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Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
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By Huck Pilgrim
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Advice From Miss Millicent
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What are Friends For
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What Would Aristippus Think

By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

A Small Favor

by Huck Pilgrim


EROTIC FICTIONDon Manley pulls his car over where she wants to get out and leaves the motor running, the wipers beating the windshield. She is cute, young. Thin blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, a worn jean jacket. Thirty days sober. He can’t remember her name.

He smiles at her, waits for her to slip out.

She reaches for the door handle, then stops. “Do you want to come up?” she says.

Her face is turned from him, looking into the street.

He’s surprised, speechless. His wife knows when the meeting ends but is usually asleep by the time he gets home. He reminds himself that he’s been sober for as long as this young lady has been alive.

“Sure,” he says. “You got coffee?”

Looking him in the eye, she grins. Her smile lights up her face. “Tea,” she says.

He feels his cock swell, his breath quicken. She is one attractive girl. A small upturned nose, clear blue eyes. High cheekbones dusted with faint acne scars. 

She’s never been in Carnal before this month.

Don parks the car and they run to her door. She has a room over Leo’s Bar and Grill, near the main entrance to the mill. Don stands in the rain as she fumbles in her purse, and then with the lock. He keeps lookout for familiar cars, but the street remains mercifully empty. By the time they’re inside, Don is soaked.

It’s dark.

She grabs for his hand and leads him down a corridor, up some stairs. He can hear the sound of a television, a baby crying. Someone is having a conversation in Spanish in another room. She pulls him through a door. Another dark room.

“Hold on,” she says.

She lets go his hand, but he can sense her body is still close by. A cord pulls, the room lights. She opens her arms, as if to present the room. A narrow mattress on the floor, clothes stacked in piles. A tall mirror leaning against the wall.

“Tea?” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Don smiles.

She goes to the sink and runs water. Don crosses the room, peeks through the blinds that hang in the window. He hears the chime of buttons on a microwave. Watches a long flatbed semi navigate a turn through the intersection, inching its way into the mill.

She pulls off her jacket then sits on the mattress, patting the area next to her.

“Sit,” she says.

Taking off his jacket, Don sits.

He feels awkward. Wonders if he should leave.

She busies herself, tugging off her boots.

“Stay . . .” she says, as if she can read his mind.

She leans over him, reaching for something on the other side of the bed. Her warm body presses against his chest. She smells like lavender and cigarette smoke.

“I'm sorry,” she sighs. “Excuse me.”

He places his hand on her hip and she twists her body and then his hand ends up on her bottom. She laughs and looks back over her shoulder. She was reaching for a towel, which she now has in her hands. Slipping off the mattress, she kneels in front of him. Mops her face and chest with the towel, tilting her head down, a waterfall of blonde hair.

“I should go,” Don says.

“Don’t leave,” she whispers.

The microwave makes a loud noise but she ignores it. Raking her fingertips over the wet denim on his thigh, she looks like she is going to speak, but her voice catches.

She bites her lip.

They are going to do this little dance of theirs. He is sure of it now.

She is lonely, he is weak.

Don leans forward. Their dry lips meet.

It's brief, perfunctory kissing, all lips and closed eyes, the kind of kissing reserved for johns.

He tilts her chin up.

“Can you—” he pauses, not sure how to present it. “Do me a favor,” he finally asks.

His cock strains against his wet pants.

She grins. Nods her head, silently acquiescing.

Don runs his hands between her legs, along the insides of her thighs. Such a tight, athletic body. His hand roams over her hips and tummy. Damp cotton, wet denim.

She closes her eyes. Mewls softly. He watches her face, looks at her scars. So young.

Her breathing is getting rhythmic, deeper.

Don stands. Opens his pants, unzips his fly, and fishes out his cock.

She rises on her knees, looks up at him.

She’s just a baby, really, but then she takes him in both her hands, and her warm mouth is on him, and around him, and making those sloppy, wet sounds.

She uses her fists and tongue.

Her teeth.

Don positions himself so that he can watch her in the mirror. Raising his shirt, he watches his slick cock disappear in her mouth. He puts his hand on her head, takes his dick in his fist. Pumping into her mouth, he can feel his nuts contract.

