Little
Surprises
by
Mick Mykola Dementiuk
from chapbook Selected Tales 2006
He
knew Billy wasn't at home --he had seen him and his dad go off to a
baseball game, Billy in a Mets cap, his dad wearing a Yankees one--
and though he lingered on the stoop of their building for almost half
an hour, hoping Billy's mom came down to get the mail, or go
shopping, or just come down the stairs so he could look up her skirt
then follow her along the street and stare at her ass, her legs, her
high-heeled shoes, but she never did. Until he got the brilliant idea
to go up and ask if Billy could come out for awhile.
That
was pretty smart, he thought. Maybe she'd open the door in bra
and panties, garters and nylons. Maybe she'd be sweated and sticky
and hot, asking him to come in and fuck her...
Adults
did that all the time, he thought, fuck each other. And
Billy was always getting into fist fights trying to defend his
mother's honor when he overheard what the guys had boasted what
they'd do with his mom's tits and ass.
-If
I had a mother like that I'd be a mother-fucker! some guy would
boast as Billy would come charging in.
But
none of their moms looked like Billy's mom, like a hardon inducing
slut. He had even seen his own dad grab his crotch at the sight of
Billy's mom's swaying body and gasp Jesus fucking Christ! as
she wiggled past on the street.
And
that night he even heard his dad fuck his mom as he lay in bed,
listening to his mom protesting she was off the Pill. He masturbated
in room and kept thinking of Billy's mom and wondered if his dad was
thinking of fucking her too.
But
ever since he had learned how to masturbate he had imagined Billy's
mom. And unfortunately, it was Billy who had explained how to do it.
Billy confessed he was masturbating to images of the budding girls of
their eight grade class in their blue and white Catholic jumpers.
Little school-girl breasts like sudden surprises just beginning to
bud on their chest. Each month a little bigger, a little rounder, and
he only envisioned Billy's mom and her already full-blossomed bosom
ready to choke and smother his mouth, face, body and throbbing dick.
He
squeezed his hard crotch, entered the building and started up the
stairs. And each landing locked doorway was like a crazed
competition with another doorway of blaring TV's and radios, tenants
arguing, children bawling, dogs barking, cats yowling, and each floor
seemed to have at least one sax or guitar player and each of them
seemed as conflicted with their instruments as their neighbors seemed
with each other.
Nothing
wrong with my instrument, he smirked, slowly going upstairs. She
could beat my dick any old time!
He
stopped at Billy's door on the last flight of the building, and
listened: silence...
Shouldn't
she be moaning and groaning from finger-fucking herself? Wouldn't a
woman who looked like that be in constant heat?
He
again squeezed his crotch? Then let go.
Better
not come in your pants, not with Billy's sex-crazed mom spreading her
legs and squeezing her tits on the other side of the door. Better
save it for the cocksucker down her throat!
He
touched the doorknob. It was hard and cold, black dented but it felt
like a soft tit. Like Billy's mom's sweet tit. He squeezed and shut
his eyes, imaging her tits as she her wrapped her nyloned legs around
him.
My
little man, she'd coo. My great big little man! Oh, fuck me,
fuck me, fuck me!
He
jumped away from the door. Was that a grunt he heard? A yelp? A
groan? Was she fucking someone else? Were all the other guys from
school already in there? Taking turns?
He
knocked. But it was a soft knock, a hesitant knock, probably a knock
unheard, drowned out by the shouting below, the music, the barking,
the meowing, the fear in his chest, his throat, his dick. He knocked
again, and someone did groan...
Was
she pulling a dildo out of her cunt to answer the door? He knocked
harder, faster. A lock clicked open. He wanted to run. But he knew he
was tall enough to step right onto her tits. Another lock clicked. He
was afraid. But he knew if she slightly squatted he could fuck her
standing up, before Billy got home. He wanted to run and cry. The
door clicked open.
He
blinked, disbelieving. For a moment he thought he was at wrong
apartment door. But no, it was Billy's mom, Billy's real mom, the
big-titted, sex-starved, lust-crazed mom who needed a licking, a
sucking, a fucking!
And
she was a mess. She gaped at him through mascara smeared eyes, one
eye blackened by a punch, a three-fingered claw-like scratch running
down one cheek. Her usual puffed-up hair was lank and mussed, her
makeup pasty and flaked, her drooping smacking red tinted lips
smudged and faded. She weaved in the doorway, clutching the jamb with
one hand, the other balancing herself on the open door.
