Danielle D [short story]

No need to say goodbye...

photo by Lou Muenz

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He arrived in the city with an STD.

A week before was the last time he fucked Danielle. Hot, compact Danielle. She had an incredible ass. She also had offspring, not that he ever met the kid. But she didn’t waste that ass. Nearly every time they fucked, she wanted him to fuck her in the ass. So he did. Gladly. Besides, who was he to say No—resistance is futile, they like to say. He was just a vessel. Maybe it seemed that she was the one trying to fill herself, but afterwards, he felt decanted. No cork, except for the desired nose. She had an incredible ass. This much was irrefutable.

She called him over just days before he split. He was still hungover from the night before, but Danielle’s ass beckoned, offstage, like a hand outstretched from behind a curtain. It wasn’t sentiment, more like a handful of lust tossed into the air. He peeled himself out of bed, groaning like a foghorn into the night, offstage but not out of earshot. He thought, for arguments’ sake—Could I ignore this signal? He was in a positing mood, he supposed. But he couldn’t even follow through with the hypothetical before he was reaching for his jacket and threading his limbs through the holes. Thinking could wait—he had a Danielle to fuck.

It was a twelve minute drive to her place. It was only the second time he had been there. They usually stumbled up the stairs into his apartment, drunk as hell with nothing on their minds except for blotting out any remaining thoughts, the pesky ones that lingered. Ohhh-blivion, here we come.

She was watching TV. They weren’t going to be falling down drunk this time. He could still feel the last vestiges of the gram he had inhaled the night before, and the whiskey was still working its way through his bloodstream like a slowed down shark. The thing about this scenario was that there was no need for pretense, for theatre, for anything besides a How do you and a take off your pants. She was in some kind of sweats-like sheathing. He felt a twinge of disappointment that there would be no unbuttoning or de-zippering.

She was watching a movie. He saw a beautiful woman, the lens catching her just so, a shimmering halo surrounding her body. She was smiling. A romantic comedy? Jason Statham emerged from the shadows and punched someone in the throat. Guess not.

Danielle looked at him, a mix of tiredness and curiosity playing across her face. She didn’t know he was leaving. No one did.

“I know, right? I don’t know why, but Jason Statham comforts me. If I see his face when I’m skimming the channels, I just stop. He always looks like he’s trying to solve a math problem, but he’s not sure if he trusts the numbers.”

“I get it. I don’t either. The concept isn’t sound. Fuck the numbers.”

“I’d punch a number in the face if I could.”

“Damn,” he said, plopping down on the couch next to her. “You’re one cold-ass bitch. Number-hater. You’re a goddamn number-hater. I think it’s hot.”

“Pffff,” she exhaled, hardly convinced.

Danielle stretched out on the couch, placing her bare feet on his crotch. She wiggled them, trying to get warm. The friction roused his cock. She made a sound in her throat and squeezed her toes around the outline of his dick.

“What did you do last night?”

He was holding down a stool at a bar, draining a bottle of Jameson and making regular trips to the one bathroom that locked.

“Not much, just chilled.”

“I don’t know if I believe you. You didn’t go out, try to fuck every girl in this stupid town?”

She swiveled her head around and tried to give him a penetrating look. He deflected it and decided not to tell her about the older chick who sucked his dick in her car parked behind the bar. They were sitting in the front seat, taking hits off a bowl. When he said, “I know you want to suck my cock,” her eyes lit up and she went for his zipper. After swallowing his cum, she smiled and said, “You’re a bastard for saying that.” Maybe, he thought.

Danielle shifted her feet some more and his cock got harder. The commercials were over and Statham was taking on a half dozen henchmen in a feat of choreographed brutality, the working man’s ballet.

“Get ‘em, Stath,” he said.

“I call him Jay-jay, when he comes over for the night.”

“C’mon, don’t make me jealous. I’ve already beat up several guys today.”

“Mhmmm,” she hummed, as the toes from both feet started working in concert to jerk him off. He shifted in his seat, to get a better angle.

The woman was back on the screen. She had skin like burnt sienna and curly hair that framed her face, cheekbones jutting forth.

“Got her number?” he said.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be inviting you over. Some things are best experienced one on one.”

Danielle turned over, her ass rising in his field of vision, a wonder of the natural world. Her feet had stopped jerking him off, their job was done. His dick was hard and straining against his jeans, starting to cause some pain. The anticipation had gone from reasonable to rabid and he could feel the powder and the alcohol surging back through his system, as if they had never left. The hibernation of cocaine, he thought as his fingers wrapped around the elastic waist of Danielle’s pants and gently pulled. She let out a sound that combined a sigh and a groan and his dick practically burst through the zipper. He pulled her pants down to her ankles, slid them off and tossed them aside. She bucked back, thrusting her ass in the air. He grabbed a pillow and slid it under her stomach. His other hand clawed at his jeans and he managed to unhook his belt. As he decoupled the top button, Danielle moaned, “I want to suck your diiiiiick” right as his cock burst into the crisp air of the apartment. A trickle of cum glistened at the tip, kissing the chilly atmosphere like a shy lover.

“Too late for that,” he said, his voice mottled by lust and stale cigarette smoke.

He untied his boots and kicked them off, one ending up sideways on top of the coffee table. He got into position behind Danielle and his cock found her pussy like they were magnetized. They had fucked enough times in drunken disarray that their bodies folded into each other without much effort. Then they were fucking and it was as good as ever. Every time the soft, dark curve of her ass pressed against his lower belly, his cock throbbed inside of her. As Jason Statham beat the shit out of goons left and right, they got into a rhythm. His spine had taken over, leaving his head free to swing about. Every time he caught a glimpse of Statham’s big, bald, questioning mug, he had to stifle a laugh. Hey, buddy, looks like we’re both doing what we love.

After fucking for awhile, Danielle started signaling. Subtle at first, she would start spreading her cheeks in little bursts, giving him a snapshot of what lay between. He would slow down a bit, going for big thrusts and deep penetration. His dick slid in and out of her pussy, finding little sections where it got extra tight, squeaking and quivering. As he fucked her, Danielle’s body shuddered beneath him. The slower it got, the deeper it went.

Then it was time for him to put his cock in her ass. She got strangely quiet, like she was holding her breath. He made sure his cock was dripping with her pussy juice before he began shimmying it into her. At first, the body resists, naturally. But then, it gives way and opens up and his cock wriggled into her ass like it was discovering a new continent. For a minute, his brain was truly scrambled and he almost gasped “Agartha” before he began moving his hips. The cushion under her stomach was crucial, keeping her body weight against his as he spread out over her small form, his cock connecting them, the motion involuntary, reflexive, primal. Sweat and lust gestured towards the grand finale, the final journey into night, the beckoning netherlands. As the pressure built up in his cock, his eyes looked upon a different reality, strobe-like. He heard a sound from far away, as if he was caught in undertow. He continued to thrust and the cry grew louder, more pained. A wailing.

“Fuck,” Danielle said.

He forced himself to slow down as Danielle’s moaning caught in her throat.

“Fuck,” she said.

He stopped.

“Fuck.”

He pulled out.

She threw the cushion across the room.

“Fuck,” she said as she got up and pushed the door open into an adjoining room.

He pulled on his jeans and his boots and he headed for the door, jacket in hand.

It was cold out.

He never did meet the kid.

He arrived in the city with an STD.

[originally published in Hobart Pulp]