There were no signs of life in her house as the perpetually squealing breaks of my Pontiac T-1000 heralded our arrival. Even the brake lights of Donnie’s truck were extinguished from where it sat between the elm trees in the front yard.
“Be real quiet,” she whispered, as if I wanted our sexual rendezvous to be dashed by Donnie’s appearance.
She unlocked the back door and we carefully descended the cellar stairs. As soon as the soles of my snakeskin boots touched cement floor, I broke into a tingly sweat. She’d cautioned against turning on any lights which, given the complete and utter darkness enveloping me, I’d have been hard pressed to locate my own left knee, let alone a light switch.
Anything could happen to me down here, I realized. She could knock me on the head with an ancient bas relief and sacrifice me to Cthulu. Donnie could be standing just out of reach, intending on sodomizing me with a chair leg. There could be spiders dangling. This rush of morbid thoughts had the effect of making my cock really really hard.
Then a bloody flap of skin brushed against my face and I bit back a scream since I really didn’t want to wake Donnie up if there was still a chance for some sexing. Sera Beth grabbed my hand and squeezed, and my imagination receded morphing the bloody flap of skin back to the wet fabric of a drying shirt clothes pinned to the line near the washer.
She led me to the bed, a soft oasis in a desert of darkness. Our clothes came off and we got to the sexing by touch. Also, scent, hearing, taste… Yeah, I prefer my sex in the light.
Maybe it was the bed bouncing against the wall, or the sound of our combined moans, but going into the second hour, I became aware of noise from the room directly above ours which I correctly surmised to be Donnie’s lonely bedroom. The floors creaked as he left his bed. I stopped midstroke.
“Does Donnie have a gun?” I whispered.
The shadow beneath me answered strangely laconically. “Just a couple. A forty caliber Smith & Wesson. And a 9mm.”
“Oh… There aren’t any, uhm, other exits are there?”
“Just the stairs. Why?”
I didn’t honor the dumb ass question with a response. I slid down to the foot of the bed, willing my heart to quit hammering my sternum and failing.
The footsteps creaked across the room and stopped. Was he straining his ears at this moment, hunched down by the radiator, listening for the tell tale sounds of a Polish Hammering? I heard a dresser drawer slide open and I just knew it was the gun drawer. What would it be? The .40, the 9mm? What sort of difference was I looking at, exit wound size wise?
Girls, Guns & Hot Rods:
by Jami Beck