Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

Chapter One

Drew

Me: Dude, I’m coming over tonight whether you like it or not. If you’ve got plans, cancel them.

Grabbing my jacket off the armchair, I grin as I walk out of my apartment and place the key in the lock to latch the deadbolt. It’s been a few weeks since Max has wanted any visitors. Today marks the end of that streak. It’s Friday night, the one night a week we all used to catch up—no matter what—before life got in the way. I’m not taking no for an answer, even if I have to bust the door down to get inside. As the lock clicks into place, the feminine voice of my neighbour fills the empty hallway. This is out of control.

“Drew, I’m so happy I caught you before you left. My dishwasher is broken again,” she says loud enough that any ninety-year-old granny who has her ear to the door, hoping to catch some good gossip to talk about while everyone else is working for a living, can hear.

I let out a slow breath and brace myself for the inevitable before I turn around and see Darla leaning against the doorframe of her apartment, opposite mine. She tosses her long, blonde hair over her shoulder and grins at me as she fingers the plunging neckline of her top, purposefully trying to draw my attention to her generous cleavage. It works. What can I say? I’m a guy with a dick. And there're boobs.

“Yeah?” I ask, knowing where this is headed. The same place it always does. To her bed. Or sometimes her shower. Or the kitchen counter. I glance at my phone, knowing I don’t have time for this now. “I’m kinda in a hurry—”

“It’ll just take a second, I promise,” she pleads, cutting me off. She takes my hand and drags me inside, slamming the door shut with her foot. No sooner than I’m over the threshold, she’s on me. I laugh because, at the very least, she’s determined. You have to admire the fact the woman knows what she wants and goes after it.

“Darla, you’ve gotta be shitting me,” I groan, trying to ease her off me without being rude. The first few times it wasn’t a big deal, but now it’s nearly every day she’s on me like a dog in heat. I grab her wrists and pull her hands away from my chest.

“You know you want it, baby,” she mewls, pushing her breasts higher by crossing her arms underneath them. She frowns at me with a full-on pouty lip, her heavily made-up eyes narrowing at me.

“You wanted your dishwasher fixed, not my dick,” I point out. I move toward the ‘broken’ appliance, and she steps in my way, her eyes pleading.

“Can’t I have them both?” she whines in a voice which almost makes me feel sorry for her. She’s a manipulative one; there’s no denying that.

“Not today, Darla,” I respond and shake my head. I gotta be tough, or I’ll be here all day. I move toward the kitchen and yank open the dishwasher, keen to get out of there as fast as possible.

For the last year or so, since I moved into this building, Darla’s been my only regular fuck. It started simple, and now she’s not taking a hint. It’s not that I don’t find her attractive; I’m just bored with it already. It used to be kind of fun—a little bit of a fantasy come to life. The repairman shows up to a bored, rich ex-trophy wife past her prime who’s wearing nothing but a matching lace bra and panty set and stockings to her mid-thigh. I’d fix whatever was broken and then accept a quick fuck in lieu of payment. It was a win/win for all parties, but recently, she’s hassling me to come over all the fucking time. I almost spend more time fucking her than I do working, and when it gets to that point, it starts to feel like a job.

I wouldn’t put it past Darla to be breaking shit on purpose just to get me over here. Or more recently, telling me something’s broken to get me inside and jumping me as soon as the door’s closed.

“I bet I can get you to change your mind.” Darla wraps her arms around my waist and her hands paw at my belt. She shoves her fingers down my jeans, wrapping them tightly around my cock. I groan and stop thinking with the head on my shoulders, letting the one in my pants take over.

“We’ve only got five minutes,” I say, taking charge. “I have plans with a friend. No time for this.”

I swat her fingers away from my belt and take control. Roughly, I spin around, taking her with me, and bend her slender frame over the dining room table. Without doing much more than dragging down my zipper and slipping on the condom she already has sitting on the table and sliding her panties to the side, I’m ready for duty. I push myself into her body, immediately regretting the lack of foreplay as her barely-wet pussy molds around my dick.

“Hold on,” I say, gripping her hips tightly and preparing for a marathon round of get in, get off, and get out.

Knowing that Welcome to the Jungle by Guns and Roses is only four minutes and thirty-five seconds long, I start humming the tune in my head while I hammer away at Darla. By my calculations, if I finish as the song ends, that leaves me a few seconds to clean up, zip my pants and leave before she starts begging for round two; trust me, she always does.

About halfway through the song, Darla cries out. Her pussy grips me tightly as she screams, her wetness dripping onto my balls. Mentally high-fiving myself, I prepare for the last half of the sexcapade, not holding back a single bit. My hips slam into her arse at a rapid pace. She climaxes again, and this time, it’s enough to pull my own orgasm from the base of my balls.

As the last bit of cum escapes the tip of my dick, I pull out, remove the condom and deposit it into the kitchen trashcan.

“All right, see ya later, Darla,” I call and head toward the door.

“You’re real

ly not going to stay?”

“Nope. Told ya already. Plans with a friend.”

“You really are an arsehole, Drew,” she retorts, her hand perched firmly on her hip. “What about my dishwasher?”

I shrug and turn my head long enough to flash her a grin.

“Next time, call a repairman.”

Out in the hallway, my phone buzzes. I dig it out of my jeans pocket and see it’s Max.