Coming ine box set, p.2
Coming in Hot: Rescue Me Box Set, page 2
He dropped his wet umbrella in the stand by the door and removed his coat. He hung his slicker on the tree stand and gave it a good shake. Miss Tootie would have gone through him like grass through a goose if she saw him shaking off the rain on her freshly polished marble floor. Oliver smiled at the thought of her being angry at him and shaking a finger in his face. He liked the attention and the brief sojourn into discipline that she fashioned whenever she disapproved of something he neglected, which was often. But, she had been with him all these years, three times a week, cleaning, cooking and tending to his basic needs. Miss Tootie worked for his mother for years before she died so he inherited her with the house, he always said—to no one but himself. She was getting on in years but she could still pin his ears if need be…he smiled at the thought.
After Oliver changed into something warm and dry, he made a fire and ate a light meal Miss Tootie left warmed in the oven and the warm rhythmic crackling of the fire was relaxing. After his meal he sat down at his desk in the library with a cognac. The heat from the fireplace warmed the room rapidly and lifted the musky stale odor of loneliness that hung to greet him each evening. He enjoyed the change, the warmth, and acknowledged that he had a good life—better’n most.
Once again while he sat at his desk, alone in his study, he worked on some one thing or other that was unimportant and did not need to be done at that minute. But he really didn't have much else to do; actually, he didn’t have anything else to do. He watched the rain scatter in all directions, a few people on foot headed quickly home, just as he had, and the sky grew darker. A wayward thought crossed his mind as he peered over the papers through the night-black window. The shiny darkness, almost like a bully itself, brought his reflection into focus, an older likeness of himself with the fire flickering over his shoulders behind him. He felt sad, but compliant.
Not bad looking for someone approaching fifty—fifty! How ever did that happen?
He never saw himself as anything but the nice guy in the office, at the grocery store, in the restaurant who always finished in the middle and let someone else go first. Not the best, and not the worst, just the average guy with nowhere to go and no one to go there with or for. Oh, there were a few times when women had approached him, usually some measure of an accident or in need of something, but he always felt awkward, stumbled on his words and just stepped back to hold the door for them instead. He was always curious by their interest and his awkward surprise was enough to somehow chase them on their way. His few first dates seemed to end early with a raw excuse: a female headache and a handshake, followed by a curt, I’ll call you. It was always the same. Oliver stopped going on first dates after the few ended uncomfortably and abruptly.
The doorbell rang, knocking Oliver out of his self-reflecting trance and as he jumped to his feet, he also took a cautious step back. His eyes darted towards the mantel clock above the fire. It was 10 o’clock.
Who would be calling at this late hour? he thought as he moved away from his desk. Maybe if I’m quiet, whoever it is will just go away.
But to his own surprise, he walked toward the huge oak front door with his hand out, slowly grasping for the knob. When the doorbell rang again he jumped, startled, and stopped in his tracks. He was overcome with fear and he froze. He was thinking of the home invasions that were always in the news, but then he reasoned with himself that a burglar would not ring his doorbell. Would he? His heart was pounding, racing in his chest, despite his efforts to calm himself.
“Who is it?” he called out.
Another surprise stroked his ears when a sweet voice floated back in reply, “It's just me, Victoria Blakely, from next door. I need some help.”
He switched the porch light on and peeked through the peephole. He unlatched the door, still trembling. Taking a deep and determined breath, he squared off and stole some courage.
He opened the door, just a crack, and peered out into the night. As his eyes adjusted, he found himself looking into the most stunning green eyes, framed by raven curls. He was sure he had never seen a more beautiful pair of perfectly matched eyes in all his lonely life. He couldn't stop himself from pulling the door open all the way. Then, as awkwardly as always, he mumbled, “Do I know you?”
“Does that matter? I need some help; I need your help.”
She looked back at his stricken face and quickly, with the confidence only beautiful women possess, brushed past him out of the falling rain and into the entryway.
