerator. Doc figured that since Ben left for work before 5:00 a.m., spent all day in his car, and rolled into Blackstone Farms sometimes as late as 8:00 p.m., self-medicating with expensive beer might be the only thing keeping the sales manager from swallowing his grandfather’s old shotgun.
“Thanks!” Doc feigned enthusiasm, held out his glass.
Ben poured from a pitcher he repeatedly topped off from the keg in his garage across Crescent. “You teaching this summer, Doc?”
“Nope,” Doc didn’t sit down. Nine minutes. “I’ve got to write curriculum for an Internet Business Management class we’re offering this fall as part of the major, a three-credit lecture course. That’s my only mission this summer.” He sipped.
Clearly on the north side of six beers, Ben attempted a wink but ended up looking like a man with an idiosyncratic tic. “Some of them college babes . . . huh? Some of them are pretty hot. Right? Nice titties? Still . . . you know . . .” he gestured with his glass, “defying gravity?”
“They’re nineteen, Ben,” Doc shrugged. “I try not to look. It’d get me fired.”
Ben grinned stupidly. “Yeah, heh. I bet. But you’ve gotta . . . you know . . . wonder. Maybe once a year, one of those hotties? A cheerleader or something. Jesus, man, less than a semester and I’d be in handcuffs.”
Doc laughed. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re not teaching on campus, my friend.” He raised his glass.
Ben reciprocated. “Do you even remember? I mean, do you? I don’t know if I can even remember when Marie’s tits stood up like that.” He leaned back in his camp chair, a fold-up, nylon number from L. L. Bean. “You should fuck one, Doc. You’re crazy not to. Shit, fuck a few. You know they want to fuck you. Look at you. You’re good looking, crazy smart, middle-aged, all salt-and-peppery, like whatshisname, you know. Whatshisname?”
Doc’s phone buzzed again: In the neighborhood. “Victor Frankenstein.”
Ben laughed through a foamy splutter. “See? You see? That’s why they’d want you. I’m telling you.”
“See you, Ben. I gotta go.” He continued his lap of the Green, dodging the sweaty, ESPN supplicants at the grill, and bypassing a clutch of gossipy mothers in a huddle around a bottle of Kettle One vodka encased in a block of ice.
Marie saw him coming, rose from where she’d been shaving lemon peel into her drink. “Doc!”
“You chat with the knuckle dragger?”
“Your husband? Yeah, I did. He’s entertaining himself over there.” Doc tried to sidle past her.
Leading with her tits, Marie cut him off.
Behind them, Ben shouted, “George Clooney! That’s his name, Doc. Clooney, the salt and pepper guy. Trust me!”
Doc half turned, half waved. Forty-five feet at least. That’s about right.
Marie frowned. “What’s he going on about?”
She toyed with her pendant, a teardrop onyx surrounded by smallish diamonds. Tugging it back and forth a few times, she let it fall into the tan cleft between her boobs and glanced toward the growing bulge in his pants.
Doc didn’t take the bait, didn’t want her assuming any credit for his erection. The former Division III soccer star had come on to him at a holiday party in the Carolines’ basement the previous December. Marie had pressed him against the pool table, offered up her tits as dessert. Slurring, she’d licked her fingertips to harden her nipples, trying for seductive but coming off sloppy on mulled wine and imported sherry.
Doc recalled the clumsy drips of spittle on her chin, pressed his lips together, and shook his head. Sorry, Marie, but not with a rented cock would I fuck you.
She made eye contact, held it awkwardly. While not a beer drinker, Marie had been marinating in Kettle One for a few hours and struggled to focus. “I need to catch up with you before . . . before the kids, you know, go back to school in the fall. I’ve got to get Harper into a better math class this year. That ignorant shit he had last year didn’t teach him anything, and I was thinking, you know . . .” She brandished her best, demure-but-sexy smile, one that probably worked wonders on young Ben Harmond twenty years earlier. “Maybe you can come over a few times this summer and coach him up a little.”
