Double Double — Madeline Elayne

Anyone who’s lived in a small town in the Maritimes will tell you that in order to get all of the most recent dirt on the local residents, you need look no further than the nearest Tim Horton’s. Since Eric had lived in most of them, he knew the score. Today’s topic of discussion—and the reason that he was here—was Melissa Thornton.

He was careful to prop a free trader rag in front of him while he nursed his double-double and honey cruller, hoping that to anyone casually looking his way, he appeared to be minding his own business. instead of actively eavesdropping on any bit of gossip the locals were willing to provide on the woman. While they proposed the scenarios, his imagination was free to fill in the much-wanted details.

“All’s I’m saying is that there’s a reason she never comes to the church breakfasts and bake sales. She’s too busy getting sugar from her flavour of the week!”

Forced chuckles recognized the weak pun.

“You guys remember last March, when she was having her living room redone? The painter’s van parked right there at the bottom of her driveway—didn’t even try to hide that he was there three days, and never went home at night. I think the reason she gets all her work brought in from the city is that she hires them from an escort service!”

“Do escorts do housework? I think I want one, too!”

Eric thought of naked, paint covered bodies rolling around together on the tarp-covered floor of Melissa’s living room and the chatter around him faded to unintelligible noise.

She wriggled free and danced backwards, laughing, out of his reach. Somewhere along the way she’d stepped in a puddle of paint because she left blue tip-toe footprints where she’d stepped on the white tarp. When she got to the 8-foot ladder against the stair, she leaned back against it and crooked a beckoning finger at him. He stood, and looked her over, while she propped herself up on the first rung of the ladder, and rested her hands on the rungs above her head from behind, as if she were bound there.

The creamy peach of her skin looked even paler against the dark steel of the ladder, and somehow the splatters of sky blue across her belly and tiny, perfect breasts made her look even more naked, almost vulnerable. He couldn’t have resisted her even if he wanted to try. He pressed his body up against hers, and they locked in a slow, deep kiss that seemed to last for hours. This close, the smell of fresh acrylic gave way to the sweet lavender of her body wash.

His fingers reached for her smoothly shaven sex, and her moan was swallowed by his kiss; she bucked her hips in anticipation. He started to slide his fingers along the length of her slick cunt lips with a practised rhythm, when his thumb found the button of her clit, she started to quiver. He leaned back to watch her face—flush with pleasure—and he slid first one, then a second finger into her cunt, the first knuckle of his thumb applying more insistent pressure on her clit.

Melissa gasped.

“Tell…me what they’re saying…about me, please,” she begged, breathless.

He did. He whispered and growled the newest rumours that he’d heard in her ear while he fucked her more and more insistently. The more perverse, the better. Each story brought her closer to the edge and when she finally came against his hand it was with a glorious intensity.

Nothing got her more excited than hearing what the local townspeople thought of her incessant improprieties. He hoped they’d never find out that the reclusive terminal bachelorette was merely entertaining her fiancé in a long string of new guises. Visiting wouldn’t be as much fun if it started being socially acceptable.

“I heard, that time two guys came to fix up her porch, she did em both. At the same time!”

Eric chuckled, and tucked that gem away for later tonight. He slung the guitar case over his shoulder and ducked into the bathroom to make sure the long black wig was on straight, then headed back to the core group of locals, and asked if he could hitch a ride with any of them to Melissa’s house. He smiled when a slew of stunned faces stammered apologetically in the negative, and walked out the door, imagining what new stories would start once he was out of earshot.

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Madeline Elayne is a bisexual polyamorous leather switch, but if that’s too much of a mouthful, she also happily answers to the much shorter but equally accurate “slut.” She’s new to the erotica game, but already pretty addicted to this smut-writing business, and chances are that right this minute her imagination is coming up with even more porn-filled goodness. She does her best to keep people up to date on the progress of her various forays into smuttiness on her little bloggy corner of the interwebs at http://madelineelayne.blogspot.com.