“I just moved in next door and I came home to find that the electricity has gone out. I don't know who to call and I remembered my agent saying a nice older man lived here. So, can you help me?”
“Well…Victoria, is it? It is after ten and I see your house is dark. It's cold and wet and I’m not sure there is anyone you can call at this hour for help at the power company.”
He stepped back knowing that he was once again showing his complete lack of social skills with the opposite sex. “Forgive me. I'm so sorry. My name is Oliver Brainard, won't you come in and we will see what can be done.”
Victoria walked into the nicely decorated living room where the glow of a warm fire greeted her frustration with open flames and a soft, pleasant crackling. She settled into the warm grasp of her neighbor’s large overstuffed, well-worn leather sofa. She watched him follow into the room, limping slightly. Her eyes closed for a moment.
“Are you limping?” she asked.
“Ah, yes, yes I am. I do.”
“Are you injured or do you have a disability?”
Embarrassed by her brazen inquiry and feeling pressured yet again, even by a woman, Oliver was quiet.
“Well…?”
“Would you like a drink or something, Victoria?” His voice, nervous and shaking, came from nowhere. Oliver, having startled even himself, shifted uneasily in his obvious discomfort with the unexpected company.
“Please.” Then, without hesitation, she added, “white wine if you have it.”
He nodded quietly in acknowledgement, hobbled into the kitchen and returned with a glass of something white.
“Riesling,” he said to this vision of loveliness.
She sat with her eyes closed and head back, resting on the sofa. He stopped mid-stride and simply stared at her profile. He realized he was becoming aroused. This lovely creature who had invaded his loneliness did not move from her position on the couch. Despite his growing bulge, he moved toward her with the glass of wine and when she sat up she was eye-to-cock with the object of her inspiration.
She ran her eyes up his torso slowly as she took the wine and asked simply, “Have you been thinking about something pleasant?”
Turning a deep shade of red, he took a step back, stumbling slightly and covered himself with his hands.
“No, please don't cover your thoughts,” she said softly. “It's only natural to be attracted to a beautiful woman.” She tossed her head with confidence, sending her raven curls swinging.
“But…forgive me. I don’t have many late-night female visitors; I’m so embarrassed!”
“I would hardly call this ‘late night’ and, after all, it is Friday night, when the wicked and the wanton flourish!”
He took a faltering breath. “We should see to your situation at hand, and find an emergency number for the electric company.”
“Interesting you should use that term ‘at hand’.” Her eyes fell to his crotch.
“Pardon me…?”
Then, with one deliberate and commanding motion, she placed the glass on the end table, reached out boldly, and gently grabbed a handful of his pants and him. She pulled him toward her and slowly squeezed so he could not step back.
Oliver was frozen in his tracks. What he lacked in the power over his immediate situation, he gained in response. He was clearly very receptive.
“I think you need something, neighbor,” she whispered, as she opened his belt and slowly lowered his zipper, pulling his pants to the floor. He stood motionless as her hand worked its way back and forth over his hard penis. He was bigger than he ever experienced alone, harder than he could have dreamed possible. She had her right hand buried at the base of his penis, teasing his testicles, working his shaft into an uncontrollable passion-driven reaction. She reached around behind him with her left hand, grabbing the firmly rounded cheeks of his ass pulling him forward, closer to her face.
He stood in paralyzed horror. He was disassociated from his own body and watched as a distant silent witness as his cock quickly sprang from his trousers proudly like a willful puppy eager to please.
She took him all the way into her mouth and worked him back and forth. He felt himself slamming into the back of her throat, over and over again until he thought he could not stand another excruciating second. Her crimson, perfectly shaped mouth was hot and dripping wet. He lost all sense of himself and gave himself over to her completely. He began to sway back and forth rhythmically as his excitement grew.
She pulled back, controlling, commanding, and stalling his rhythm for just a second said, “That's it, neighbor, fuck my pretty mouth, fuck me till you come!”
