Erotic Short Story
"Hungry for Love," a sexy story by Olivia London
I met Sean at a temp job in San Francisco. I thought he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. I didn’t notice a ring on his finger so I flirted outrageously and he returned the favor. The gig only lasted a fortnight and that was fine by me; filing and data entry at a construction firm wasn’t the most satisfying work. There were three other temps. At the end of our assignment, Sean signed our time cards. Then he did an astonishing thing. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed fifty dollar bills to everyone in the room. One woman burst into tears. She was a single mom and had to borrow a bus token to get home every night.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “This is your money. You’re giving us bonuses out of your own pocket?”
The good man shrugged and said, “I know what temping’s like. You don’t get benefits. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Wait a minute,” I repeated. “You’re giving us your money? Are you a saint or affiliated with the mafia in any way?”
Sean smiled. “I’m just Irish.”
As if that weren’t enough, our employer bought us lunch everyday, usually fast food or sandwiches from a local vendor. Funny how such simple fare would have tasted like crap if I had bought it for myself. Watching Sean roll up his sleeves to reveal sinewy forearms and accept his change from a cashier, I downed my comestibles with glee, savoring every bite.
I would think of my former boss from time to time as my luck started to change. Seeing a black-haired man of an energetic build would make me twirl like a ballerina on the street. I knew my feelings for Sean were doomed. Of course he had a girlfriend. Good looking plus Irish always equals Taken with a capital T. I eventually put Sean out of my mind until I ran into him again a year later.
I was volunteering at a food bank, giving my biceps a workout filling grocery bags for the hungry. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him, but there he was cupping a bag of bulk rice. There was a tragicomic moment when we recognized each other then he fled through the narrow door leading to the street.
With my aubergine-shaped apron flapping in the wind, I chased after his gray sweatshirt and paint-splattered jeans.
“Sean! What happened? A year ago you were handing out Grants like candy.”
“Construction is unpredictable. I have a job lined up next week, but, you know. I’ve gotta eat.”
I felt like a brazen chit, but I couldn’t let this sweet guy get away, not if he was available. I had to think fast.
“So, did you pick up anything your girlfriend can turn into a meal?”
Sean smiled at my transparency and said, “She left me when I got laid off. Some women are like that.”
“I’m not.”
He let that pass. “Are you still writing?”
“Yeah. In fact, that’s why I’m here mowing you down. I got a windfall recently and I was wondering if you’d let me treat you to dinner.”
“Thanks, Nora, but I’m old-fashioned that way. I like to treat.”
“You’ve been generous aplenty! Most importantly, you treated me like a human being. Some people treat temps like freaks who can’t keep a real job, and in my case, that may be true. Listen, Virginia Woolf once said if you want to write well, you have to dine well. You’d greatly improve my career chances if you had dinner with me. It’s no fun dining alone.”
“Well, since you put it that way, I can’t refuse.”
We made a date for the next evening. I told Sean to meet me outside my favorite Italian restaurant.
Sean and I had a barren world in common. Our fathers had been alcoholics who spent their paychecks on booze: what did we know from food? Our ancestors ate tiddy oggies which were basically potato pies seasoned with an eyelash-width of meat.
I only have one favorite food memory from childhood. My parents were often late picking me up from school. On such occasions, Sister Elsie would beckon me to the kitchen the nuns shared, chatting all the while so I wouldn’t feel like a nuisance. She said I was doing an old nun a favor, keeping her company as her gnarled hands ladled out bowls of delicious white bean soup accompanied by warm loaves of Portuguese sweet bread.
As an adult, I couldn’t cook but I enjoyed reading menus. Some people can’t hike a trail without reading every plaque along the way. I actually get an adrenaline rush when I see a vellum menu under plexiglass listing such decadent offerings as grilled sturgeon served with a sparge of caviar mousse and Chilean sea bass with its inevitable dundrearies of cilantro and capers. When I first moved to the Bay Area, I treated myself to a chef’s breakfast every morning for a week. I once had a Dungeness crab omelet that was almost better than sex. Almost.
But here I was in North Beach, SF’s own Little Italy with a gorgeous man who had no inkling about my secret agenda.
I had reserved a dark corner booth for privacy. Sean pressed his hand against the small of my back and led the way.
“You look wonderful,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. I kissed him back grazing his lips with mine.
