Breathtaking Literary Erotica
"Escape," a sexy Vanilla short story by Benjamin Smith
Finding the door to the house unlocked, you breeze in—calling out his name and getting no response.
Usually the dog comes running, panting, licking. Not tonight.
After ditching the wine on the counter and looking out across the wide vista of the property with its knee-high summer wheat and low-slung dugout pond, you see his form, sitting in the grass above the glass-smooth water.
Seven o’clock, just in time for sunset.
Grabbing wine, checking your teeth in the mirror, you go outside, a bit nervous.
His invitation over the phone is a week old. You know by now he’s assumed you weren’t coming.
Your feet in the high grass, getting tangled, the blades slipping through your toenails, feeling cold, stiff, and thick.
“Hey,” you call, ten feet away, struggling up the steep dam. The dog is with him. You love his dog. A medium-big brown dog with bright eyes.
“Hey, Percy,” you say, bending low, scratching the mutt’s floppy ears.
Up and off the dam, he comes and helps you the rest of the way up the slope, his hand coming up under your rib cage to cradle you. He’s smiling with the sun behind him, turning his brown hair more golden at the tips.
You hold up the wine. “It’s not cheap. You better be happy to see me.”
He turns and sits again, looking up at you, his eyes trailing down so that he appears to talk to the hip joint clad in your best jeans.
“No glasses,” he says. “I had no idea you could be so unladylike.”
“I’m even walking barefoot in the grass. Country living.”
You settle down and pass him the wine. He takes a tool out of his pocket and goes to work removing the foil.
“Got to love the Swiss,” you say.
“War is a place for wine,” he comments, stuffing the foil in his pocket as he works the screw into the yielding cork. “It takes the sting out.”
Something about the way he says it is dark and brooding. You can tell he’s bottling it up inside…the thing you don’t like to talk about.
“I’ve stolen us twelve hours,” you say, leaning in, smelling his shoulder. You enjoy his thick piney smell a moment before he jerks the cork clean with an effort that makes his shoulder muscles tighten slightly.
He passes the cork for you to have. He sniffs the wine before offering you the first swig. There is something baleful and quiet in his eyes. You don’t drink; you just keep his gaze a moment.
“I should have called,” you say.
He shakes his head. “It isn’t that.”
“I know. I know—”
His hand is on your ankle the split-second after your eyes close. “I’m not supposed to have feelings,” he says. “You always think they ruin things.”
“No, they don’t,” you say, quickly. “They just make things harder.”
He smiles. “Well, twelve hours isn’t long. I better make them happy hours, huh?”
“You don’t have to humor me.”
He laughs. “Humor you? You couldn’t fight me off in a million years. You know that, darlin’.”
Your eyes are open again; fewer lines crease the brow of his tan face than did a moment ago. You lean in, holding him, his shirt is white cotton, fresh as the rest of him. You can tell he’s just had a shower.
“Let’s watch the sunset,” he says, his hands coming up to barely stroke the undersides of your breasts. You lay back against him; the sky is warm orange deepening to Georgia O’Keeffe lavender. The sun-kissed fingers of his broad left hand creeps down to the small of your back, lifting your blouse enough to run his knuckles gently over the smooth skin while the long grass tickles and gooseflesh spreads.
Crickets and cicadas make a noise you feel penetrating you. You love it here. Twelve hours is not enough…
Deep crimson clouds turn darker and darker until the evening chill comes. Together you’ve made it through half the bottle before you find yourself trying to climb into his chest for warmth and safety. You don’t feel this way at home. You don’t feel this way anywhere but here and you hate yourself.
But his hands move up and brush your skin and his lips move over your ear and you remember that twelve hours is too short a span of time to waste in worrying as he offers to take you inside.
The walk is slow and measured. He carries the wine and your slip-off shoes as you lean heavily on him, not sleepy, but pretending to be as the dog runs circles around the two of you—yips, runs, searches the high grass, jumping a hidden rabbit and then leaving it for tomorrow when he hears his master’s whistle, soft and subtle enough not to sound commanding.
Nothing is commanding. Not tonight.
The dog comes, though. The whistle is a humble reminder of the promise of food and a dry place to sleep. Already the thunder is rumbling in the distance and you can tell the storm is going to mat down all the grass with rain and make the world smell like angels’ tears and fog in the early morning.
Up the wooden stairs of the wooden deck, and you open the door for the dog and for him, acting as gatekeeper to his house for a moment.
“Toll for entry is a kiss,” you say.
He leans in and, even with his hands full of your shoes and the half-empty wine bottle, he can somehow hold you tight with just his arms.
That clumsy drunken tumble backwards pulls you out of it and he walks in, smirking, setting the wine down on the table where his glasses sit beside a shiny, old-fashioned black typewriter.
“Nothing about you fits,” you hear yourself joke, walking over and taking up the glasses, holding them up in order to look through them at the heavy, ink-stained indentations in the otherwise virginal paper. “Something new?”
His hand moves up your spine as his pelvis lightly brushes against your backside. “A play about a woman with an imaginary friend,” he says, half joking, half kissing the back of your neck where a few little hairs tell you the kiss is coming before it’s fully planted. “She runs away into the basement once a week to unlock a trunk she keeps him in.”
