Lunch at Stranger Danger

This story plays with the idea of dubious consent fantasies being enacted without prior negotiation. Obviously such play should be negotiated in real life. Fantasy is fantasy. Enjoy.

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She walks to the mailbox around noon, like she always does. The weather is balmy and the asphalt of the driveway is heated by the sun. It feels warm underneath her flip flops. She wears a yellow dress with very short sleeves, the hem reaching mid-thigh. It always makes her feel cute, like a doll. Her brown hair is in a ponytail.

The house on the other side of the street is being renovated. The Johnsons moved out three months ago and the new owners want a new roof, improved plumbing, a wall torn down between the kitchen and the living room. The realtor who sold the house chatted to her once at the mailbox, making eyes. Apparently the house is too old, needs a lot of work because of it. But that house is just as old as her house, and she doesn't see anything renovated at the place.

There used to be a swarm of contractors coming and going to the Johnson house, but now there is only one. She sees him every day when she picks up the mail. He watches her. She figures, by the state of his overalls, he is a painter. The house needs a new coat of paint, literally. Then it won't be the Johnson house anymore. The Johnsons will be washed away by the serene light blue of the exterior, a color deemed tasteful and approved by the home owners association.

He takes lunch on the curb, sometimes a sandwich, sometimes just a cup of coffee and a cigarette. He is tall, wiry. His hair is closely cropped silver. He wears paint splattered overalls, that he peels down to the waist, a white t-shirt beneath stretching over the contours of his torso.

His eyes are small, perpetually squinting. They watch as if they see through her, and she hates that feeling. He is older than her, certainly, but by how much, it's difficult to tell. Ten to twenty years, she figures. Smokers always age quicker, she thinks with a degree of disgust.

Her mother raised her with a paranoia about manual workers. The plumber whose quotes are too high to be reasonable. The cleaner who steals cash if you leave it out. The gardener who slacks off, or the pool boy who is useless. She wondered as a child why they hired these people in the first place if they were this untrustworthy, but she understands it better now. Just because one deems something necessary, doesn't mean one has to like it.

The garbage truck is necessary but she doesn't have to love its smell.

She is not paranoid about him. She is just being careful, and smart. The way he watches her is like a burglar casing a jewellery store. Her house is big but it isn't fancy, and it is filled with inexpensive things. Her furniture is second hand or IKEA. Her laptop is six years old. She ordered her cheap mattress online in a hurry when she realized she had to move out and her ex kept the bed, the sofa and even her makeup vanity. What the hell did he need a vanity for? But she told herself she wouldn't dwell on these things.

So if her house isn't worth robbing, then what he wants has to be something else entirely.

What he wants has to be -- her.

The heat that washes over her at the thought pricks the skin on the nape of her neck. Danger and need. The need in itself is danger. There are smart ways, careful ways of fulfilling the need. She should date the boy who her friends can vouch for. The boy who reads poetry by Adrienne Rich and follows a few feminist influencers, as well as butt models, because he is so sex positive. A boy who asks if she's okay if he does this, or if he touches her here.

She doesn't date that boy, because that boy ended up putting her on the couch of an expensive therapist and without a vanity. That boy made her flee to a house she leased from her brother's boss in a hurry, when she had nowhere else to go where he would not try to find her. The words she thought were just buzzwords are suddenly a part of her own vocabulary and her own history. Gaslighting, emotional abuse, frog-boiling.

It has been six months since she fled and she can now argue against the things he put in her head. No, she is not worthless. No, she is not ugly, or disgusting, or stupid.

Now she thinks she is just average. Her brown hair, the small bump on the bridge of her nose. Her height is average. Her body is average, her breasts are average. Her thighs could be a little smaller, her belly a little less round. Her therapist has encouraged her not to engage in negative self-talk.

It has been three months of watching contractors in the Johnson house. It has been five weeks of the painter staring at her, every day, at noon, when she walks to the mailbox.

She could leave the house at another time. In the middle of the night, if she wanted, because it is not like she is sleeping during those hours. Instead she watches shows she loved in her youth, One Tree Hill and Buffy, smokes weed and goes to bed around four am, her bones like jello inside of her. Her therapist tells her this is just her coping.

