Barelegged Angel
He’d only demanded one, but she insisted he take both. He watched a second time as she reached under her coat and sent her hand on a slow upward journey to the only warm place in that frigid October bus shack. He caught her heat like a virus. But just before arriving at that lick-a-maid place he could almost taste, her fingers stopped. They found the edge of her Matrix Black stocking where the soft elastic snugged a spunk-white thigh whose cock-raising sweetness he could only guess at. And then ... well then he had to imagine the slow, rolling, descent of her hidden hands until they reappeared from under her hem with their black harvest of rolled silk.
She’d draped the first stocking, still warm, over the hard shaft of his gun. This one she pressed into his hands, but when he reached up, she stopped him. “Let me,” she whispered. She placed the stocking, still rolled, still humid with her scent on his head. Then she unrolled it slowly, slowly downward. Down over his matted curls, over his brow, his lips, his five-o’clock chin. And then she took his sheathed head with its flattened features and pressed her mouth to it. His lips instinctively parted, and he felt the tip of her tongue through the black silk.
He was young. He didn’t mean for it to go off. But it did. And she smiled.
He watched the framed profile of his barelegged angel as the number twenty-nine carried her into the night. He looked from the bus’s receding taillights to the glowing 7-Eleven sign across the street. But his nerve had suddenly gone as limp as the prick in his wet Levi’s.
Fuck, and if he’d ever needed that pack of smokes it was now.
Copyright © 2004 by Smokey Sexsmith. All rights reserved.
Smokey Sexsmith is the pseudonym for a children’s author with four published books and a contract for a fifth due out in 2005. She has published three short stories, two of them erotic, in various small circulation magazines.
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