She pushes back suddenly, his cock spilling from her mouth.

Wiping her chin and mouth with the back of her hand, she says, “Please don't come in my mouth.” Her lips are puffy, her voice thick with sex. Don is mildly surprised. There is a beat of quiet where he doesn't say anything.

Please,” she repeats.

He suddenly realizes he doesn't care if she takes him back in her mouth or not. Ninety percent of what he needed, he got from her when she said “Please” in that husky voice.

“No, no,” he finally mumbles, finding his voice.

She nods. Pauses.

“I won't,” he says. He means it.

She lowers her head and goes back to work.

Don feels her wet fist slide and pump. He watches her in the mirror, her face hidden by her long golden hair. He enjoys seeing her head softly bob. Likes the idea of taking her without removing her clothes or even learning her name. He watches a little longer and then decides that he is going to finish in her mouth.

Don understands that by filling her mouth with his semen he is disrespecting her. He doesn't mean to treat her so poorly, but he can't help himself. He feels his cock thicken, rise.

He takes her head in both his hands.

Perhaps at the very end she will realize. Try to resist. Press her palms against his thighs, or arch her neck and shoulders. But he has the superior position. At some point she will have to surrender, accept what he has to offer. As the cum jets into her mouth, he will groan. Hold her head tightly. Whisper that he’s sorry.


She stops again.

“Okay,” she says, wiping her mouth with her free hand.

He lets go her head, but she does not look up.

“You can come in my mouth.” She is speaking into his cock as if it were a microphone, her hand slowly stroking him.

“Okay?” Don asks.

He is genuinely surprised.

Looking up, she says: “You're just going to anyhow.”

Don snorts.

He can see a fine bead of sweat on her brow.

She looks in his face.

He grins, but she doesn’t smile.

She returns him to her mouth. He can feel the blood pumping in his ears. No one says anything for a few minutes.

“Wait,” he says. He sounds exasperated.

He takes her head in his hands again. Strokes her thin hair, then holds her head still. Pulling his hips back, his wet cock falls from her mouth.

Wait—” he repeats.

She gives him such a look. The scars glow pink on both her cheeks.

“These are wet,” he says, holding the waistband of his jeans. “Let me get these off.”

She looks at him doubtfully. Goes to her haunches.

She looks like she might cry.

He sits on her mattress.

Removes his boots. His jeans.

He strips down to his boxers and then takes a thin cotton spread from the mattress. He drapes the spread over his shoulders. She watches him like a cat, from the middle of the room. He fixes the tea she has prepared for them.

He pulls the cord on the light.

The room goes dark.

The mugs of tea warm his hands. He scoots to a sit against the far wall. Setting the drinks on the floor, he opens the blind.

“Come,” he says. “Let’s watch the rain fall.”

She sits for a bit without moving. He watches the wet night in silence.

Sips his drink.

She crawls toward him.

Raising his arm, he invites her under the blanket.

She slips off her wet pants. Scoots her pantied-hip next to him. Her cool skin melts against his chest. She shivers. Holds her mug to her lips.

“What’s your name?” he asks.


He cuts his eyes at her. “Really?” he asks.

The sound of air brakes from the intersection below. The hum of a diesel engine.

“Lisa,” she whispers.

He smiles. “What do you want me to call you?”

He can feel her warm thigh against his own.

“Lisa,” she says.

He tells Lisa how attractive he finds her. He tells her how he has failed his wife. He tells her about growing up in Carnal.

She sips her tea and listens.

When they finish their drinks, the sun is lighting a purple sky.

She removes her shirt. Her bra. She takes him back into her mouth. They make love on the thin mattress. When it is finished, she calls out his name, claws at his back. He holds her hip as he fills her womb with his juice.

“Lisa,” he whispers. “Lisa.”

© 2013 Huck Pilgrim. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Huck Pilgrim is the pseudonym of a minor author, who craves readers, and doesn't mind working hard on his books. He is a father and a husband, enjoys his family, writing, and watching movies. Self publishing erotic e-books is his latest foolish pursuit. Find out more about Huck Pilgrim on the Pilgrim Press blog:


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