A Small Favor
- 5 months ago
- 8 min read
- 1,600 views
Don Manley pulled his car over where she wanted to get out and left the motor running, the wipers beating the windshield. She was cute, young. Thin blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, a worn jean jacket. Thirty days sober. He couldn't remember her name.
He smiled at her, waited for her to slip out.
In the meeting, she'd made confession about a horrible adventure in Mexico. It was vague and tearful. She talked about all the things she'd lost. Her boyfriend. Her self-respect. Her mind.
She reached for the door handle, then stopped. "Do you want to come up?" she said.
Her face was turned from him, looking into the street.
He was surprised, speechless. His wife knew when the meeting ended but was usually asleep by the time he got home. He reminded himself that he'd been sober for as long as this young lady had been alive.
"Sure," he said. "You got coffee?"
She looked him in the eye, grinning. Her smile lit up her face. "Tea," she said.
His cock swelled, his breath quickened. She was one attractive girl. A small upturned nose, clear blue eyes. High cheekbones dusted with faint acne scars.
She'd never been in Carnal before this month.
Don parked the car and they ran to her door. She had a room over Leo's Bar and Grill, near the main entrance to the mill. Don stood in the rain as she fumbled in her purse, and then with the lock. He kept lookout for familiar cars, but the street remained mercifully empty. By the time they were inside, Don was soaked.
It was dark.
She grabbed for his hand and led him down a corridor, up some stairs. He could hear the sound of a television, a baby crying. Someone was having a conversation in Spanish in another room. She pulled him through a door. Another dark room.
"Hold on," she said.
She let go of his hand, but he could sense her body was still close by. A cord pulled, the space lit. She opened her arms, as if to present the room. A narrow mattress on the floor, clothes stacked in piles. A tall mirror leaned against the wall.
"Tea?" she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.
She went to the sink and ran water. Don crossed the room, peeked through the blinds that hung in the window. He heard the chime of buttons on a microwave. Watched a long flatbed semi navigate a turn through the intersection, inching its way into the mill.
She pulled off her jacket then sat on the mattress, patting the area next to her.
"Sit," she said.
Taking off his jacket, Don sat.
He felt awkward. Wondered if he shouldn't just leave.
She busied herself, tugging off her boots.
"Stay . . ." she said, as if she could read his mind.
She leaned over him, reaching for something on the other side of the bed. Her warm body pressed against his chest. She smelled like lavender and cigarette smoke.
"I'm sorry," she sighed. "Excuse me."
He placed his hand on her hip and she twisted her body and then his hand ended up on her bottom. She laughed and looked back over her shoulder. She'd been reaching for a towel, which she now held in her hands. Slipping off the mattress, she knelt in front of him. Mopped her face and chest with the towel, tilting her head down, a waterfall of blonde hair.
"I should go," Don said.
"Don't leave," she whispered.
The microwave made a loud noise but she ignored it. Raking her fingertips over the wet denim on his thigh, she looked like she was going to speak, but her voice caught.
She bit her lip. They were going to do this little dance of theirs. He was sure of it now. She was lonely, he was weak.
Don leaned forward. Their dry lips met. It was brief, perfunctory kissing, all lips and closed eyes, the kind of kissing reserved for johns. He tilted her chin up.
"Can you—" he paused, not sure how to present it. "Do me a favor," he finally asked.
His cock strained against his wet pants.
She grinned. Nodded her head, silently acquiescing.
Don ran his hands between her legs, along the insides of her thighs. Such a tight, athletic body. His hand roamed over her hips and tummy. Damp cotton, wet denim.
She closed her eyes. Mewled softly. He watched her face, looked at her scars. So young.
Her breathing was getting rhythmic, deeper.
Don stood. Opened his pants, unzipped his fly, and fished out his cock.
She rose on her knees, looking up at him.
She was just a baby, really, but then she took his cock in both her hands, and her warm mouth was on him, and around him, and making those sloppy, wet sounds.
She used her fists and tongue.
Don positioned himself so that he could watch her in the mirror. Raising his shirt, his slick cock disappeared in her mouth. He put his hand on her head, took his dick in his fist. Pumping into her mouth, he could feel his scrotum contract.
She pushed back suddenly, his cock spilling from her mouth.
