Literary Fiction
by Lord Malinov

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “Let’s go smoke some weed.”

“Show me the way.”

We walked three blocks to a twisted two-story apartment village. Following the maze of identical units, we reached a staircase and climbed.

“it’s my brother’s place. He’s paid up until the end of the month but he already moved. I’ve been cleaning it up, so I have a key.” She showed me the key and pushed it into the lock. It turned with a satisfying clunk. |One warning. There is no furniture.”

It was like walking into an apartment being shown to prospective renters, the astringent smell of uncontested clean, the inescapable wear patterns on the unreplaced carpet, the wide open space of a room waiting to be filled. She led me to an ashtray on a low window sill and we sat cross-legged by the open window. She wore shorts and a loose top. I suddenly realized how alone we were and how good she looked.

“I don’t want the place to smell like smoke. He needs his deposit back.”

“Sure. We used to do this all the time in college.”

From the depths of a large purse, she retrieved a big bag of sticky looking buds.

“Does it have a name?” I asked.

“Probably, but I don’t know it. It’s the stash left over from my brother’s going away party. He couldn’t take it with him.”

“Sweet deal. Pipe, papers, bong?”

“I have some papers. Can you roll?”

“I’ve had enough practice.” I began the meticulous task of creating a smooth burning thin paper tube of crushed herb in mid-air. I pinched the ends and it was close enough to burn. She handed me a lighter and I did the honors.

I took a deep drag and started to cough at once, deep, stern, explosive coughs that ruined my intention to coolly exhale out the open window. Still coughing, I handed the joint to her; she began to cough with equal ferocity.

“I ain’t never had no shit like that before,” I quipped. I took the joint from her. “Small hits,” I suggested, taking a dainty inhale and only coughing lightly, once or twice. She laughed and we took turns trying to control our lungs as the psychoactive compounds took some of the rigidity from our minds.

During one of her laughing fits, she leaned over and looking past her loose shirt, found myself staring at her full breasts, her tawny nipples, a moment almost frozen in time until she looked up and followed my stared. She clutched at her shirt and fell over laughing.

“Like my tits?” she said in tears with laughter.

“Sure,” I said.

“Then I’ll take this off,” she said and pulled the shirt over her head. There was no not staring now and she made them bounce, self inspecting each breast as though she’d removed them from a cupboard.

“Wow,” I said, lacking anything meaningful to say but wanting to participate.

“You can touch them if you want.”

I almost responded “sure,” but realized my vocabulary wasn’t showing me off well so I forwent speaking and put my mouth to her quickly hardening nipple while gently pinching the other. I pushed touching to the limit, so eagerly. Finally, I felt a little foolish and quit.

She relit the joint and took another hit, jiggling slightly as she held in the smoke, trembling mightily when the coughs ripped through her. I took a long hit, held it in, exhaled it through the window. I felt stoned and strong. A huge erection strained my pants to near bursting.

“You’ve been around a lot lately.”

“I know. I don’t think it will last but here I am.”

“I keep expecting someone to bust in on us.”

“Empty apartments are weird.”

“Can I take off my shorts?”

“I guess. I’ll take mine off too.”

“Is that weird, wanting to be naked?”

“Stoned in an empty apartment in the middle of the day. Why not?”

“I wish I had my guitar.”

“Yeah, that would be cool.”

“Is there anything to eat?”

“He’s a bachelor, so no.”

“Want to screw?”


“Come here. Put that thing in me.”

Her cunt spread wide and my cock was hard and we slobbered all over each other. I took another hit and coughed.

“Roll another,” she said. “I’ll order a pizza. Let’s hang out to the end.”

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, cannabis, fiction, literature, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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