RIDE ME UNTIL I’M RUINED (COLLECTION OF EROTIC STORIES)

It was the last weekend before Christmas. Three days. That was it. Three days of jerking off in peace before he had to pack up and drive out to his retired parents’ place and play the only unmarried son out of five for the whole holiday. Edward was already dreading the bachelor’s welcome. Same questions as last year, word for word almost. Got a nice girlfriend, Edward? Getting any action, bro? And his personal favorite: Why don’t you just come stay with us? We’ve got plenty of room. Forget that lousy job. They’ll never pay you enough to get out of that tiny apartment and that dirty little box you call a stove. Still. He liked his place. Yeah, it was small. And yeah, the free nine-foot Christmas tree taking up more than two-thirds of the front room didn’t help. But it was free. The apartment manager’s little yearly goodwill gift. Came with a stand, even. No decorations. Edward had hauled it inside, stood it up in the corner, and told himself he’d decorate it. He’d even bought the stuff. He just hadn’t touched any of it. Couldn’t get into that cheery holiday mood this year. Not even a little. One small bedroom. Single bed. Half-pint chest of drawers. The stove was so tiny he couldn’t even cook a pizza without tipping it at an angle. The apartment guide called the dining area a dining nook. Edward called it the dining nookette. Speaking of nooks — Christ, he wished the apartment had some nookie in it. It had been a long time since he’d even been on a date. Being shy didn’t do him any favors. There was one thing about the place he really liked, though. Sandra. His upstairs neighbor. She’d moved in about three months ago with her boyfriend. Both of them were decent enough. Sandra was always nice. They left for work the same time he did, and after a while they’d gotten to know him. Invited him up a few times. Dinner. A glass or two of wine. Their stove was a lot bigger than his. The boyfriend could turn into a real asshole when he drank too much, which seemed like every time Edward saw him. Lately, though, Edward hadn’t seen him much. I didn’t miss him either. It was Sandra he liked. She had this playful laugh that came easy. Mid-twenties, he figured. Tight little body. Small, perky t**s. Thin waist. Long legs. God, those legs. She was always in short skirts or little dresses that showed them off and made that ass of hers look like something you could put your mouth on and just eat. Open stairs ran up to the upper apartment, cutting diagonally across the front of the building. The top landing sat like a short porch right over Edward’s front door. A couple weeks back, when they delivered the Christmas trees, Edward had been out front picking up the branches that got stripped off, shoving his tree through the doorway. Innocent enough. Sandra was following the delivery guys up the steps. Something delayed them at the door. She just stood there on those open stair slats, not thinking about the short skirt, not knowing Edward had a straight shot looking up at it. He’d been living off that memory ever since. Velvety red panties. That was all it took. He’d been stroking his c**k to that picture every night and every morning, fist working slow then fast, balls tight, imagining his face under those stairs with his tongue right where that thin strip of red disappeared between her legs. Any time he saw a bright red Santa, his d**k twitched. Same color as Sandra’s panties. He didn’t even know he had a photographic panty memory until that day. He could still see it. High-cut on the sides. Lacy edges hugging her thighs. That waistband dipping in a slow half-ellipse from hip to hip. And that tiny bright-red patch covering her p***y — barely covering it — narrowing down to a finger-width strip that tucked between her lips and rode up the crack of that hot ass. He’d thought about pulling that strip aside with his teeth more times than he could count. Thought about how wet the crotch must’ve been. Thought about burying his nose there and breathing her in while he jerked himself stupid. The memory had him hard again. He could feel his c**k swelling in his sweatpants, thick and obvious, the head already leaking a little against the fabric. He was right there, hand sliding down, about to dump all that holiday cheer into his fist — A knock at the door. “Hi Edward. What ya doing?” Sandra. Standing right there. It took him a second to even process it. Then another second to realize his hard-on was tenting the front of his sweatpants like it was trying to say hello on its own. He shifted his hands in front of himself, hoping she didn’t clock it. “Not much. Want to come in?” “Sure.” He stepped back. She walked in. Soft perfume hit him as she passed and he shut his eyes for a second just to hold onto it. Then the disappointment. Loose bib overalls. Not the short skirt. Still. Thin white T-shirt underneath, only coming halfway down her ribcage. The bib straps shoved her t**s out to the sides so they hung in these soft white scoops, and from the way her n*****s poked the cotton he could tell she didn’t have a bra on. Stiff little points. He stared a second too long and pictured those scoops like ice cream, cherries set right on top, and his mouth wanting to latch on and suck until she made a sound. “Do you have anything to drink?” she asked, smiling, already heading for his kitchen. “There’s a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge. Should be good and cold.” “Mmm. Cold Chardonnay sounds great.” She opened the fridge. The wine was in the door trough at the bottom. When she bent for it, the overalls pulled tight across her ass cheeks and Edward just stood there watching. There’s that edible ass, he thought. Denim was too thick to tell if she had panties underneath. He wanted there to be nothing. I wanted that crack to be bare under the fabric. His c**k hadn’t gone down. Not even close. “Where’s the corkscrew?” “I’ll get it.” He went into the kitchen and dug through a drawer while she pulled two glasses from the cabinet. He angled his back so his d**k had a chance to quit pointing at her. It didn’t, not really. “Wow, your stove is really small.” “I know. Here it is.” He handed her the corkscrew. Her perfume again. Soft. Feminine. Close enough that if he’d leaned in half an inch he’d have had his mouth on her neck.