I would go up to him and offer him a light. It was our mutual signal I was open for business. He was steady and consistent but not creative.
He was always on top, puffing on his cigar. Or I would suck him off, period, with no reciprocity.
Hey, it was steady work and he paid well. I forgot to post this here, but I wrote a New Year’s Eve story based on this micro story and photo I posted on Twitter. I popped the bottle early, and sat sipping from a glass of half-decent champagne on the couch as my stepdad’s grandfather clock ticked away the last minutes of the year. I had the big show on the TV, but even if I wouldn’t be caught dead in Times Square, it just made me wish I were back home in New York as planned before my canceled flight. Holidays with the family weren’t so bad, and snowy Michigan was beautiful, but it would have been nice to start the new year with a raucous kiss instead of a quiet evening. Mom and John had gone to sleep a little after ten. Both my sister and John’s son, and their families, had dispersed in the days since Christmas, so it was just me left to celebrate alone in the big sleepy house. I shut my eyes and sank back into the deep sofa under a blanket, feeling the fizz of the wine on my tongue before letting it slide down and fuel the growing buzz in my head. Even after two and a half years at NYU, I was still a lightweight when it came to alcohol, but tonight I didn’t mind at all. It was a good way to dull the somber evening. I glanced at my phone again, but my messages were still unanswered. Patrick and I weren’t dating exactly, but we were something. Something enough that we’d planned an evening together, one he was now undoubtedly having with someone else. I had no illusions about the romantic potential of a man who’d bang his own student during office hours, but he had a big dick and a thrilling wit. Even if he wasn’t likely to be my future husband, I could still dream. The crowd’s excitement rose on TV, drawing my attention.
I thought of tasting fine champagne on Patrick’s lips, of feeling his strong hands gripping me as the ball dropped, and my own hand idly wandered down to the growing bulge in my pajamas. I startled to my feet and blushed when I saw my stepfather smirking back at me. Just grabbing a glass of water,” He said, scratching at his bare hairy chest as he held up his empty glass. John was tall, looming over me at 5’6”, and burly as a bear. But above all, the hefty package in his snug boxer-briefs made my eyes widen. I’d caught fleeting glances of him undressed in the hallway before, but never clearly enough to find myself dreaming of him bending me over the island counter. John glanced back toward the bedroom, thinking for a moment before he shrugged, “Why not?” “It’s nearly midnight,” I remarked, picking up a half-empty bottle from the coffee table.
We met halfway between the living room and the kitchen, and my heart thumped faster in my chest with every step. He was a raw man, not unkind but quite unrefined, of the sort I rarely met in Manhattan. I felt small and soft, emasculated standing closer before him as he accepted a healthy pour with a mischievous grin.