30 Minutes

I finally wrote something for my own Christmas erotica meme! This short story takes Clarence Carter’s ‘Back Door Santa’ as inspiration – I hope you enjoy it.

—

30 minutes.

That’s how long we get.

Every Saturday morning at 11.00, I hear the front door slam, and I watch from my bedroom window as he leaves the house. He moves with purpose, his neon running shoes a blur across the tarmac right from the start. Knees pumping high, he lopes down our quiet, residential street till he reaches the entrance to the park.

Only when I’m sure that this week is the same as all the others – that he’s not going to turn back, hand smacking into his forehead as he remembers the keys left on a bedside table or hanging up in the kitchen – only then do I slip away from the window and out of my flat, into the shared hallway.

Lana is always waiting at the top of the stairs, white robe wrapped loosely around her dark skin. She turns away before I reach the top, leaving me to hustle up the last few steps in time to stop the heavy wooden door from swinging shut. She’s already halfway along the corridor by then, hips swaying as the robe starts to slide off her shoulders and down her body, falling away into a loose, billowy puddle on the teak floorboards.

Their bedroom is directly above my kitchen; I hear them going at it sometimes, late at night, her low moans accompanied by the rattle of the bed frame and, finally, Tom’s sharp, staccato climax. I raise my glass in a silent toast to his metronomic reliability – and to her sweet, hungry, fucking insatiable cunt.

Each week I stop in the doorway to admire the view. Not just Lana, spread out across the cream sheets like a medieval princess, but the street outside, winding its way between the redbrick houses and flowing into the lush green of the local park. If we’ve timed it right, a tiny splash of red will bob out of the trees, moving with a rhythm and purpose that are clear even at this distance. There’s a hint of a smile on her calm, serious face whenever she sees him run past.

My shirt gets tossed over a chair next to the wardrobe, onto a pile of Tom’s neatly-folded jumpers. I don’t need to be naked – not for this – but Lana likes to smooth her hands over my shoulders and down my back; to feel the warm skin under her fingers as my head dips between her legs.

She doesn’t set an alarm, which no longer makes me nervous; I’ve learned to trust her instinctive awareness of time (or perhaps her sense of self-preservation). Our half-hour window precludes drawn-out foreplay, so it’s always a relief to find her already wet. Sometimes that’s because she’s freshly-fucked, and on those Saturday mornings I can taste him, beaded between her labia, or slick against my tongue as I push it inside her cunt. The silver streaks smear her thighs and stick to my face like war-paint.

I’m careful not to leave traces of my own. My fingers press lightly into Lana’s belly, holding her in place without bruising. I don’t use my teeth. Instead I lap slowly at her swollen clit, curving around the hood and flicking under it with soft, teasing strokes. She doesn’t make much noise, and I glance up every now and then to see her head turned to face the window, lips pressed together in a dark-red bow as she gazes off into the distance.

When Lana comes, her whole body shakes. It all happens very quickly, with the first gentle tremors swallowed up in seconds by big, violent waves. I used to back off at that point, until the day she grabbed a fistful of hair and pinned my face against her cunt, my mouth opening again more in surprise than any conscious decision to resume licking her. She can hold onto her orgasm for minutes at a time – or maybe one just blends into the next – and that’s the bit I love most. It’s the hook that keeps me coming back, I think.

Afterwards, she sits cross-legged on the bed and watches as I button up my shirt. I do it slowly – a reverse striptease – waiting for her to crack and throw a cushion at my head, or chivvy me out the door. For her mask to slip.

For her to say goodbye.

It hasn’t happened yet.

I won’t lie, I’d feel better about the whole thing if he was mean and unfriendly; if he was boring, or even just a crappy husband. He’s not though. He’s a nice, solid, steady guy, and he loves her very much. He just won’t eat her out – and I will.

29 minutes after his neon shoes hit the pavement, I leave their flat with mussed hair and lips that taste of her each time I run my tongue over them. In the hallway I stop to pick up the mail, leaving Tom and Lana’s on the bannister at the bottom of the stairs, ready for him to collect. I close my door quietly behind me.

I try to be a good neighbour.