Little Surprises

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.

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