At that exact moment, the way the thick cloth draped and accented the shape of her ass looked very good to him. He thought about how she had looked earlier, walking around the apartment in his old, oversize sweatshirt. Obviously braless underneath, he had enjoyed the gentle swaying of her breasts pushing against the fabric as she moved about.

Without really thinking about it, he walked over to where she was, stood behind her, pulled the window down as far as he could without hurting her, and locked it in position with the anti-burglar lock. She was a little startled, but Mrs. Smith was still talking, so she acted as if nothing was happening. She felt him grab her hips and grind his crotch into her ass. Out of the corner of her mouth, through clenched teeth, so Mrs. Smith would think she was still paying attention, she whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Whatever I want,” he said, and she felt him pull away and begin ripping the sweatpants down the seam at the back.

(...)
Read the rest of At The Window (1,701 words)

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I was in the supermarket of the town I grew up in when I heard a voice behind me. It said “Jenny! Jenny Shores is that you?” I looked behind me and it was Mr. Jones the neighbor that lived across the road from us when I was growing up!

I hadn’t seen him in years but he still looked good, he was beginning to go grey around the temples but mixed with his afro carribbean features it suited him. His family was nice. I had many happy memories of hanging out in their house and playing with there kids. He was the first black man I had ever met and I remember having sexual thoughts about him in my early teens but I don’t think he ever regarded me as anything more than a kid. It was different now though. His eyes were all over me staring at me hungrily, and he said “Look at you! you’re all grown up, it seems like only yesterday you where running around in your underwear and sucking on a licorice stick!” I said “well I still like to suck on licorice sticks especially the big fat ones and if you want to see me running around in my underwear I’m sure it can be arranged…”

(...)
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His name was Tom. He was there to set up the equipment for a photo and light show, but my impression was that he was there to have fun. After we spoke for awhile (you know, the surface type conversation: How about that weather? What do you do for a living? etc…) he asked me to dance. This is always my little test to see how well a man can move. He moved so well, all kinds of thoughts ran through my mind — “I wonder what his cock would taste like? I bet he could fuck for hours.”

We danced and drank throughout the evening, our chitchat becoming more personal. He asked me for my number (which always throws me into a panic “Will he call????”). He shook my hand and kissed my cheek and promised he would call. Yea, right! Sure he’ll call. A good looking man like this surely has several women — why bother with another one? Guess my self-confidence was a little out of joint.

Come the following Monday I get the call. “Hi, this is Tom.”

(...)
Read the rest of Party Crasher (1,951 words)

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