Danny’s Girl

Danny’s Girl
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I lived with Danny for a year. He needed a roommate and I needed a room and I could afford the rent. After about ten months, I took a job on the other side of town, so I left. I could still pack my stuff in the trunk and back seat of my car, so moving wasn’t a big deal. I lived in six places in five years. My roots didn’t go very deep.

Danny was a great roommate. I hardly ever saw him. The place was clean. There was usually food in the kitchen. He had a big-ass television in the living room and another one in his bedroom, which was the one he watched. Some of my roommates have drunk copious quantities of beer, but Danny didn’t. Instead, he dated the way other guys drank. So when he was home, he was in the bedroom. They were pretty women, each one seemingly prettier than the last. None stayed for more than two weeks, the next one arriving a few days before the last one was leaving. Danny’s love life was in complete contrast to my own. I didn’t mind. As I said, I only rarely saw him.

Occasionally, I would hear them, moaning through the walls. It is an odd circumstance, to meet a woman a few minutes after listening to her elongated squealing orgasm. I didn’t have my ear pressed to the door or anything like that. Some of Danny’s ladies were loud. I assumed Danny knew his way around a bedroom. It was a busy place.

I, lacking feminine companions of any kind, was in the midst of a long period of nothing more satisfying than arousing thoughts and self-knowing manipulations. Masturbation is a second-rate ecstasy, but vastly superior to a bad relationship. I wasn’t ready to spend time getting to know anyone and I hadn’t any interest in finding strangers to hook up for a quick genital rub.

The computer in my room, supplied with a serious dose of bandwidth, provided me with all the visual and aural stimulation a perverted imagination like mine need to get past the build up of testosterone that inevitably overpowered my mind. I hardly felt any reason to leave my room. Why dress? Why shower? Being a hermit has never been so easy.

The living room, however, had a large sofa, a recliner, a giant television, a bar and access to the kitchen. I had never even seen Danny go into the living room, so the privacy was almost equal to my room. I couldn’t lock the living room door but no one ever opened it. After six months or so, I grew comfortable with my dominion over the living room. I lounged in the recliner in my boxers, munching and drinking and watching cable porn.

So it was, late one Saturday night. A ten minute squeal-fest erupted from Danny’s room while I was watching a basketball game, followed by the sound of a shower and finally Danny’s signature snore. The man could make some terrible snorting noises when he slept. Fortunately, our place was big enough to keep that sound confined to places close to his room.

The woman, I knew, was pretty. She had been in and out of the place for just over a week, long enough for me to see her but without the chance to make her acquaintance. There was something musical about her orgasmic squeals. It was enough to get my imagination working and I soon switch from the Lakers to some soft core, a gentle parade of big boobs and round asses. I stroked my cock thoughtfully.

She crept in silently. I didn’t hear the click of the bedroom door. I didn’t hear the shuffle of feet along the floor. I didn’t hear her breathing. I didn’t see her slip into the room. All my attention was focused on the images before me, playing imaginary scenes of seduction in my head.

She shifted on the sofa, a gentle rustle of thick springs and cotton. I jumped inside and turned to discover the source of the sound, my eyes wide in panic as I suddenly discerned the shape of another human being nearby, my turgid cock immediately shrouded in the folds of my terry-cloth robe. She smiled meekly.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I just didn’t … ”

“I couldn’t sleep and Danny’s snoring horrible in there.”

“Yeah,” I said. “He does that.”

She sat nestled on the sofa, bundled within an oversized robe, probably Danny’s, damp hair fallen to shroud most of her face.

“What are we watching?” she asked.

“Beats me,” I replied, looking back at the television. “Some tits and ass.”

“Sweet,” she said.

I stared mesmerized by the jiggling colors of the quick edit light source, confused by the scene. Who was this woman? Why was she here, sitting in the dark, watching big young ladies strip off their garments and stretch sensuously? Did she want something? Did she want me?

I turned to look at her, again. She watched the video until she noticed my look and smiled. I smiled back. Then I noticed the robe had parted slightly. I could see the fleshy swell of her breast beneath the soft dark cloth of her robe. I turned my gaze back to the television impulsively, not knowing what else to do.

