The guy was on his back on my kitchen floor, working on my recalcitrant dishwasher, which had stopped working just when every dish in the house was dirty and loaded into it. His name was Pete and he was in a tight blue Dish-o-Matic uniform, his long legs stretched across my kitchen floor. While Pete labored on, I was sitting nearby at my small breakfast table watching him repair, so naturally we started talking. It was just a lot of guy-stuff. Baseball. Basketball. Nascar. We were both big Nascar fans. I told him a story I had heard about Mickey Tokie, the lategreat driver, who, I heard, had had a drunken orgy with six luscious bimbos in a motel room just before that final race when he crashed his speedster into the sidewall, and was incinerated in a spectacular volcano of Nascar flames.
From there the conversation naturally drifted to our other favorite subject, women. Womenwomenwomen. Their legs. Their asses. Their racks. We enthusiastically recalled past pleasures. Tits. Pussies. Blowjobs. Fucks. Assfucks. And on and on and on. It so happens I had some good stuff I could show Pete, so I went into the bedroom and reached into my closet where I kept handy my treasure trove of fuck magazines. They were easily accessible, because I often perused them. I had been jerking off to them fairly frequently since my wife and I had broken up.
I walked into the kitchen with a few of my favorites, and Pete was finishing up, putting the last screws into the back of the dishwasher. He was still lying on the floor.
"Here. Look at this," I said and showed him a picture of this stacked blonde fingering her pussy. He put down his screwdriver and held the magazine up in front of his eyes.
"Wow," he said. "Nice." He turned the page. I knew what was on the next page. The blonde was sucking some lucky guy's long stiff thick cock.
"Wow. Nice." He reiterated. He started turning more pages. I could see his dick lengthening inside his tight blue uniform. Funny. I wasn't even looking at the magazine and I was getting a hard-on too.
"I just love blowjobs," I rhapsodized.
"Yeah. Me too," he answered. "I love the feeling of those nice wet lips wrapped around my dick, as I'm slamming my cock in until she starts to gag and choke." He laughed maniacally.
"Yeah. Me too. I really love blowjobs. I love when they lick your balls. And under your balls. Right around your ass. It kind of tickles. It's so fucking sexy. And then they go back and clamp their mouth over your cock and start suctioning it, all the while their making all these little squealing pleasure noises, like your cock was the best thing they've had in their mouth since their first Christmas candycane.
"Christ. Stop it. You're getting me hot," he said. He reached down and tried to adjust his tight pants around the obviously large constricted flesh contained therein.
"Sorry," I said. I also had to adjust a little, but he didn't see that. He had put down the magazine and was putting the last screw into the back of the dishwasher.
"Damn it. I wish I had someone to give me a nice hot blowjob right now," he said.
And that's when I got this great idea. Mona. My upstairs neighbor. She loved to suck cock. Who should know that better than I?
"I just had this crazy idea," I announced to Pete.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"My neighbor. The girl upstairs. She loves to suck cock. I mean, man, she gives the greatest blowjobs in the world."
"She does?" He sounded interested
"Maybe I could call her and ask her to come down. I think she'd be glad to suck that dick of yours. And she loves cum. She likes you to cum way down her throat so she can swallow it all."
"Oh, my god," said Pete. "You're driving me crazy."
"You want me to call her?" I asked.
"Hell yes," answered Pete enthusiastically. He had rolled the dishwasher back against the wall and was giving it a test cycle. At the same time, almost unconsciously he had started lightly rubbing the fabric of his uniform in the area of the zippered fly.
"You're gonna love Mona," I assured him.
"I know I will," he answered and followed me to the phone, rubbing his crotch all the way into the living room.
I picked up the receiver and dialed Mona's number. I knew it by heart.
Mona and I had met some months ago in the lobby, waiting for the elevator. I had just recently moved into the building after separating from my wife. My wife had kept our old apartment and I had taken this rental. (This rental with a lot of faulty equipment. Like the dishwasher that had just conked out.) It wasn't that Shirley and I were fighting or anything. It's just that we never saw each other. She worked all day. And I worked all night. I was the night manager in a printing plant, and it was a good job. But there was no way I was every going to get transferred to days. So Shirley and I mainly passed each other going in and out of the front door. We had no relationship anymore. We had no sex anymore. That was when I started buying magazines.
We mutually agreed that it would be better for us both if we separated, and tried to find a compatible partner living on the same shift. It had been a very long time since I'd had anything but a hand job. My own hand, that is. I was aching for some action.
One morning not long after I took this apartment, I was just getting home from work, and I was standing in the lobby in front of the elevator door, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. The elevator was on 24-----23----------22-----22------22----was someone holding the door? I was tired and I just wanted to hit the sack. (After first looking at one of the magazines, and getting rid of the heavy load my balls were carrying.) It had been a tough night. We had just completed a six color annual report for a major corporation. It had been a complicated job, but the report looked just great. Full of impressive two-page spread pictures of oil-rigs stretched clear across the Gulf of Mexico.
It was then that I first met Mona. She was dressed to kill, obviously getting home from a late evening. She had on a tight red dress, with a low cut collar and you could see the swell of her ample cleavage. Her lipstick, however, was completely smeared. She was carrying a small plastic bag from the deli, which was sufficiently see-through for me to detect a pint of non-dairy creamer.
"I haven't seen you before," she said. "You new in the building?"
"Yeah. Just a couple of weeks."
"Welcome," she said. "I'm Mona Ashcroft. Apartment 5C."
"Oh. You're right above me," I answered. "I'm in 4C. Jerry Jagger."
"Pleased to meet you," she said. And we shook hands. It was at that point that I started to remember some of the tantalizing noises that were coming from the apartment above me during the daytime while I was trying to get some sleep. I had heard what I thought was moaning. And occasionally I heard some words which I could barely make out, but at one point, I thought some guy was yelling "Suck it, bitch." I got a slight hard-on while I was half sleeping, but then I dozed off again. And, also I had heard the mattress squeaking a lot. This Mona was undoubtedly a very hot chick.
"You're up early," she commented, looking at her watch. It was now about 7:30 a.m.
"I'm up late," I countered. "I'm just getting home from work."
"My God," she said, with a slight pitying tone in her voice. "What do you do?"
"I work in a printing plant. I'm on the night shift."
"Your wife must love that," she commented.
"She didn't. That's why we're separated."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Thanks," I said. "You look like you're just getting home from a big evening."
"No. I was working too," she said.