-Wha...?
she grunted, trying to focus on him, but her eyes seemed glazed as if
not there.
He
frowned. She wore a dirty torn t-shirt, ripped about her bruised
choke-marked neck, and she was obviously braless, her normally high,
tight, round bulbous breasts were drooped and flattened inside the
t-shirt, only the twin brown arcs of her nippled aureoles stood out
in the dirty shirt.
He
stepped back. She wore Billy's frayed lint-ball fuzzed football
sweats, the faded and peeled white school insignia still evident on
the right thigh, and she was barefooted, her usual polished pink toes
obscenely insulted by the black dirt between them.
He
crinkled his nose. She smelled of whiskey, of cigarettes, of sweat,
of old perfume and hair spray, of urine, shit and vomit, of unwashed
women stuff. Behind her the apartment was a shambles.
-Wha...?
she grunted again, weaving before him.
He
took another step backwards, his arm out for the stairway railing.
-I
was just looking for Billy, he quietly said.
From
the end of the hall a door opened and a fat man peered out. Billy's
mom and the fat man looked at each other. Billy's mom licked her
lower lip, her top teeth yellow and filmy.
The
fat man smiled at her, and stepped back into his apartment, leaving
his front door ajar.
Billy's
mom winced, her face a confusing mass of rejection, pain and
hangover.
-He...he's...not
here, she stuttered, looking away from the fat man's door,
blinking, and once more trying to focus on him. He's not here, she
sadly repeated, then instantly brightened as the fat man reappeared
and whistled from his open door. He held out a half-filled pint
bottle of liquor, a pack of cigarettes, winking at Billy's mom.
-Come
and get it, he leered at her.
Billy's
mom instantly propelled herself towards the fat man, one arm extended
to the corridor wall for support.
-He
beat me again, Billy's mom pouted at the fat man, and tried to
grab the liquor bottle.
The
fat man swung the bottle out of reach and held it over his head.
-How
long will your husband be gone? he asked.
Billy's
mom mumbled something and the fat man smirked and lowered the bottle,
pulling her into his apartment.
-Close
her door, kid! the fat man yelled at him, and shut his own door
behind them.
He
hesitated, looking after them, then moved from the stairs to Billy's
open door. The apartment was even worse than he had glimpsed minutes
ago. A table was turned over on its side, dishes and cups shattered,
food rotting where it had been flung. A lamp lay broken at the other
end of the room, and a large round area rug was pulled from under a
crashed coffee table (one end of the table standing only on two legs)
and was rumpled over the couch as if it had been used for a blanket.
He
sighed, and wondered what Billy's room looked like. Hell, he could
swipe those girlie magazines Billy claimed he had...but he turned,
checking the locks instead. They were spring locks and he clicked
them to stay open, it's doubtful Billy's mom had her keys with her.
He let the door quietly shut.
On
the crowded street he stopped before an appliance store and stared at
a soundless TV in the store window. As usual, the Mets were losing,
it didn't even matter who they were playing.
He
wandered down a few more streets and suddenly recognized the young
girl peering out of a third story window. Sonia from school, who this
year came to class with unexpected nice little surprises on her
chest, round, peaked, high, with probably no need of a bra or support
of any kind. Sonia who last month called him a sissy when he didn't
ask her or any of the other girls for a dance at the yearly teen-hop.
His mind lost in adult dumb drunken things, big things. He blushed...
Then
he smiled right at her. She pretended either not to recognize or see
him, but crossed her arms under the little surprises, shrugged her
shoulders, and bulbed her chest into an even greater, larger, puffier
surprise.
He
collapsed on a stoop across the street from her, his penis
stiffening, his eyes widening.
Sonia
faintly smiled, leaned up from her window, stretched, her arms high
over her head, her ribbed red blouse popping out of her blue jeans
and rising above her belly button.
He
almost fainted. She looked down at him, smoothed and tucked her
blouse back into her jeans, then turned from the window.
He
rocked his legs back and forth, smirked to himself, and as he hoped
she wouldn't, she didn't take long but came out of her building,
snorted at him from across the street, then turned left and walked up
the block.
He
leaped up, and even with his erection he was able to dart across the
traffic and quickly catch up to her cute curved blue-jeaned ass.
They
rounded the corner together, laughing, his eyes amazed at how
beautiful and perfect and suddenly attainable her bubbly breasts
miraculously and actually were.
