I deliberately left a couple of details out of yesterday’s post about Strong Foundations, the story I wrote as a guest blog for Malin James. I left them out because sometimes I like at least to tilt at the windmill of respectability, and these details…well, they’re just not very respectable.
[Actually, before I go any further, I should probably say that if you want to stop right here and just go read what ultimately became (at 2,900 words) the longest story I’ve ever written, here’s the link.]
I said last night that the roulette wheel of ideas inspired by last week’s shower re-tiling fiasco span only until I decided to shape the story to what I knew to be Ms James’ particular kinks. And for the most part that’s true. There was, however, one other factor in the decision.
I passed the workmen in the hallway several times. Of the two, one in particular left an impression. A young, bullet-headed Pole, he filled out his t-shirt most impressively, and his combat trousers even more so. I practically had to swerve around his bulge as I navigated the strip of carpet between the bottom of the stairs and my bedroom, and I’m not sure I quite had my wits about me when I fell through the doorway.
That afternoon was spent preparing for an upcoming interview, but as I tried to focus on work I found myself unable to get that close encounter out of my head. I slipped my hand down into my jeans and played with my own cock, imagining all the ways in which I might work him into the story. Eventually I got so hard that I got rid of the jeans altogether, and soon after shucked my boxers as well. I decided that he would have to play a central role, and as I sat there imagining all the ways in which he might do so, I realised that if he could have such an effect off-screen in my own fantasy, he could do exactly the same thing in the story that resulted from it.
Rock music blasted up through the floorboards, accompanied by the staccato rhythm of the builders’ hammers, but I was so turned on by the whole thing that I wrapped my fist around my cock and started masturbating right there in my kitchen, unconcerned by the prospect of them coming upstairs. I still had my top on at that point, but when I went to lift it over my head, I felt a brief spike of fear and stopped halfway, leaving it draped awkwardly over my shoulders. I stood, hesitant and aroused all at the same time, till lust won out and I began stroking my cock again, leaning back against the wooden fridge door.
The resulting photograph did much to crystallize who the main character in this story was, and what someone with wicked intentions might want to do to him. Those intentions start to become clear in the excerpt below, and the photo shows just how she intends to leave him, when she goes to investigate the workmen and their bulging overalls…
“Strip for me. Slowly. Jeans first.”
I tugged at my belt, my fingers cold and shaky without the reassuring warmth of her body curled in my lap. Downstairs, the hammering stopped and I tensed, a nervous response I inwardly cursed as she raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Sorry, I just…well, what if one of them comes up?”
“Huh. What indeed?”
“Are you kidding, Ally? They can’t see me like this, ok?”
“Then why are you getting hard? And don’t deny it! I can see you straining against the fly. Are you worried they’ll see you? No, that’s not it: ah, you’re worried they’ll think you’re small!”
“Because I saw the way they filled out their overalls. Fuck, there’s no comparison. Those boys are packing, and you…ha! I mean…well, we can’t all be superstars, can we?”
I flushed, a deep, angry red that I felt warm my chest and set my stomach on spin cycle. The heat spread lower though, and I gritted my teeth against it, trying to stop my body betraying me, even as I shimmied out of my jeans and presented myself to her.
She looked me up and down with a careful, studied gaze. I felt shy, coltish and awkward; undone by her forensic attention. I trusted Ally to push my buttons in a way that worked within the context of our relationship, but the sudden charge to the atmosphere between us indicated that we were both moving into new territory.
The hair on my legs shivered in the cold of the open, airy kitchen. I lifted my striped, long-sleeved t-shirt up over my stomach, and extended my arms towards the ceiling, stopping only when her voice cut through the silence.
“Did I tell you to take that off? Boxers first. I want to see how much you want this.”
I untangled my arms and let them hang limp by my side. Casting a final anxious glance at the stairs, I slowly peeled the tight boxer-briefs down over my cock, and let them join my jeans in a puddle on the floor.
For the rest, go check out Malin’s blog…and wish her a (belated) happy birthday while you’re there!