With that lusty encouragement, Oliver began to move again. He could feel the sensitive tip of his cock in her throat and it felt amazing. He loved this new neighbor. He began to shove, pound, throb, drip, and wildly pulse while buried and grinding deeply in her throat. In a white-hot moment, he grabbed the back of her head, weaving his fingers through her lush, midnight curls, and her mouth was at once filled with his searing juice, which she sucked down eagerly and with what appeared to be a measure of great pleasure.
“Oh, God,” he said, his knees weak and shaking, “I didn't mean to do that!”
“Why not?” she reassured him and ran her tongue over her ruby lips. “You’re delicious.”
She held his shrinking cock in her hand and slipped back onto the couch, pulling him by his penis toward her. Her hiked skirt exposed the silken folds of the soft mound between her thighs.
“Oh, my God, what have I done…? I am so sorry, Victoria.”
“Why? Stop your simpering! It isn’t every day, I shouldn’t think, that a woman comes into your home and gives you a blow job. I should think you’d be groveling at my feet, grateful for the distraction from your pathetic little life!”
“Pardon me?”
“You heard me. It isn’t polite to leave your guest unrequited.”
“What about the power company…”
“Fuck the power company later. Fuck me now.”
“Victoria, I’m afraid I don’t…I can’t…I never…I’ve never been with a woman.”
“Wha…never? Are you gay?”
“Ah, I don’t think so. I mean, no.”
“Say what you mean, man! Spit it out.”
“I have never been with a man or a woman.” Oliver sheepishly cast his eyes to the floor.
“Never?” The look on Victoria’s face struck Oliver like a punch to the gut and he was at once completely ashamed by the confession.
No louder than a mouse, Oliver said, “No, never.”
Agony overwhelmed Oliver as he stood before her in judgment, his cock still in her hand. Would she laugh, further humiliate him and join everyone who had ever mocked his life, his limp, and…now his inexperienced cock? Or would she be kind and compassionate and take pity on this middle-aged man who had never known a kindness that was not professional.
Victoria, seemingly unfettered by the shameless exposure of flesh her hiked skirt had revealed, reached for her glass of wine on the end table with her free hand, looked over the rim of the stemware at Oliver and took a sip, still holding his cock in her left hand. She struck him as pensive, as though choosing her next words carefully.
“Sit down, Oliver, here next to me.”
Oliver obeyed almost mechanically but awkwardly, nonetheless.
“If we are going to be neighbors, and friends—we are going to be friends, aren’t we, Oliver?—we should be open and honest with one another. Now, I believe you must be a kind but shy man who has never had close friendships and doesn’t really know what it all entails. For example, when I asked you about your limp, it would be socially acceptable to answer me honestly and politely even if you are uncomfortable with the question. The same is true when I asked you about never having been with a man or a woman. Just as you were polite and responsive when I asked for white wine, you should be polite and responsive when we discuss anything. Do you understand? Do I make myself clear, Oliver?”
“I’m sorry I was rude, Victoria.”
“No need to apologize, Oliver. You were more inexperienced than rude. So are we going to be good neighbors and special friends?”
“If you still want to be, Victoria. As you noted, I’m not very good at this and don’t have many—any—friends outside of work.”
“Of course, I still want to be, Oliver. We only just met and I would say we are off to a great start, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I would say that, too, Victoria. If you don’t mind.”
“Mind what?”
“Mind still becoming friends.”
“Don’t be silly, Oliver. When I mind something, I will tell you. And you will listen, yes?”
“Certainly, Victoria. I will be glad to lis…I will listen to you.”
“Now, tell me about your limp. Did you hurt yourself in an automobile collision, a skiing accident, falling down the stairs, or perhaps ill-fitting gravity boots?” She chuckled involuntarily at the last comment.
“Gravity boots…Victoria?”
“An ill-timed joke, Oliver.”