I was wearing the requisite little black cocktail dress and had splashed some perfume in my décolletage. My blond hair was tied back just loose enough so it wouldn’t fall. I felt like a denizen of the demimonde and given what I was about to do, I probably was.
We drank Chianti while waiting for our appetizers, thick slabs of mozzarella drenched in olive oil. I wanted to order as many oily dishes as possible so I could take a napkin, or a kiss, to the corner of my date’s mouth.
“So, Sean,” I said, not bothering to hide the longing in my voice. “In Irish, your name means ‘God’s gracious gift.’ I thought about that a lot when I left McNeely’s Construction. I thought: There goes God’s gracious gift. At least I got a chance to meet him.”
My date pressed my hand to his lips. His pallor had met with a warm, cheery glow. With his healthy black hair and Prussian blue eyes, he looked like a Celtic god to me.
“You sure know how to make a guy feel good,” he said.
Baby, I haven’t even gotten started.
We talked and canoodled our way through another antipasto dish, salads, linguini pescatore and another bottle of wine. To top off this luscious repast, cappuccino and garibaldi biscuits seemed apropos.
“I knew you wouldn’t order tiramisu,” Sean said. “Everyone orders tiramisu at Italian restaurants.”
“Actually, I have a singular dessert in mind. But first I need to ask if you’re claustrophobic.”
“You plan on tying me up somewhere?”
“No, but I did used to work here. Before temping, I went through a long stint of food service jobs. The bartender remembers me. He gave me the key to the storage room, said we can use it for as long as we like, so long as we’re gone before closing.”
“What do you propose we do down there?”
“I want to give you a blowjob for dessert.”
Sean let out a breath. His expression went from mortified to mildly concerned all in the span of time it takes to unsnap a lacy pushup bra.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Probably. But it’s something I’ve wanted to do since the day I met you. When I’m really attracted to a man, it’s the first thing I want to do; fellatio is my way of breaking bread.”
Sean was smiling big now, and he seemed game. That was all the green light I needed. First I paid the bill, silently marveling at the vicissitudes of a writer’s fortune. In a month’s time I could very well be broke but for the moment, I was enjoying authentic Roman cuisine and genuine Irish lust. I took Sean by the hand and led him down a corridor leading to the same storage unit I once had to toil and moil in restocking straws and cocktail napkins. I didn’t even care if someone walked in on us. What could they do? Fire me? I didn’t work there anymore and the thrill of dancing so close to the blade of discovery only heightened the adventure.
The room was close and dim with just a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The air tasted vaguely of garlic and I stifled a laugh as I thought of virgins in diaphanous gowns pressing cloves to their bosoms hoping to deflate a vampire’s thirst.
Sean rushed his fingers through my hair, pulling me in for a long passionate kiss.
“That was nice,” Sean said. “Maybe we should just kiss for a while then go back.”
Unzipping the fly of his trousers I said, “That was a nice palette cleanser, now it’s on to the next course.”
My panties twisted at the sight of his hard-on. I kneeled on the linoleum floor but the sensation of the cold tile was quickly surpassed by the heat wicking through my loins. I stamped my lips to the tip of his penis and let my tongue skate languidly before schussing downhill like the expert skier I’ve longed to be. He tasted like something delicious pulled out of an oven and the caloric effect of his burgeoning flesh was driving me wild.
Keeping Time by Carolyn Weltman
Sean’s hands trembled at the crown of my head as I sucked him with a passion he surely was not expecting. As he groaned with approval, I made my throat a flue with which to convey his cock and held his hips as he bucked and rocked with pleasure against shelves holding enough cans of tomato sauce to feed a centurion’s army.
“Nora, Nora, baby, I’m going to come.”
Luckily, I knew just where the bar towels were stashed. I grabbed one and turned it into a handy receptacle for semen.
Suddenly Sean’s knees buckled and he steadied himself against the pillar; I feared he might be squiffy.
When he straightened to a normal standing position he said, “God help me. That was the best I’ve ever had.”
Looping my arm through his I said, “There’s more where that came from. Just follow me.”
Sean kissed me then, tenderly and deliciously, his tongue coating mine like a good tawny port. “I’d follow you anywhere, Nora.”
“Great. Hope you like my messy apartment.”
~
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Copyright December 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.