Her friends tell her this is her life stalling. They are all buying houses and getting engaged or married. Two of them already have kids. Some of them sided with him in the breakup. After all, it's not like he beat her up, and she has always been crazy. Who's to say she is not just being her old crazy self again.

She thinks about the painter, a lot, actually. Maybe she really is crazy, that he disgusts her so in reality but in her fantasies, he is what brings her consistently over the edge. He mixes within her usual fantasy about a billionaire who is inexplicably twenty five years old and yet not an asshole. She starts out with the fantasy of the billionaire but then when she's naked and writhing beneath the man, it's the painter pinning her down.

He holds her hands over her head, sometimes he just grabs hold of her thick brown hair as he takes her from behind. He never says anything, except after she has climaxed, she imagines the throaty whisper, like treacle and honey, a tacky trickle down her spine:

"Good girl."

The worst part is that he never asks for permission.

The best part is that she never has to tell him no.

The fantasy could break so easily. She remembers it happening many times in college. She could spend weeks eyeing some boy in class, and when he actually spoke to her, the fantasy melted away, like snow in the rain. So she will never speak to the painter, to hold him in the grip of her lizard brain and not let him become the complete picture, an actual voice and scent and touch, an actual person.

But today, he doesn't just watch her. He abandons the cardboard cup of coffee on the curb and stands up. He crosses the street, eyes still on her.

A panic lights her up from the inside. This is precisely how girls end up the stars of true crime podcasts. She doesn't have her phone with her, because the dress has no pockets. She has nothing left to do but to turn around, grab the mail, and walk back into the house.

But there isn't ever any mail. Why would there be any mail. Nobody but her family knows she is here and her brother pays for the utilities directly to his boss. All she picks up is flyers for local restaurants that she never orders from.

She walks down the driveway, and the heat pools with the panic in her abdomen. He follows her. This goddamn creep actually follows her. She walks. She could run. She won't make this a chase.

Her ex told her she wants to be dominated by men because of the patriarchy. His kinks were thinking man's kinks, tall black women stepping on his neck, giant women eating him alive. So why did he end up making her feel so small?

She is at the door and he holds it open after her, pausing at the threshold and then stepping over. She looks at him, anger rushes ahead of her panic, makes her glare at him.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asks.

"Mrs Brandt told me she wants every room and the outside repainted, too," the man says and it's the first time she hears his voice instead of imagining it. It's deep, less gravelly than she imagined. It's slow, like a Southern drawl, but without the twang and it is clear like an NPR host's explanation of the latest Latin American coup.

"I don't give a fuck, you need to leave before I call the cops," she spits out and her phone is in the bedroom, plugged in. She remains there, in the foyer. The house phone is unplugged because she didn't need the anxiety she felt every time it rang.

He looks around, the house as big as the Johnson house, but with the very sparse decor. She is the only occupant.

"So I told her it would be a five week job knowing I could probably get it done in four," he continues, his eyes settling back on her. "I could hire outside help but I like to work alone, always have."

"Are you soliciting? I don't need your services. Please leave."

Her voice wavers. He has taken a step, just a single one, closer. His eyes are blue, same as hers, but hers have that splash of green and grey in the middle, given the right lighting. She wonders if he can see it. The foyer is lit by the sun, the big windows. She keeps all other lights off until the night arrives.

"I spent four weeks figuring out what our little game was," he tells her, and takes another step closer. "I don't normally play games of this type. Don't normally meet other players."

She backs away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you have an idea," he says, and his hand reaches out, a finger tracing up her bare arm until it meets the thick cotton of her dress. "Five weeks picking up mail that isn't there at the exact same time. What's that about?"

"I'm expecting something," she says, a lie slipping past her lips so easily, but her voice doesn't deliver it with conviction.

"I'm expecting something as well," he says and leans down, and his hand tilts her chin up. The nudge isn't forceful, but she doesn't have time to react.

His tongue opens her mouth when she gasps, an invitation. He licks a heat into her, sets it further alight. She stands, powerless, as her heart hammers away in her chest, the panic subsiding, the anger receding. She gets wet, her body rushing with sensation, betraying the logical reasoning. He's dangerous. He's a threat. He should not be here.

