Naughty Sweet Sex
"Love at Leisure," a Vanilla short story by Olivia London
“Hey! Do you live here?”
The voice from the penumbra had me ducking for cover. In a shady neighborhood, it’s best to render one’s countenance invisible. I had inadvertently moved into a drug haven and now all I wanted was to put this house of cards behind me. But, of course, I can always make time for a fuckable bad boy.
Allow me to limn my type: bad, right down to the balbriggans, bad.
“My name’s Dillon. So, do you live here or what?”
“I’m Bonnie. Yeah, I live on the second floor, but I need a change.”
Dillon took this information in stride while looking me over and taking a final drag on his Camel. He had a craggy face, prematurely lined, no doubt from hard living. He was wiry but muscular, like he could jump a fence, chase a criminal, and fuck you over the edge, all in a day’s work. I wondered what he’d look like naked. Then I wondered why I was so sex-obsessed.
“There were cops here this morning,” he said. “I mean, I just moved in and I see this girl bawling in the driveway while a bunch of police officers searched the rooms. What happened, do you know?”
“That would be Elsa. She was out of town and four days late with the rent. The slumlord used that as an excuse to break into her room and steal all her stuff.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two months, and that’s been far too long,” I replied.
“Did the cops find anything?”
“Cops couldn’t find a pair of handcuffs at an S&M party.”
“Hmpf.” Dill dropped his cigarette in a coffee mug he had been holding, filled with just enough liquid to absorb a habit. He frowned and looked away. Theft isn’t sexy. I had to switch the lens to soft focus.
“So, Dillon. I have to ask. What’s a wholesome-looking guy like you doing in a place like this?”
That made him laugh. He sat on one of the buckled wooden steps that supported an army of tenants as they traipsed up to the front door and repaired to their hovels.
“I needed a place right away. Got kicked out of my apartment when a corporation bought my building and jacked up the rent.”
“You can find cheap digs near the university.”
Dillon crossed his arms over a threadbare T-shirt. I noticed a chip of paint on one sleeve, perched as delicately as a moth.
“My ex-wife wrote a bunch of bad checks, leaving me with lousy credit. I don’t have a bank account. Can’t pass a credit check. That’s how I ended up here.”
“Wow, I was just being cheap.” I was suddenly grateful I had never married. I once had a friend whose husband maxed out mutually held credit cards and skipped town, leaving her essentially ruined. What’s that adage? Marry in haste, repent at leisure.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked.
“House painting, mostly. It’s hard work, but pays okay. Listen, I have to go, but talk to me before you leave. I’m in the room across from the laundry.”
As he walked away, I noticed how labored his stride was, how beleaguered his gait. Somehow, I knew I was just the girl to relax those aching muscles.
That night, I of course found an excuse to do laundry. I noticed Dillon’s door was ajar and when I knocked ever so lightly, that door gave way to the full panorama of his room, which consisted of books, a faceless alarm clock, a hillock of clothes, and a few other items that could be tossed in a pillowcase were a horn to blare in the middle of the night, calling all Argonauts.
“Hey,” he murmured casually, not at all surprised to receive a visitor at half past midnight. “I’ve been thinking about you. All day, in fact.”
“Have you used the power of your thoughts to will me down here, or did I come on the strength of my own volition?”
“You decide. First, let me get you a beer.”
I sat on the edge of his bed and watched his body move, imagining how well we could undulate together. He handed me a refreshing beverage and told me a little more about his situation.
“I hope you’re not bitter,” I said, though I sure would be.
“Nah. I believe in learning from your mistakes and moving on,” he said, sitting beside me. “My heart is totally open to meeting someone new.”
Even in the glim of a low-wattage desk lamp, I could see the vulnerability in his eyes. Dillon moved in for a kiss, putting his hand on my knee, his palm reassuringly warm as I trapped his knuckles between my thighs. He still managed to inch two fingers to the crotch of my jeans, pressing and probing the grillwork of the seam. His tongue looped around mine, and suddenly, he was on top of me, his knees prying my legs apart as I held onto his back like a lifesaver. I could feel my panties and denim dissolve as Dillon’s cock kneaded my groin.
“Let me touch you,” I murmured. “I want to feel you.”
Dillon obliged by rolling over and unzipping his jeans. Out sprang his penis, hard enough to rent through all the bunting at a St. Patrick’s Day Parade. I winkled out of my threads and we were rolling around naked, kissing, and exploring each other. I drew a line with my tongue from the bottom of Dillon’s chin and over his sternum until I was able to maneuver my lust comfortably below hip level.
I let my mouth drop as if into an air pocket, lost as it was in a need to satiate an intensely carnal appetite.