“Sure, Marie,” Doc slipped past. “I’m happy to.”
“Hey,” she caught his khaki pocket, tugged it gently toward her, tautening the fabric across his hard on. “I’d really appreciate it.”
He nodded. “We’ll get it worked out.”
She gave his pants another playful yank. “C’mon over and sit with Carlie and me. We’re gonna see what the bottom of a vodka bottle looks like. You wanna come?” She paused for effect, then added, “Come . . . sit with us?”
“Sure, I’ll be right there. I’ve just gotta check in with Joanie. She’ll think I’m up to no good.”
“Nothing wrong with that, Doctor Landon!” And Marie Harmond, with her inebriate husband watching, walked back to her vodka posse, her ass shifting charitably beneath Capri pants, another twenty-year-old move Doc assumed had left young Ben senseless with lust.
Five minutes. Fuck it. I’m going. Standing near the center of the Green, Doc imagined that everyone gathered on the grassy area nestled between their clone houses could see that he was rock hard and ready to fuck.
Just not to fuck any of them.
He cut east across the trim lawn, kicked a soccer ball toward a group of kids chasing one another, and ducked a conversation with Gretchen, a PTA mother wasted on Chardonnay and carrying a china tray stacked with uncooked shrimp kebabs. The common seemed to stretch interminably, ushering him between disconnected junctures. He thought that might be an oxymoron, then slowed to listen as his friends’ voices, their clinking glasses, even the smells of their grilling steaks faded, somehow falling farther away.
Near the sidewalk, he waved once at Joan, who continued to ignore him. Instead, Rebecca Caroline nudged Doc’s wife until she turned grudgingly around and cocked an eyebrow. What?
Too far to shout, Doc mimed. I’m gonna run home. I’ll be . . . He had no idea how to communicate that he needed twenty minutes.
Joan nodded and turned back to Gary Hallstrom, clearly not caring either way.
“Fine,” Doc said to no one, his cock rubbing stiffly now against his khakis. “That’s just fine. Twenty minutes, I’ll be back.” He took the sidewalk up Berkeley Street, then crossed to his house, second from the corner: polite, unassuming, durable white siding with forest green shutters. Never-say-die evergreen shrubs lined the pin straight walk to his front porch. Trying not to run, Doc hurried up the stairs, peeking once between his house and the Carolines’ place next door, just long enough to catch a glimpse of the late-90’s Datsun pickup out back, hidden from party goers on the Green. Parked behind a BMW M-class and a Lexus SUV, the rusting yellow truck stood out like a Holstein cow in a room filled with starving underwear models.
That’s all right. Doc thought. It won’t be there long. He locked the front door, kicked off his loafers, and hustled to the basement. Half way down, he caught the smoky, faux aroma of lavender. Faye had lit candles.
“You here?” he whispered into semi darkness.
“Yeah.” A faint moan rose from the sectional sofa. Faye Connor, a twenty-year-old, rising senior in the Business/Marketing program, sat with one lean leg propped on Doc’s coffee table. She’d hitched a knee-length cotton skirt above her waist and slowly caressed her pussy beneath lacy, fuchsia panties. Her blouse, an inexpensive Target special, lay unbuttoned, exposing ample, teardrop tits, her nipples taut in the flickering half-light. Her stomach, just a few years beyond baby fat, lay flat as fine sandpaper. Doc wanted to rest his face there all weekend, sucking her nipples and stroking her clitoris.
Faye sighed, moaned again. Her tits rose and fell with the effort.
Yes, Ben, they do defy gravity.
He sat on the coffee table, pressed the young woman’s bare foot hard against his crotch, watched her slide a fingertip beneath the edge of her panties, inside her labia. Glad she’d lit the candles, Doc understood that if he’d caught even the faintest whiff of her pussy, wet and aromatic, he’d have come in his boxers. Massaging her toes, he pressed her foot against his erection again. “When did you get here?”
Faye slipped another finger inside herself. Tugged her panties to one side. “You’re late.”