She wiped her chin and mouth with the back of her hand. "Please don't come in my mouth." Her lips were puffy, her voice thick with sex. Don was mildly surprised. There was a beat of quiet where he didn't say anything.
He suddenly realized he didn't care if she took him back in her mouth or not. Ninety percent of what he needed from her, he got when she said "Please" in that husky voice.
"No, no," he finally mumbled, finding his voice.
She nodded. Paused.
"I won't," he said. He meant it.
She lowered her head and went back to work.
Don felt her wet fist slide and pump. He watched her in the mirror, her face hidden by her long golden hair. He enjoyed watching her head bob. He liked the idea of taking her without removing her clothes or even learning her name. He watched a little longer and then decided that he was going to finish in her mouth.
Don understood that by filling her mouth with his semen he was disrespecting her. He didn't mean to treat her so poorly, but he couldn't help himself.
His cock thickened, rose.
He took her head in both his hands, planted his fee t. At the very end she might realize and try to resist. Maybe press her palms against his thighs, arching her neck back. But he was stronger. Needier. At some point, she would have to surrender, accept his gift. As the cum jetted into her mouth, he would hold her head tightly. Groan. He would whisper that he was sorry.
He could give her that much.
She stopped again.
"Okay," she said, wiping her mouth with her free hand.
He let go of her head, but she didn't look up.
"You can come in my mouth." She was speaking into his cock as if it were a microphone, her hand slowly stroking him.
"Okay?" Don asked.
He was genuinely surprised.
She looked up. "You're just going to anyhow."
Don snorted out a soft laugh.
He could see a fine bead of sweat on her brow.
She looked in his face.
He grinned, but she didn't smile.
She returned him to her mouth. He could feel the blood pumping in his ears. No one said anything for a few minutes.
"Wait," he said. He sounded exasperated.
He took her head in his hands again. Stroked her thin hair, then held her head still. Pulling his hips back, his wet cock fell from her mouth.
"Wait—" he repeated.
She gave him such a look. The scars glowed pink on both her cheeks.
"These are wet," he said, holding the waistband of his jeans. "Let me get these off."
She looked at him doubtfully. Went to her haunches. She looked like she might cry.
He sat on her mattress. Removed his boots. His jeans.
He stripped down to his boxers and then took a thin cotton spread from the mattress. He draped the spread over his shoulders. She watched him like a cat, from the middle of the room. He fixed the tea she had prepared for them.
He pulled the cord on the light.
The room went dark.
The mugs of tea warmed his hands. He scooted to a sit against the far wall. Setting the drinks on the floor, he opened the blind.
"Come," he said. "Let's watch the rain."
She sat for a bit without moving. He watched the wet night in silence. Sipped his drink.
She crawled toward him.
He raised his arm, inviting her under the blanket.
She slipped off her wet pants. Scooted her hip next to him. Her cool skin melted against his chest. She shivered. Held her mug to her lips.
"What's your name?" he asked.
He cut his eyes at her. It was the kind of name a girl made up to make herself feel powerful. "Really?" he asked.
The sound of air brakes rose from the intersection below. The hum of a diesel engine.
"Lisa," she whispered.
He smiled. "What do you want me to call you?" He could feel her warm thigh against his own.
"Lisa," she said.
He told Lisa how attractive he found her. He told her all the ways he'd failed his wife. He told her about growing up in Carnal. She sipped her tea and listened. When they finished their drinks, the sun was lighting a purple sky.
She removed her shirt. Her bra. She took him back into her mouth.
They made love on the thin mattress. When it was finished, she called out his name, clawed at his back. He held her hip as he filled her tight pussy with his juice.
"Lisa," he whispered. "Lisa."
COPYRIGHT © 2020 Huck Pilgrim. All right reserved.
Huck Pilgrim has lived on the streets of New York City, in a communal home for Christians, and on an American submarine out of San Diego. He has washed dishes, made costumed helium balloon deliveries, and robbed designer jeans from department stores.
Huck writes gritty stories about submission, blackmail, and coercion. Occasionally he tosses a hand grenade of action and adventure into the mix. Huck’s stories are vivid fantasies, exploring the darker sides of submission and exposure. In Huck’s stories, the mousy girl becomes suddenly bold and capable, often discovering the hidden slut inside her. The men are handsome, hard-bitten, and cruel, enjoying all manner of debauchery.
Sign up for the newsletter: http://www.huckpilgrim.com