Dillon’s cock rose and fell like a bascule as I sucked him into my lingual tunnel. I sucked deeper and took longer pulls, and just as I thought he was about to release all the pressures of the world and finally relax, he hurled me onto my back as easily as if he were flipping a pancake.
I wrapped my arms around Dillon’s tightly wound back muscles and clamped my legs around his, all the while telling him how much I needed him inside me. I was grateful for his smooth skin. His face was lovely and clean-shaven. He looked into my eyes and thrust me full of love.
And if it wasn’t love, I would take whatever it was, grabbing happiness where it lay. I so rarely felt that spark, a certain radical something that can make life dangerous… and thrilling to the touch. I felt it the minute I saw Dillon looking over his shoulder as if ready to throw a grenade. Where we lived, a neighbor might flash a smile or a gun. Students and teachers moonlighted as sex workers and nothing was what it seemed.
None of it mattered with Dillon’s naked torso as ballast.
Dill and I came together in long, ripsnorting waves until we were enisled on an oasis of bliss. When we fell asleep in each other’s arms, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
We woke to the sound of gun shots.
I tugged Dillon’s arm. “Should we call the police?”
He laughed. “Cops couldn’t find a pair of handcuffs at an S&M party.”
“Hey! Steal my heart, not my lines, buddy.”
Dillon pulled me in for a quick kiss and said, “We’re out of here.”
It’s amazing how fast a life can change. With my good credit and Dillon’s work, we found an apartment in a desirable neighborhood. A residential area where people trit-trot behind their dogs and the sidewalks are so clean you just want to get down on all fours and snort a line a coke. There is one woman I notice on a daily basis walking to the local coffee shop. She is über-thin, tall and urbane and always carrying a different designer handbag. For a moment, I wish I could be her, seep into her skin as she lets life guide her by the elbow onto a path cleared of want. The woman strikes me as equable, an adept of her clime and calm as its ceaseless calm.
I do not know from calm. I am so hot for Dillon I wake up every morning feeling as though my limbs are fire-fanged, my tongue is a flame. When he calls me at work, I squirm in my seat as a temblor of lust rocks my torso, zipping between my thighs, making my panties moist and friable.
When we first moved into our love pad, we rarely made it to the bedroom. We would kiss for a long time and drink wine in the kitchen, kiss some more while moving toward the living room where Dill eased me onto the couch, gently pinching my panties and letting his fingers surf to the crotch. With one firm tug those panties were gone, out of the picture, and Dill had my clit between his knuckles, kneading it like a piece of candy while my sensitive flesh thrilled at his touch.
“I want you so bad,” I would murmur.
Nude Reclining on Couch by Igor Vasiliadis (prints available at ObsessionArt.com)
Dillon would mount me right there on the couch and each thrust of his cock was so fleet and sure, the folds of my wetness opening like clouds in a thunder boomer as I arched my back and clasped tightly to his lats. When we finally clambered to bed, we ladled each other into the morn with long, tender caresses and promises of devotion.
Dillon started his own house painting company. We managed to locate his ex, who is now making restitution for some of those bad checks. I saw a newspaper picture of our old haunted house; outside was the slumlord, his face a moulage of concern. Dill came up behind me and gently took the newspaper, tossing it into the trashcan.
“Bonnie, love, you can’t live in the past. Look how quickly things changed for us.”
Dillon lowered his face to mine and planted a firm, sweet kiss on my lips. His tongue tipped mine up to the firmament of joy and I could feel his hard-on knocking against my waist. He had so much vim and virility, it seemed by loving him I could live forever.
“Do you know how lovable you are, Dill?”
“Stop it,” he protested while smiling big and taking off his torn T-shirt. He squared me against the wall and kissed me again, this time even fuller and deeper.
“You exude lovability,” I mushed into his mouth. “I’ll make you feel so loved you’ll never want to leave this room.”
As usual, we didn’t make it to the bedroom. Faster than you can toss a coin in a wishing well, we were naked and Dill was bracing me against the wall for a glorious stand-up fuck.
I was so wet for him I could feel rivulets of passion coursing down my inner thighs, but still felt a shock of renewal when I realized I was being supported mostly by his erection, like a purlin holding up the rafters. With each thrust, my lover’s cock claimed a little more of my inner core and I didn’t see how I could ever live without these beautiful deep strokes of carnal purpose. The thrusts grew increasingly urgent and Dillon moaned near my ear as we came together, collapsing on the floor.
“Well, this isn’t very comfortable,” I said, pulling Dillon up into a languid but vertical position. “Let’s take a hot shower and then see what we can do in the bedroom.”
Dill ran a hand through the bounty of his black hair and laughed. “Just wait and see the kinds of things we’ll make happen in there.” Pulling me into an embrace, he added, “We have the rest of our lives to make things happen.”
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Copyright November 2011, Olivia London.
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.