Hallway
By Emily Brunson
©2004
Gil’s breath is hot against your ear. "Perfect timing." Little puffs of air, as intimate as a tongue rasping over you. "Stay."
You don’t bother to nod. What’s the point? Of course you’ll stay. He knows what works on you, that voice, that intent. It worked the first time, and it’s worked every time since. Not that long ago you tried to count up how many times that actually was. Couldn’t remember. Not that it matters.
Teeth nip your earlobe while he pulls your shirt out. In the dark, it’s almost frightening. How can you feel so alone when you’ve got his hands all over you? Mouth, fingers, his belly to your back. Arms reaching around to unfasten your pants, while you just stay put. Leaning forward against the wall, cinder blocks, coarse and grainy under your fingers. Out here in the hallway it’s seedy, no question there’s no honor in it, no devotion. It’s a quick fuck someplace where no one’s even remotely likely to see. To hear it, to smell it.
That’s the way Gil likes it. He’s never said it, not in so many words, but it’s perfectly clear. A few times a year, maybe once a month, tops, and it’s always places like this. Usually at work, someplace random. Takes very little time. In, out, thanks for playing.
He never kisses you. Has never even come close to kissing you. On the mouth, at least. This isn’t romance. This isn’t even what you can rightly call an affair. It’s stress release, more than anything. His stress. He unloads onto you – lit and fig – and it’s over.
You’re hard, you’re so hard. Kissing the back of your wrist when you lean forward, letting him slide your pants down past your hips. You’ll never admit it, not even to him, but you like it up your ass, always have, and this is no-strings-attached good, just a hot fuck at randomly spaced intervals, a little pain and a lot of pleasure and – nothing else. Never will be anything else.
It hurts so very good when he slides into you. You have an immediate mental picture: your bare ass stuck out, his hands on your hips, his lower lip caught between his teeth while he gazes down, watches his dick disappear inside you. Feels so motherfucking good. To him, and you. Nothing wrong with it. Just a little raunchy fun, right?
He’s breathing faster, making that grumbling sound deep in his throat. You’ve heard that sound before. Like your noises, soft and reluctant and honest. Feels so good, go faster, yeah, just like that, faster. Oh you fucker, gonna make me come, do it, come on, come ON. Only there are no words. Just the sounds, that’s all.
You clench your eyes shut and reach down to stroke your own dick. He’s speeding up, panting, holding you so hard his fingers pinch your skin. Gotta time this right, because if you haven’t finished by the time he does, it’s too late. He’s outta there, gone, back to business. So you jack yourself fast, pretty damn experienced at this, doncha know, know just what works best, and just when he’s slamming into you so hard you’re about to meld with the cinder blocks, you let out a sharp cry and come.
Gil bites your shoulder through your shirt and lets out a single, "Fuck," before he comes inside you. That’s all; almost before he’s done he’s sliding free, impersonal hand on your ass while he rearranges himself.
You’re a fucking mess, but you always are about now. There’s come on the right leg of your pants, your own come, and your ass feels slimy, tingly. Not even a tissue to wipe things off, and the thought of your ass cheeks sliding together until you get back to the lab is utterly disgusting. You yank up your pants, wipe with your fingers at the white blob on the fabric. Gross.
When you turn he’s picking up his kit, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.
"Last one," you say, and your face crumples. "That’s the last."
His look is startled, and uncomprehending. "What?"
You shake your head. "I won’t do that again. Not like that."
His eyes narrow, and then he shrugs, still studying you. "All right," he says calmly. "We won’t."
You watch him walk away, down the hallway, out to the deserted football field beyond. Your nose stings with dumb-ass tears. Why’d you ever let it start in the first place? And wasn’t that better than nothing at all?
Your ass aches. You sigh when you reach for your camera. Your shoes echo in the cinder-block hallway when you follow him out to the scene.
END
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