fire drill

‘Where are you?’ you say. It’s 9.15 am and you’re stuck outside in the office parking lot in the middle of a fire drill, shuffling your feet and watching the muster point wardens disinterestedly checking people off their lists.

‘Kitchen,’ he says, on the other end of the line – you called him just to say hi, and also to pass the time, and also you’re maybe in love with him. Just an unofficial little bit in love. You can hear the clatter of dishes in the background, the sloshing of liquid. ‘Coffee.’

There’s a little silence.

‘Whaddaya wearing?’ you say, singsong, almost a joke but not quite. He clears his throat, makes a kind of grunting chuckle.

‘Housecoat,’ he says, ‘and those, uh, those shorts you got me that time.’

That takes a minute to hit, but then

‘oh!’ you say, and stop. You’d tossed them in his basket for a laugh when he’d been through town a few months back and you’d done a 2 am Walmart run: a black micro-fibre thong dotted with grey stars. You take a second to picture it stretched up snug around his balls, tight over the line of his –

He’s talking.

‘…not so bad,’ you catch, ‘and as you know I’ve got one fine fuckin’ ass.’

‘Shit,’ you say, and your co-workers look at you, so it must have been pretty loud. ‘I never thought you’d actually – gosh – what are – I mean, you’re just hanging all thongalicious in the kitchen?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘since you ask, I’m sittin’ on the edge of a table and I’m gonna jerk one off pretty quick here.’

‘Shit!’ you say, and take four steps away from the cluster of officemates, turn around. ‘Fuck, c’mon, you can’t do this to me – I’m stuck in a fire drill.’

‘Too bad you ain’t got my hose,’ he says, but before you can mock him there’s a groan over the line, so low and gut-real it makes you flush up your throat. ‘Oh honey wish you were here.’

You lick your lips.

‘What are you doing?’ you say, a little frantic, ‘they’re gonna call us in soon, quick quick.’ You can see the wardens starting to nod at each other across the parking lot. ‘What are you – are you – how hard are you? Are the shorts pulled right down?’

‘Yup.’ You can hear his breathing pick up a little and the thump of something – a chair leg? – in the background. ‘Got ‘em pulled right down under the balls, like you like ‘em.’ You flush bright red, put your hand up to your face. ‘And I’m – yeah, I’m hard as they come, honey – fuck.’

‘What?’ You’re walking back up to the building now. Everyone else is inside and the last of the monitors is standing at the door, obviously waiting for you. ‘Shit – I can’t really say any more, going back into the – I’ll listen though, keep, keep telling me.’

‘OK,’ he says, and you’d swear you can hear the thwick thwick of his fist jerking quick over his dick. ‘That’s hot, baby, you on the line but you can’t touch yourself or even make a noise – uggghh, getting close – christ – bet you’re getting wet cause you want it, don’t you, you want this dick so good and hard between your legs, baby, fuck, fuuuuck, just say yeah, say it, say it, Christ I’m gonna-’

Yeah,’ you say, halfway up the stairs, perfectly still and gripping the rail with one hand like it’s salvation, and you hear him grunt twice close together, long and torn up from the bottom of his chest, and you’re gripping your phone so hard it’s leaving dents in the pads between your knuckles.

He laughs, warm like melted honey, and it goes right through you.

‘Ok there?’ he says, and you take a light shuddery breath, make your feet start up the stairs again. You’re astonished they’re working.

‘I’ll call you later,’ you say, like a threat, ‘once I’m home,’ and he says

‘You’d better.’

fire drill

KOTW: jeans

When she comes into the kitchen it’s still early. The morning light coming through the blinds is painting the room with stripes of light and shadow, and he’s standing in front of the coffee-machine, fingers playing absently over the curves of two mugs. He’s wearing a tshirt and his oldest jeans, the pair worn thin enough they cling over the curve of his ass. There’s a hole just under the waistband where the jeans have worn thin enough she can catch a glimpse of his briefs – purple, today.

‘Hey,’ she says, and he turns around and grins, all tousled bedhead, a crease from the pillowcase still imprinted faintly on his face. She comes up to him, close enough she can press right against the crotch of his jeans, nudge his ass up against the kitchen counter. The stiffer curve of his zip with the bulkier heft of the button is right between her legs, and she rolls her hips a little, presses against him. She can feel the line of his dick shift and stiffen under the jeans.

‘Hnnng,’ he says, ‘want coffee, baby?’

She looks up in his face, dimples.

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘but I want this first,’ and she fumbles between their bodies, undoes his button and zipper and pushes his jeans and briefs down over his thighs, gets down on her knees. The jeans slip down his legs, pool on the kitchen tile around his ankles, and she gets a palm against each of his hips and puts her face into the crease of his thigh, breathes in the scent of him. He makes a little noise, touches her hair, fully erect now, his swollen dick bumping up against her cheek, and she turns her head and sinks her mouth down around him, a wet suckling warmth.

The jeans get left on the floor when they go back upstairs.

KOTW: jeans