“Sounds sad.”
His nose moves up into your hair. “Not really. There’s magic in old trunks in the basement—in make believe and playtime.”
“Magic?”
“Something not grown-up. And beautiful for not being grown-up.”
“Based on anything from real life?” you ask, feigning nonchalance, as his hands quickly move up and turn you, his body pushing you against the lip of the table.
“The woman jokes when she’s nervous,” he says, eyes low, looking more at your mouth than at the rest of you. “And she’s nervous more and more. You can tell by the way she holds her mouth, tucking her bottom lip in under her teeth just before she tries to break the tension.”
“The dog’s right there,” you say.
He turns and you both look into the curious golden brown eyes waiting impatiently for kibble.
“What do you think, boy? Is she a terrible tease?”
A pink flat tongue pops out to lick over the cold black nose. You feel sadness as he steps away, not taking you then and there, but going after your bait.
While he goes into the laundry room you find yourself picking up the wine bottle, taking a sip, feeling the sweet, but now slightly warm liquid wash over the sweet-buds of your tongue. Every time you come out here, you go through an internal battle. You wish it could just end.
You walk around the table and into the main room with the green checked wallpaper and the low wooden coffee table bearing an issue of yesterday’s newspaper next to a never-lit candle that you know smells like cinnamon and apple.
“You want anything to eat?”
He’s back, now—moving into the kitchen, turning on a few lights so the place doesn’t seem so dark and cold.
“No,” you say.
“More wine? I only have the cheap.”
“No,” you say again. You set the bottle down on the coffee table and you feel your arms cross over your breasts as your fingers grip the hem over your untucked blouse. In a second you are topless—the room’s air enveloping you.
Jenny Study by Johannes Wessmark (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
You toss the blouse away as you undo the button on your jeans.
You can feel him watching. He hasn’t moved toward you. You can sense that he won’t. Not yet.
You peel them down slowly, doing your best to make it excruciating for him. He’s far enough away so that you can’t hear him breathing. You can feel him watching, sense his thoughts—you imagine his hands are at his sides, clenching into fists as he watches you remove your under things.
It’s a long while, a sustained silence, only your breath and your pulse and the sound of the dog in the laundry room munching on kibble with abandon.
All these sounds stop when you hear the floorboards creek. Somehow, he’s closer than you imagined. You can feel his hand hovering over your skin.
Then the touch—warm, not rough.
He doesn’t turn you, doesn’t whisper. You realize you can hardly bear this anymore either.
You turn and you’re together, you pressing in as he pulls you up against the thin cotton of his shirt and then you’re sinking—on the floor, your fingers pushing up the bottom of his shirt enough to get at his belt and fly.
He grips your hands, sitting up, pushing you back a bit, in no hurry at all. You can feel the backs of his fingers against your breasts as he’s holding your wrists firmly in his large hands. You want to fight, to go right into it, fast, but he will not let you. It’s his turn. You hate it when it’s his turn to make you wait even a second.
But the second passes as he kisses you, releasing your wrists to pull the shirt up over his head. Skin to skin now, straddling his lap in the cool room, the light from the kitchen just strong enough to see by as he clenches you, hands coming down to lift you, supporting your ass as you try to grind your naked sex into the jeans he’s still wearing.
“Here,” you say. “Now.”
All the nerves have gone. You don’t feel them anymore. You don’t need space or distance or control. You need him and you don’t care that he knows. You don’t care that he’s always known and always played the games you need.
Your lips are too dry and the room is warmer now than it was a moment ago. The rattling of a belt-buckle and suddenly you are there.
You feel yourself ease down and your knees are on the cool wood floor as you begin to move and his elbows dig into the place just above your hips, locking you in as you work down and he works up.
You’re afraid it’s too silent, so you let out a little soft yelp of pleasure as the tip of his cock moves through you, filling you, causing your insides to quiver and contract around him. It comes, crashing, quicker than you’d expected, and he lets you freeze for long, soft breaths before letting you come down against his chest, moist with perspiration.
He rolls and you let him roll you. It’s amazing how light you feel when he moves you.
You feel him slip from inside. It’s quietly sad to feel it happen, but soon, he’s distracting from any sorrow. Two hands spread your thighs to allow for the light, gentle licks along the edges of your sex. Each little lap and kiss ignites you until you gasp to feel the tip of a finger, and then two, and the tongue still moving—fast and firmer now.
Eventually, you want him again. Not his tongue or his hands, but him.
The hands are moving up your back. You kiss deep, tasting the pungent sweetness of yourself on his lips as he thrusts up and fills you.
It comes again, this time in unison with him. And by the end of it, you realize more than an hour has passed. He helps you up off the floor, the sounds of naked feet on finished wood as you move with domesticity through the kitchen to make the late-night snack.
All around the sounds of his house and the fear of tomorrow gone… at least for the rest of playtime, as you float on the cool of evening air mixed with the feel of inner warmth.
Copyright November 2011, Benjamin Smith.
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.
