The Reprised Surprise Ch. 01

After the last of her children left the trailer, he waited in the car for twenty long minutes -- long enough to be sure no one else was visiting, long enough to start questioning the sense of his actions. What if it all went wrong?

He climbed stiffly out of the rental car -- a mid-range BMW straight off the airport rental lot -- and crunched over the yellow winter grass to the steps leading up to her front door. The steps creaked under his 180 pounds, and he frowned, wondering if she had heard him, wondering who she thought might be visiting. The mailman? Her ex?

He ran his fingers through his hair, more from nerves than fashion, then knocked on the screen door.

A handful of heartbeats later, the inner door rattled open and a young woman looked out at him. She had the hurried look of interrupted chores, and the damp circle on the front of her t-shirt hinted that there was a sink full of dishes bubbling somewhere inside.

The low-def pictures she'd sent him exacerbated the shock of seeing her in the flesh. Her mid-morning reality, tired and hesitant in the doorway of her trailer, forced the air from his lungs, left him speechless in those first moments of contact. Her brownish blond hair, gathered up in a barrette, trailed over her forehead and was darkened from sweat. Her lower lip, restrained by a nervous smile, was full and broad, hinted of a nature that enjoyed food, drink, pleasure. But it was the eyes that captured his attention, large and blue and poisoned with suspicion. The photos were pale mimeographs of their reality.

"Yes?" She blinked those eyes at him. It was dark inside her trailer, and the December sunlight shuttered her eyes.

He stood staring at her, waiting, only half-breathing. He tried to smile.

She cocked her head to the side, seemed on the verge of shutting the door, when recognition animated her face -- "Victor!"

The door shook open and he found himself stumbling over her threshold. The thick warm air of the trailer -- the sour tang of cooking oil, the antiseptic tingle of dish soap, the blurred edge of cigarette smoke -- made him feel as though he had plunged full-length onto the cushions of a sagging old couch. Wedged there in unfamiliar space, he smiled like a fool at June, basking in the astonishment of her face.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked as she shut the door behind him, sealing them together.

Her voice was lower than he'd imagined it would be, and hinted that her laughter would be a dark, throaty chuckle, the smokey mirth that bar waitresses trailed over their shoulders. He wanted to hear that chuckle in his ear with an almost painful yearning. This stirring of lust freed his tongue.

"June, you really know how to keep a guy in suspense." It was the first message he had ever sent her, and it was strange, now, hearing himself speak it aloud.

"I just can't believe it's you." June laughed -- a delicious, husky burr -- and nodded out towards the parked rental. "Did you drive all the way here?"

"A loaner from the airport -- I scheduled a lay-over."

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" she was nearly shouting, excitement warring with anger in her voice. Her cheeks blushed red and her arm waggled about in frustrated arcs. "This place is a mess. I'm a mess." She stopped in mid-motion, catching sight of the large water stain darkening her shirt. She looked wide-eyed at Victor. "Uh-un. No fucking way."

"Look, it's a surprise. And you can't announce surprises." He waved his own arm at the room. "I don't care what this place looks like. I didn't come here for the decor." Children's toys were scattered over the carpet -- wrestling action figures, a half-broken plastic sword, Matchbox cars -- the clutter of adolescent boys. Huddled along the far wall, a broken-back couch was mounded over with children's clothes.

He looked up from the casual squalor. "I came here for you."

In 3-dimensions, she was wondrous to him. She'd lost the weight that she'd claimed online -- he'd idly wondered about that; although he enjoyed all proportions of feminine flesh, he'd been curious whether she'd felt the need to lie, such an easy online feat -- and her jeans hung loose about her. Ample still, she carried her surplus of flesh well, generous curves swaddled in over-sized clothes. She'd lamented the reduction of her breasts, unintended martyrs to diet and exercise, but the slightly damp t-shirt that clung to her torso accentuated the uplift and sway of what remained.

When his gaze found her face, June was staring back at him as though he'd just fallen off the moon.

"What, is there something wrong with me?" He suddenly felt like six feet of awkward. He was built heavy, but muscled, retaining the physique that had carried him through a football scholarship 20 years earlier. Had he dressed too old? Too young?

She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. He thought she might be on the verge of tears.

"Did I do something wrong, coming here?" Dire possibilities ran through his mind -- husband, boyfriend, venereal disease.

She shook her head, not speaking, her eyes damp blue.

Then, as the adrenaline of his arrival wore off, he felt the truth of the moment wrap itself around him. He was standing in a stranger's home, surrounded by the brick-aback of a real life in which he was only a phantom. If he'd ever shared in this existence, it had been as pixels on an LCD screen, a wash of blue-white light after her children had been tucked into bed. Their digital intercourse -- chat screens strewn with staccato innuendo, emails threaded with desires and revelations, photos proffering blurred faces and poorly-lit genitalia -- had been obliterated by a patch of frayed carpet and a sink full of dirty pans.

He stood there, listening to her rapid breathing, smelling the meaty scent of her, and his eyes flickered out through the curtained window toward the muted shape of the rental car that waited on the far side of the dead yellow grass.

And in that moment of near panic, he did the only thing he could imagine to do: he opened his arms.

