The Bridge

The Bridge
by David Cain

I had spent the evening with Jake at a bar. When we left, he said, “I need to go over there,” he motioned to a small park beyond the last restaurant. “It will only take a few minutes.”

I looked the other way, toward my car but I couldn’t quite bring myself to refuse him. He’d been going through some rough times and down inside, I knew I could turn around and leave him if he was being unreasonable. There was a good chance he was on a stupid path to trouble, so I was always considering turning around.

We approached a small foot bridge between a mass of trees. As we reached the trees, he told me to wait there, that he’d be right back, keep a look out.

“What am I looking for?” I asked as he ran to the bridge, knowing I’d know when I saw it; a jealous husband or the cops. Lovely.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” said a woman behind me.

“Nonsense. When have I ever let you down?”

“Not you, I’m just … never mind.”

“Happy to see me, then?”

“So happy,” she exclaimed. “I almost couldn’t make it myself.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“He was drunk all night but he only just passed out.”

“Forget about him. I’m here now.”

“Yes, you are.”

After that the smack of lips and the rustle of clothes washed over the soft whispered inaudible words that followed. I didn’t turn around, being a good look out, now aware that I was looking for an angry drunk guy, not really wanting to see my friend get it on with a married woman.

But I couldn’t help but wonder how far they would take it, given the place they had chosen. They could lean against the rail or they could rut on the dirty ground. Fingering and rubbing would be relatively easy. They might figure out some way to get his cock out so she could suck on it. On the bridge, she could lean against the railing and he could slip it in from behind, although that would be pretty impersonal given the situation. She wasn’t a whore trying to get him off. She was a married woman cheating on her husband out of love for him.

A woman loved Jake. I guess anything can happen.

So I was lost in thought, listening to their slobbering and trying to guess what position they had worked themselves into. A dark figure started crossing the field.

“Shit,” I hissed. “Jake! Bogie at twelve o’clock.”

The rustling and whispering grew louder with added sounds of people struggling to stay balanced. The man, for I could by then see it was a man, came closer. The rustling continued as he reached me.

“What’s going on?” an old drunk said. Clearly not their old drunk.

“Just enjoying the night.”

“Can I bum a smoke?” he asked.

“I got nothing.”

“Cool,” he said. “They fucking back there?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“You didn’t look.”

“There are things I don’t want to see.”

“That’s wisdom for you.”

As Jake emerged, still adjusting his shirt, he said, “who was that?”

“The future.”


“Some old drunk.”

“Let’s get out of here?”

“Have a good time?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to stop doing that.”

“As if you could.”




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, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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