Copyright © Emmi Lawrence
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Mini (Approx. 1300)
He would come at seven forty-five in the morning. Practically like clockwork. Always dressed for work. Always looking so…fuckable.
The guy was tall. Gangly, not willowy. Wary eyes, the color of fresh grass on a bright spring morning. He looked about mid-twenties. Maybe younger, but I doubted. Older, if he aged well.
Mostly, I noticed the way he smiled, because he smiled at damn near everyone. Young woman jogging—smile and a nod. Older tourist couple—smile and a pause to help them with directions. Boy licking the leftover chocolate out of his candy bar wrapper—smile and a little wave of his fingers. Built muscle man who stalked down the sidewalk as if he owned it—smile and a glance over his shoulder after they passed to check out the backside of that bod.
Couldn’t fault him because I looked too. A glance, nothing more, just enough to ascertain that he couldn’t hold my attention as much as my cute, carrot-topped smiling obsession.
He was my favorite. I’d watch him as he walked down the block, the fresh cup of coffee in his hand, only occasionally sipping because he’d just bought it and it was far too hot to drink. I would lean out my second-floor window, shirt off in the summer heat, and stare unashamedly.
Sometimes I’d reach out and send a breath across his neck. Watch him shudder.
Other times I’d pat him on the ass and chuckle to myself when he’d turn around and see no one there.
Every day I became braver. One time I threw his coffee from his hand so that I would have more time to stare at his body, imagining what it would feel like to bend him over my bed, sink into heat that clutched at me more satisfying than my own fist. Another time, I yanked his keys out of his pocket and tossed them away so that I would have the pleasure of viewing that ass stretching across khakis as he bent to pick them up.
Generally, I kept things a little less obnoxious for him and a little more exciting for me.
A line of kisses against his neck to make him sigh. A warm pressure at his back and across his chest as if I were holding him in my arms. A graze of ethereal fingertips running up his thighs to tease his groin.
There would be a hitch in his step, a blink in his eye, that would make me settle against the windowsill in satisfaction. A satisfaction that would never last.
I would prop myself within the window each morning, waiting for him to walk by. Best part of my day, the anticipation killing me, leaving me jittery and nervous despite him never once looking up to see me.
Today, though…today he was late.
Seven forty-five came and went. Seven fifty. Eight. Eight fifteen.
The seconds ticked loudly behind me as the sun rose higher and higher.
I finally gave up at ten twenty-six. Though, I kept finding myself drifting back towards the window every few minutes, searching the street longingly.
The next day, I got up earlier, opening my window to perch at seven. Just in case.
He never showed.
The day after that, I was waiting at six, slowly starting to panic. Maybe he’d landed a new job and would never be coming by again. Or maybe he decided to start driving. Or maybe he’d died. God, that depressed me.
On the fourth day, after I was significantly spooked that I’d never get to reach out and touch him again, he finally showed.
Seven forty, walking slow, his eyes downcast, looking for all the world as if someone had stomped all over his life. I wanted to hold him, to kiss him and comfort him and tell him that whatever it was, it would be all right.
So I did the next best thing. I reached out across the space between us and glided invisible fingers along his skin. That long neck, those slender hands, those thin forearms. Then I tugged on his hair, enjoying the way his eyes widened and he spun, searching for who had touched him.
That haunted look didn’t fade, so I reached lower, this time underneath his clothes. Touching across his stomach, circling around his groin to stroke his thighs.
He was walking slow now, eyes confused.
That would change.
Still continuing my steady assault on his entire epidermis, I curled around his balls, tugging hard. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, giving a tentative apologetic smile to the man who had to dodge around him.
Right when he seemed like he could walk again, I stroked up his limp shaft, engulfing it in sensation as if I had just wrapped my mouth around him. This time, I saw his expression crumble, the wary, haunted look that he’d harbored fleeing.
Now that I had him, I didn’t let up, three days of worry and disappointment giving way to a need so great, one I’d kept at bay because I’d told myself he would always be there.
I fondled his balls and sucked his thickening cock. I kissed his neck and licked up his ears. I caressed his skin and breathed against his lips.
Then I became more evil and reached inside to stroke his prostrate.
He reacted quickly, stumbling towards the closest alley, a dirty one with trash piled high on the side and a gate at the back that had been broken for ages.
“No,” I whispered. “You can’t escape.”
I held that gate closed, watched him struggle with it for barely a moment before giving up, bending over and managing to get his coffee on the ground before he pressed both hands against the brick in a stance that had dirty images dancing in my mind.
Of standing behind him myself, fucking him even as I played across his skin and blew his dick with my mind.
I played out that fantasy on his body, rocking him back and forth, stretching him, fucking him, all while never releasing his cock from deep suction and gorgeous heat. I could feel him moaning, could imagine the way the vibrations of his noises would reverberate through my own body had it been my flesh shoving him against that wall instead of my mind.
“That’s right, baby,” I whispered to him though he couldn’t hear. “Feel that.”
I knew when I’d successfully milked his orgasm free because his hands squeezed into fists and his entire body suddenly became noticeably tight, pushing back against my mental touches. And then I heard him shout, the sound causing a passerby to glance down the alley as she strode past. Riding his orgasm, I rocked him hard, then gentler, easing him down from his high until he was collapsing.
I caught him and stroked his hair as I propped him against the wall. Then I floated his coffee cup up to him, letting it hover. My cock gave a pulse of longing when he reached out and plucked it out of the air, seemingly too exhausted to care about everything I’d done to him. Want made my throat close up. Need had my body humming.
I remained in the windowsill through the man straightening himself out, through him staring into space and shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. He turned and walked back into the street, most of the sadness in his eyes gone, but the exhaustion lingering. At least I’d helped relax him, gave him something good in his day regardless of what else he was dealing with.
Right outside the alley, he paused and began to search the street. I could have ducked back inside, ran and hid until I was certain he was gone. I didn’t. Instead, I sat there staring at him as his eyes rose and caught on my figure.
I blew him a single kiss, having it land right on his mouth. He jerked, startled, then tilted his head at me. I waved. Smiled. Then ducked inside my apartment, taking my erection and sweaty hands into my bedroom to grab my lube.