“Sorry,” he ran shaking hands up her calf, gripped her thigh. “You want me to watch? You want . . . some help?”
“I want to suck your cock.” Faye shifted on the sofa cushions. Muscles in her legs contracted. “I’m getting close. Why don’t you help me out, Professor Landon?”
That did it. Calling him “Professor” tidily wrapped up all of the taboo uncertainty, the professional risk, the intoxicating danger, the imminent collapse of his marriage and his career, and tossed it neatly into a region of his polite, suburban consciousness that Doctor Jeremy Landon referred to as Fuck It All. He was going to fuck this woman, student, his student, a girl – woman – entrusted to him by her parents, the college president, the department chair, and his colleagues in the Business department. All of them, his wife included, could look the other way for twenty minutes. That’s all Doc needed, just twenty minutes’ vacation from the middle-aged drudgery that had found him somewhere between grading bad essays and fucking Joan twice a month in the same tiresome missionary position they’d perfected a hundred years ago.
“Do that again,” he ordered. “Call me ‘professor’.”
Faye giggled stupidly, clearly about to come into his couch cushions. “Why, love? Does that get you horny?”
Doc tugged at his belt, managed to free one leg from his khakis and boxers. What the hell, this was going to be a quickie; he didn’t need to strip. His cock, hard enough to fuck a busload of cheerleaders, stood at attention, ready for whatever Faye Connor might have in mind.
Kneeling between her legs, he said, “Yes, it gets me horny. Say it again, please.” He slid his hands up her thighs, beneath the waistband of her panties, and slowly drew them down, exposing her trim, wet pussy. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered.
“Suck my cunt, Professor.” Still stroking herself, Faye used two fingers to separate her engorged labia, pulling her pussy wide open and leaving her clitoris prominent in the candlelight. “Make me come.”
Doc didn’t hesitate. Leaning in, he blew gently on the sensitive nub. Faye responded with a tantalizing gasp that hardened his cock to a level he hadn’t enjoyed since college. This was going to be unprecedented.
Doc just hoped he wouldn’t come before he had a chance to fuck her, to feel her swallow his dick.
Still drawing her cunt open, Faye moaned, “Lick it. Suck on it. Do it now, Professor. Please.”
Doc complied. Gently at first, with upward strokes of his tongue, he flicked and toyed with her clitoris. Faye shook, trembled uncontrollably. “Yeah, fuck. Yeah, that’s it. More.”
He drew his tongue the length of her pussy, tasting her, feeling the thick folds embrace him as he slid here and there, exploring the insides of her labia. Faye’s cunt tasted like the last meal a condemned man might savor before happily tugging the hangman’s noose about his own neck. He returned to her clit in earnest, licking, pressing, and circling the miniature spot, until Faye rocked and twitched. Unable to hold herself open, she ran her hands over her tits, pinching her nipples, then stroking her neck, anything to capture the sensations assailing her from all points of the compass.
Still Doc licked. With one hand tight about his cock, enjoying the bone hardness, he used the other to separate Faye’s pussy, just far enough to get her clitoris, her upper folds, her small thatch of wiry, unshaven hair into his mouth. Pressing up with his tongue, he pulled down and away with his lips, sucking her clit and drawing hot blood into her cunt.
Faye came. Shaking and muttering insensibly, the A- student with the perfectly sculpted tits threw herself side to side, back, nearly toppling the sofa as she enjoyed waves of roller coaster pleasure, her pussy flooding Doc’s mouth with tangy, salty flavor.
“Jesus! Jesus, fuck, yes!” she cried, pounding weakly on his shoulders and upper arms. “Suck my cunt! Suck my . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she collapsed senseless onto an ostentatious, floral print pillow Joan had found at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
Doc tried to keep licking and sucking at her pussy, but Faye pushed him off. “No, one second. It’s too much. Just gimme a second.”