I knew, at times, the stories were true and this seemed to be following the pattern. But I was man enough of the world to know that a roommate doesn’t fuck his roommate’s woman. Sure, for moral reasons, but so much more for practical reasons. Sex can make people crazy. Never live with crazy.

If she jumped in my chair, I wouldn’t have stopped her. I am practical but I’m not made of stone, either. I simply wouldn’t do anything to advance the situation. That was, I felt, sufficiently respectful. I wouldn’t fuck my roommate’s girl, but of course I would let her fuck me.

All of this, I considered in a visionless abstract. I looked at the naked women on TV but I didn’t see them. I turned slightly to check my near neighbor, who seemed mesmerized by the images on the screen. The robe had parted slightly more, exposing the first arc of the deep ring that formed her bulging breast’s nipple. Her hand rose to cover her exposure, I thought but instead she pinched her rosy tip and widened the breach of dark terry cloth.

I returned my gaze to the television, afraid to be caught staring. As the maidens cavorted in a fountain, I suddenly realized that looking at the framed photograph on the shelf beside the television, I could see my companion reflected. Both breasts were exposed and she tickled them playfully.

My cock had maneuvered out of the robe that had only loosely covered my thickened erection. My hand came close, but every touch seemed electric, like a burning fire of arousal, so excited I had become by this unexpected scene. It throbbed uncontrollably, with every breath, with every erotic thought, which I could not escape. I checked the picture frame. She stared in it, at me. At it. She held her breath and sighed.

“Is there anything harder?” She asked.

I sat stunned as the words poured unbelieved into my consciousness. What?

She laughed. “I mean, is there any harder porn on your cable?”

“Sure,” I replied, reaching for the remote. “Plenty of porn.”

“Good,” she said with a soft moan. “I need some cock. I mean, tits and ass are great, but a girl needs to see some dicks to get off.”

“Works for me,” I said. “I usually don’t watch soft core.”

“Me neither,” she said, barely audibly.

Her feet found the floor and the robe fell to her sides, exposing her naked legs and stomach below her full breasts. Her eyes stared fixated on the sex looming large on the screen. My eyes stared at her, the living naked woman caressing herself a few feet away. My hand found my dick and began a slow serious stroke, drinking the visions of arousal in gulps.

“Wow,” she said, her hand thrust into her cunt. I looked up to find she was staring at me, at mine.

“Wow,” I repeated, unable to speak except in harmony. She began to twist and writhe on the sofa, adding perspective to my view, her gaze transfixed on the thickness rising from my lap.

“Hold on,” she said, jumping up suddenly and dashing back to Danny’s bedroom. I opened my eyes wide and breathed slowly, trying to understand what had happened. Pitter patter click. Click pitter patter. She returned, her robe reclosed and leapt back to the place she had left on the sofa. I sat up and draped my robe back over my erection.

“None of that,” she said. “Please let me see.” Opening her robe, she drew a vibrator from the pocket and initiated a low hum. “Watching isn’t cheating.”

“I’m sure it depends who you ask,” I said, for no reason. My cock stood at attention, independently presenting her with the view that she wanted. As my member throbbed, she groaned and began the stifled serenade of her orgasms. I knew she kept her moans soft so that Danny wouldn’t hear over the steady buzz saw of his snores. We could tell ourselves this was good and hurting no one, but we both knew Danny wouldn’t see it that way.

Her labia glistened wetly. Her muscles spasmed erratically. She stared and smiled wantonly. I stroked my cock and watched her thrust, buzz and crumple. My orgasm sprinkled my chest. She laughed as she fell to the floor.

“Good night,” she said, picking herself up and heading toward the bedroom. The door clicked open and shut and voices rumbled gently as I fell asleep in the chair.

Danny didn’t bring her back again. He found some other woman to bounce with. A few months later, I moved out and across town.

I have a dream that some day I’ll encounter Danny’s girl out and about in the world. We share a knowing look as we pass in the night. And maybe this time, I’ll think to remember to ask Danny’s girl for her name.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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