The thing that makes her push him away finally is the cold truth: he is not her fantasy. He is too real.

It is just a pity that reality also turns her on this much. His scent, coffee and cigarettes, sandalwood and leather. The sandpaper skin on his chin. His tongue and its movement, giving promise to a fantasy she didn't even think possible.

She wants it, so when he walks close again, a new game for them, she no longer backs away.

"Tell me, how does the game end?" His hand cups her face, making her stare up at him. "I'll tell you what I think and you can tell me if I'm right. You barely sleep at night. You look so sad until you arrive at that mailbox. Your cheeks turn pink, your pupils widen. You look like you're burning up inside."

"You're delusional," she says, and wonders whether it can be that obvious. It's not like she watches herself in the mirror as the fantasy sweeps through her.

"I like it when a woman is so turned on she can barely think," he continues. "Her breath catches and her nipples harden and her delicate wrist betrays that quickening pulse."

His hand on her throat, not holding, but the possibility exists. His hand takes her wrist. "Are you there yet?"

"Don't you have work to do?" she asks, but instead of stern, her voice is a mere whisper.

"You tell me," he says and a hand is wrapped around her waist. He pulls her to him, pressing their bodies together. She can feel him stiff against her stomach, the tent of the hard cock.

Get the fuck out, she could say. I'll call the cops right now. Leave. No, stop. She doesn't say anything.

This is not her fantasy but it's close enough, the hard mouth pressed against hers and her hands touch his chest, finding muscle there. She could push him away so easily. She could struggle against him to see how quickly he might retreat. A true gentleman? Or a true rogue?

Or she could sink in further, her legs feeling weakened under her. His hands hike up her dress, dancing over her thighs. They move over her ass, covered by panties. The kind she wears when there aren't any boys around to see them. Suppose it doesn't matter now. A sound comes out of her mouth, halfway between a gasp and a moan.

He is so hard against her and her body betrays her with such force it frightens her.

"Where do you want it?" A murmur against her ear. His hand slides between her legs, finally, and embarrassment blotches her cheeks further. He has to feel it. Her mound, swollen, her wetness, the heat within her. His touch is too light. Teasing.

She shouldn't be this horny for anyone, much less him. The strangest of strangers, the danger of this man in her house, his hands on her. The way he could do anything with her, and no one would ever hear her scream.

"Get off me," she says, but it feels like the voice isn't hers, or like a test if he would let go of her. Especially this late in the game, his fingers coated by her wetness.

"Say that again, and I'll leave, sweetheart," he says and his fingers move against her slit, and spread the slick up, and up.

His finger hits her nub, neglected or abused depending on one's definition of a single girl's struggles. A lightning strikes through her. So she doesn't say it again. She doesn't say anything for a while, just grips his arms as they hold her steady.

Then she says, but just this: "Anywhere you want it."

If she should want to be called a good girl, she should earn it, too, shouldn't she.

He moves her to the couch, peels off her dress. He palms his own erection over the overalls. She shouldn't stare. Shouldn't feel the sight heat her up even more. She does stare. She does burn.

"Strip," he tells her.

The command sends a sensation to the nape of her neck, like fizzy water poured beneath skin.

Her hands unclasp her bra behind her back, the same motion she does every night, now infused with a sense of humiliation. She wiggles out of her panties.

She thinks of the fantasy, watches it come apart in front of her. His actual cock. Actual scent. The fantasy reshapes around him. She wants the man, the cock, the murmur of his voice, praising her.

He drops the overalls, steps out of them. His cock in boxer briefs. His hand guides her by the shoulder, she sinks on the couch, sitting.

His fingers slip into her mouth and her tongue glides beneath them, tasting the tips of his fingers. The welcome. She would let him do anything to her.

When he slides his cock into her mouth, she finally hears a sound out of him. A grunt, short and deep. She tastes the salt of him. The velvet of the skin, the thick curve of him in her. If she moans she doesn't care anymore, not when she gets to this state. He groans, fucks her mouth, his hand gripped on her ponytail. Her lips slide over him and she relents control to his hands and nothing has ever felt better.