“Yeah, okay,” he rose, shifted just far enough to offer up his cock. He badly needed to be in her mouth but didn’t want her to move, not just yet. In the candlelight, Faye Connor looked like performance art: pussy damp and hanging, tits as dark as Marie Harmond’s onyx pendant, hair a tangle, arms and legs akimbo. He wanted a photo but couldn’t risk having that kind of evidence on his phone; so he took a moment to carve her indelibly into his memory, a living, breathing testament to his ability to suck a pussy.
That’s rare, he thought. Not many guys get this. Do they?
Before Doc had much chance to reflect on middle aged sex, Faye sighed, grinned up at him, and slid the tip of his cock between her lips.
Still resting on one side, she gripped him by the shaft and started in with slow strokes, sucking his cock deeply .
“Oh . . . oh, my . . . fuck,” Doc whispered, nearly blowing come across her tongue. He drew a stabilizing breath, leaned forward, propped a knee on the sofa, and began stroking Faye’s body, her tits, her thighs, the naked swell of her ample ass, the most perfectly shaped ass ever to grace his basement sofa. He felt her ribs, the narrow valley of her waist, the razor stubble above her pubis, the faintly sweaty cleft of her ass, the tight pucker of her asshole, the lean muscles of her legs, the bony elbows, the perfect nipples.
Keep this one close, Doc. You may never get another. Remember it – the flavor, the color, the aroma, the texture.
Faye pressed his cock against the roof of her mouth, used her tongue to move him sensually in and out. Swallowing him, she periodically made faint slurping and sucking sounds that threatened to drive him over the edge, but Doc breathed slowly, steadied himself, and allowed the young co-ed to take her time.
“God,” she said between strokes, “I love sucking your cock.”
“I love . . .” he bit down hard to keep from coming, “you sucking my cock. Faye, truly –”
“But,” she interrupted, rolled onto her back. “I’m gonna need you to fuck me, Professor.” Faye lifted her ass just far enough to pull the folds of her skirt higher; she draped one leg over the back of the sofa. “Fuck me. But don’t come. You have to come in my mouth.”
Doc’s consciousness nearly collapsed inward, leaving him a crumpled dishrag on the basement sofa. Fuck me. But don’t come. You have to come in my mouth. No one, literally no one had ever said those words to him. Not ever in forty-two years. Dizzy, he stroked his wet cock as he took in Faye Connor, half naked, horny, and waiting for him. “Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna come in your mouth.”
He slid inside her, effortlessly, the one act that might ruin him, destroy his marriage and his career, alienate his wife and children, and it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Faye’s cunt welcomed his cock in a warm, moist embrace. He reveled in her softness, in the cushioned swell of her pussy.
He thrust hard a few times, making her cry out as she gripped his ass with delightfully sharp fingernails. His mantra began without warning: Take all of me in your cunt. All of me in your cunt. All of me in your cunt. All of me in your cunt. It rolled in time with his ragged breathing, thrusting, pressing ever deeper, wanting – actually hoping – that he might pass away with his
dick buried in Faye’s tasty, twenty-year-old pussy. The time and place of his death? Now. Yes, please.
His head cleared just enough to realize that he’d been whispering, “All of me in your cunt” over and over as he fucked her aggressively, back against Joan’s absurd Bed, Bath, and Beyond pillow.
Faye echoed him, breathing in time with him, panting her own mantra: “All of you in my cunt. All of you in my cunt. All of you . . .”
The need to come began as hot pressure, somewhere behind the root of his erect shaft, deep inside his abdomen. It didn’t waste time, however, rushing warm and electric up the length of his cock, thickening it even more – if that was possible – while sapping his strength, his ability to focus his thoughts, his sense of time and place. The entirety of the galaxy had collapsed to the walls of Faye’s pussy, her labia squeezing tightly against his dick, her clitoris rubbing gently. Nothing mattered. No price was too much to pay for these stolen moments of youth and escape.