And June fell into them. The sudden touch of her body flickered shocks along the length of him, standing the hair on his arms, banishing the terror of the previous moment. "I can't believe you're here," she murmured, her breath hot against the side of his neck. And somehow, with the reality of her against him, nothing else mattered. He held her softly, his arms sliding naturally around her. He drifted on a wave of atavistic pleasure -- lost in the scent of her in his nostrils, the weight of her in his arms. He felt as though he were drunk or high or cumming.

"I had all these plans for this moment, words to say." His voice was thick in his throat.

June pulled her head back from his shoulder and touched her fingers to his cheek, tilting his face down towards her. A hint of a smile found her lips, curved them into a heavy bow. The nearness of those lips threatened him with vertigo.

"We're strangers," he said. "After all the messages and the chats, we're still nothing but strangers."

"Yes." she said, her smile fading into something between fear and desire. "A man I don't know is in my living room, and he has his hands on me, and there is no one here to stop him from doing what he came here to do."

Her words swallowed him. The earlier promise of vertigo returned, spiraling him downward into her moist, superheated breath, a warm updraft that mingled spearmint mouthwash and filtered cigarettes. He inhaled deeply, toking the breath from her lungs like a drag of sweet marijuana. As his chest swelled with the effort, he felt her breasts slide over his shirt, her erect nipples trailing fire.

"You know what I came here to do," he whispered.

"Yes." She shivered against him, her face tilted upwards like a child. "You came here," her lips brushed over his, "because you need," her tongue tasted the stubble of his chin, "to fuck me."

Her mouth opened and he sealed his lips over it, their tongues twining together. The taste of her hardened him in his jeans. Her tongue was slick and hot and wet with saliva. As it entered his mouth, he closed his lips over it and began to suck, nipping it with his teeth.

June pulled back from him and pressed a hand to his chest, but he held her pinioned in his arms. "You son of a bitch." She twisted her fingers, fastening onto his nipple hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, even through his heavy knit shirt. "Is it rough, then?"

"No limits," Victor whispered, the sharp pain pushing him further into a foggy, white-hot delerium. June murmured, low in her throat, and gave his nipple one last, hard twist.

"We're already past the limit." She pushed her hips forward and ground them against him, tickling his ears with the muted sandpaper rustling of denim on denim. He slid his hands down from her hips and rested them on the thick shelf of her ass. The cluttered room with its threadbare carpet and aluminum walls, too weak for the lust that razored through his veins, split apart, admitted a torrent of unreality, of dream-time, that blurred his vision, saturated his senses. He wondered if he were losing his mind, or, even worse, was trapped in a hyper-realistic dream that would wash him ashore in a tangle of saturated sheets and parched desires, alarm clock blaring.

"Is any of this real?" he asked.

She leaned forward against him -- he watched her hardened nipples strain against the cotton of her shirt -- and rubbed her soft belly against him like a cat against a stranger's leg. She took his hand and placed it over the swell of her breast, squeezed his fingers so that they dug into her flesh.

"Do you feel that? My body under your hands, in your arms." She glared into his face, ran her tongue along the pouty swell of her lower lip. "What are you going to do with it?"

He leaned into her face, lips almost touching hers, and then pushed her backward. June took a step back, half-stumbling over an action figure that was twined in the carpet. As her face clouded with confusion, he slid smoothly to his knees and pressed his face forward against her denim-clad crotch.

She groaned.

Victor reached up and grabbed the thick meat of her ass, the coarse fabric of her jeans scratching under his palms, and crammed his face into her. His open mouth and lips settled over the lower part of her zipper, his tongue whirling along the brass ties. He maddened himself with the thought of the wet heat that waited on the other side of that quarter inch of fabric.

Did she wear panties? His memory of her online confessions failed him, but he felt his cock quiver at the question.

June's fingers were on the back of his head, pushing him tighter. He fumed hot, moist breath against her, staining the front of her jeans a midnight blue. The superheated scent of her filled his mouth, a rich, earthy aroma that poured across his tongue like thick coffee. His jaws closed softly over her denim-ed mound, massaging the flesh beneath, like a dog worrying a bone. The zipper of her jeans scratched a line of fire over his wide-spread lips.

He felt her fingers worm their way between his forehead and her jeans, then heard the metallic ticking of the zipper as it was lowered. As her short, tapered fingers crept past his eyes, he lashed out his tongue and curled it around her index finger, pulling it between his lips. She pushed the finger deeper into his mouth, and he sucked on it as though it were a nipple or clit, his tongue twirling fierce circles around its tip.

"You're filthy," she said, twisting the finger in his mouth, scoring the porous surface of his tongue with her nail.

June took a half-step backward, used her free hand to edge the waistline of her jeans past her hips. In a slow shimmy of soft white flesh, her jeans wrinkled down around her ankles in a whisper of fabric, revealing the coral pink of her panties.

Victor looked up, her moist finger slipping from his mouth, and found her looking down at him, a fall of blond hair cascading about her face. Her mouth was opened slightly, panting, her cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused.

"How filthy can you be?" she whispered, tracing the moist tip of her finger down the swell of his cheek.

Victor turned his head to the side and pressed his lips against the soft flesh of her palm.

"As filthy as you need."

And as her palm quivered against his lips, and as the puckered fabric between her thighs darkened from coral to pink, the door to the trailer began to rattle in its frame.

END OF CH 1