He fucks her mouth so well her pussy pulses with the promise of it. She wants it. She doesn't think she has ever wanted anything this much.

A wisp of hair escapes her ponytail, and he pushes it behind her ear. The gentleness of the gesture shocks her. He shouldn't be gentle with her. That isn't the fantasy, she wants to give and be taken and used.

But what was meant to keep her safe did not. Maybe what should end up killing her will keep her safer.

Maybe she's fucking nuts and just loves cock like the good little slut she is, she thinks. She moans around the length, so eager and hungry that he pulls out, gasping, breathless.

"Anywhere I want it," he says, eyes dark with need, "anyway I want it?"

"Yes," she says and he sinks to his knees, hands under her ass, pulling her to the edge of the sofa. She feels him enter, thick and hot and so good. She too late thinks, condom, fuck, pill prescription expired, period app not updated in months, too tired to keep track.

A good girl, a stupid slut.

But he feels so heavy and good inside of her and he thrusts deep, so deep, and the force reverberates at her opening. She wraps around him, hands on his shoulders, ankles locked together. Mouth next to his ear.

To the billionaire in her fantasy she might tell to fuck her harder, harder, so hard, she needs it, she wants his cock in her so bad.

To the painter she doesn't have to say it, so she just moans and twists and keens. He moves, lifts her up and pins her against the sofa, her body curled into him, his movements faster. She remembers it isn't her pleasure he is meant to chase but God she feels close.

He fucks her harder than she has been fucked in years, harder than she has dared to even dream. Her thighs hurt and her hands hold onto him. His body is relentless against her, he doesn't stop, he takes, and she is so close.

He groans into her ear, the sound fractured. He remains inside her but his movement stills, hands slide over her thighs.

"Unwrap your legs, sweetheart, I happen to know I don't shoot blanks," he rasps against her throat. At least one of them can pretend to be a responsible adult by the end of the day. She does as she is told.

She always hated her ex coming in random places like they were in a porno, but this she loves. Her hand wraps around his cock and his fingers work over hers, stroking quicker and quicker. She watches his dazed look until he reaches the end with a heaved sigh, a tightening of his face, his come landing in three spurts, hot accomplishment on her tits.

She is smiling but still missing her reward. Two words.

Just two.

"I shouldn't let you win. Lie back," he tells her. He wipes her clean with her own dress, sullied, ruined, just like her.

She never fantasized about this part when his mouth lowers on her vulva. Most guys talk a big game but aren't good at it. They like the idea of it more than the messy reality.

Her hands sink into his short hair, finding it soft to touch and his lips suck her clit between them, and her hips roll. More, more, is what she wants to say, but what leaves her lips is just this:

"Fuck."

If he smiles, she doesn't feel it, and his fingers enter her, open her up more. They curl inside and she cries out, her fingers tightening around his hair.

She can't help it. The words spill out.

"Please, oh God-- please, I'm so close--"

"Go ahead," he says, with gracious permission.

His tongue flicks, the hand presses against her opening, the pressure so fucking good. The waves find her and she slides, her back arches, she might fall on the floor if his hands didn't hold her steady, his arms around her.

She has never heard a scream echo in the house, too big and empty, too sad, her prison until this very moment.

She has died. He has killed her.

"Looks like you won," he says, still holding her, and she has to coax it out of him.

"Was I a good girl?"

"You are such a good girl," he tells her, and captures her mouth in a kiss, slow and lazy, like a Sunday morning. She doesn't want the world to move, for him to move.

Afterwards, she pulls on a robe and he walks into her kitchen, back in his work clothes. He invades her space again, a habit by now. Her salad has sat on the table, abandoned. He forks a mouthful and eats it.

"This is actually tasty," he says, sounding surprised.

Fear should set in any moment, she thinks. A man has arrived here and now he won't leave.

"Do you take requests?" He points at the salad with the fork. "How's your lasagna?"

She snorts in disbelief. "I make a mean lasagna."

"See you tomorrow then," he says, voice dipped in promise. "For lasagna."

"I won't break if you fuck me harder," she says lightly, a stupid challenge.