“I’m gonna come,” Doc said, his cock nearly bursting with the effort to keep from emptying his load inside her pussy. “I’m gonna –”
Faye shifted quickly. “Come here, baby.” She slid her ass deftly along the sofa cushions and took him into her mouth, knowing she needed to work well and work fast. Swallowing his erection, Faye tasted herself slathered all over him. “Mmmm,” she stroked one-handed, sucked the tip, then swallowed again.
Doc Landon came, his body twitching in spasms that left him kneeling, his arms draped across the back of the sofa to keep from crashing over the end table. He came, blasted spurts of come into Faye’s mouth until he thought he might pass out. But still she kept sucking, toying with his über sensitive cock, licking and pressing it against her tongue, until Doc finally cried out, lost control of himself, and collapsed beside her.
Capitalizing on the moment, Faye again shifted her hips. Doc had fallen to the sofa cushions, his face pressed dumbly into the doughy tissue inside her thigh. Sucking in breath, he caught the scent of her cunt, only inches away, above the heady stink of fake lavender from Joan’s scented candles.
“Eat my pussy. I’m right there, Professor. Right there. Please.”
Doc did. Rousing himself to at least a double-digit IQ, he sucked and licked Faye’s pussy until she came again with a shout that might have alerted the entire neighborhood, but Doc didn’t care. With his limp cock leaving a trail of saliva and come across her cheek, he lapped up whatever vestiges of salty fluid he could find on her labia, all the while enjoying the feel of her body shuddering beside him.
And then she was gone.
In a flurry of unexpected, hasty adjustments, hooks, fasteners, and elastic waistbands, she was dressed and collecting her bag, her phone, her keys.
Doc hadn’t moved. “Where you going?”
“Home,” she replied. “Remember? This was a quickie, my dear. You have a party to get back to, and I have work at 8:00.”
Life, marriage, work, friends, pretention, silly steak rubs, granite countertops, expensive wines, and boring, clone children – all named Grayson or Kiersten – flooded Doc’s basement in a rush of immutable reality that nearly left him paralyzed on the now-stained cushions. Unwilling to accept any of it quite yet, he drew his face near a damp spot of pussy juice soaking into his sofa. Resting his cheek beside it, he inhaled, hoping to catch the memory of her cunt and hoping he might sneak down here later, tomorrow, next week, and smell Faye Connor’s vibrant, young essence.
It wouldn’t work. He knew. Already the lavender stink of the candles elbowed its way into his mind, overpowering the smoky aroma drying beside his face.
“Can I sneak out back?” She leaned over, kissed his cheek. “You were brilliant, by the way. I came hard, love. I really did.”
“Yeah,” Doc sighed. “Yeah, just take Thatcher Avenue to the end and turn right. No one will see you.”
“Hey,” he reached for her. “Wait a second.”
“What is it? I’ve gotta go.”
“You earned the A this semester. Please don’t think –”
“Bye, love.” She kissed him again, drew fingernails over his ass, and sneaked out the basement door and across the back lawn, away from the Green and Doc’s inebriate neighbors.
When he checked his watch, he discovered that he’d been gone twenty-two minutes. Too long, shithead. Get moving. He couldn’t risk having Joan stop by to check on him – not that she would. Rather, she’d come home to chide him for abandoning the party. That’s what she’d do. She’d already be pissed. He smiled to himself, imagining his wife’s face if she found him here, his cock dripping, his khakis rumpled around one ankle, and his face pressed into a fading splash of Faye’s visit, inhaling deeply.
Okay, okay. I’m getting up. He rolled to his feet, pulled on his pants, and stumbled to the basement bathroom. A cloud of lavender stink followed him in, where Doc Landon fixed his hair, tucked in his shirt, and considered himself in the mirror, a forty-two-year-old professor of Business Management who’d just fucked a student in his basement.
He sniffed his fingers, found Faye there, her cunt a respite from everything boring and tarnished his life had become. He sniffed again, grinned, and headed back to the party.
© 2016 Steven Stone & Melissa Bach, “The Headmaster & Other Erotic Stories”