“Oh, no, Victoria. I was born with a club foot—a birth defect. I have had eleven surgeries over the early years but there was nothing further that could be done after I was twenty.”
“Ah, that explains your plaintive self-doubt.”
“I suppose.”
“…and your reluctance to be seen naked or without your footwear.”
“Most assuredly, Victoria. It is a deformity. While I have accepted it and have grown accustomed to the ugliness, I shouldn’t expect anyone to be less than shocked.”
“May I have another glass of wine, Oliver? What are you drinking?”
“Forgive me, yes of course. I was having a cognac before you came—arrived.”
Victoria chuckled again at his inadvertent slip.
“I did arrive, Oliver. I have not come yet. But, I will.”
Oliver stood nervously tucking away his cock, securing his pants and belt, then he reached for Victoria’s wine glass and his snifter. He hobbled off to the kitchen saying he would get them both another drink.
Victoria threw her head back and laughed out loud quite irreverently.
Oliver, shaking with nervous anticipation, dropped the glasses on the counter an inch above the surface. He recoiled at what he had done, but images of her head bobbing back and forth sent a bolt of magnetic charge from his heart to his groin. And as though the two were tethered by passion, his cock twitched. He did not know whether to be excited or fearful of the woman in his study. The unfamiliar uncertainty was off-putting to a man generally reliant upon the predictability of life and circumstance.
He shook, rather trembled, as he poured two more drinks—wine for his guest and two full fingers of cognac for himself. He took a deep draw on the amber nectar and awakened as it burned a decent course down his throat—not unlike his semen down Victoria’s throat. He took another swig of courage and refilled his glass a third time for good measure. If he was in for it tonight, whatever it was that this woman wanted, he needed steely nerves and rock resilience.
What a time for his foot to hurt; Oliver involuntarily altered his gait to accommodate for the shooting pain. It exaggerated his limp but gave him a manly swagger that emboldened him, along with the liquid courage from the Courvoisier.
Oliver trembled as he returned to the study with the drinks. He had no idea what she might do next, but whatever it was, he was sure he would both enjoy and fear it.
When he entered his study, this woman who came from in from the night was sitting in calm repose again with her head on the backrest of the leather sofa. She had removed her shoes and stretched her legs out on the broad hand-carved oak coffee table so her feet neared the fireplace where the warmth radiated. It was insane, but a crimson glow reflected off her glistening skin and the firelight danced across her body as though she was recharging when she was really only waiting for his return in the most comfortable position she could muster. Her right arm extended from her elbow straight out from the worn rolled leather armrest. Her crimson-tipped fingers, the same fingers that had just cupped his testicles, were extended with the grace and elegance of a ballerina. Her left hand lay nestled in her lap, demurely. Her profile was Roman, with a slightly hooked but narrow and royal nose. It added to her distinctive beauty and her commanding appearance. Her brow, framed in beauty by her petulant black curls, was slightly furrowed but unblemished with worry and pointed to her temples that reflected her heartbeat in her pulse. She had a small Liz Taylor beauty mark to the right of her lips that Oliver found mesmerizing whenever she spoke.
Oliver stood in the arched doorway staring at this beauty in his study paralyzed, for the first time in his life, by passion.
“Are you gonna stand there all night holding those drinks or are you gonna bring them in here?” The voice coming from this supine creature broke his reverie.
“Coming, Victoria,” and he hobbled to her side as she turned her right hand upwards in the glowing radiance of the room as though to welcome Oliver’s return but it was really only to accept the proffered wine glass.
“Ah, that again. Your limp makes you strangely attractive, you know. I’ve never done a man with a club foot before. Let me see it.”
“Victoria, I couldn’t…please, ask anything but not that.”
“I thought we were going to be friends, Oliver.”
“I want to be, of course, but I don’t know you well enough to show you my foot. My mother hadn’t even seen it since my last surgery when I was twenty. I can’t…”
