First night ever in my very own apartment an older man opened my unlocked door and pulled his cock out. Shocked by the sudden apparition, I didn't scream.
Normally, I would have screamed. But within a second, as unexpected as it was, I thought I recognized him. Or his silhouette, anyway. It wasn't too dark but him being this radically out of place disrupted my immediate recall. Holding his cock hanging out in the shared hallway on my floor, he started telling me to suck it. It was so absurd, so out of place, and yet so very familiar. The tinge of fear I previously registered started subsiding.
"What are you doing here??" I demanded.
My boyfriend left a few minutes ago after helping me bring last of my moving boxes in. It was late, near to ten o'clock. Far too late to be an appropriate time to visit, let alone by a pervert. The tiny place I moved into was fully furnished by a single IKEA purchase but I wasn't unpacked yet except for a couch and a mostly assembled bed. Earlier, the delivery men grumbled hard after asking "Where's the service elevator?" to which I shook my head sadly.
My place was on the third floor in a historic downtown building; it wasn't the biggest studio apartment but the location was great and it was affordable. I hadn't hung up any art yet except for a 16th century tapestry map of the world I was attached to, a crude reproduction bought cheaply at Rennfest. It pleased me for some reason.
"C'mon Amber, suck daddy's cock, no one can walk in on us now," he insisted.
I stood my ground, "I told you I wouldn't do that anymore."
He obviously wasn't my real daddy. Not so obviously, I'd been fucking him for years. Handful of my distracted brain cells recognized him as our next door neighbor, actually now my parents' neighbor, who was also a very good friend of the family.
He persisted, "Don't keep me waiting baby, you know you wanna suck it."
So no, I didn't scream because I knew him. He tempted me by wiggling his cock with his fist, or thought he was. From past times, I knew he wouldn't take no for an answer so instead of screaming I dropped to my knees in front of my open door and started licking his cock with practiced fervor. He was right, no one would walk in on us and that was a novel feeling, my first such use of the apartment. The initial surprise of his visit developed a knot deep in the pit of my stomach but it was resolving slowly, replaced by anticipation of a bad habit.
It wasn't my first time to blow him, not by a longshot. Oh no. But it was the first time where we had all the time in the world and no one would come to rescue me this time. No one to save me from him. No time limit, no reason to keep it brief. Though I neither invited him over nor wanted him to be here, I had never had my own apartment before and the tempting opportunity to exercise privacy in my own home presented itself. This was my life now, I thought, mine to live it as I pleased. So I sucked and he lazily closed the door behind him.
"This is the last time I'm doing this," I told him halfheartedly between slurping. It had been two years since I'd seen him last, since I broke off our inappropriate trysts and went off to college.
Inexplicably, everyone in my old neighborhood called him Daddy Mike, including my mom and me. He had custom license plates on his truck with that name stamped in by a nameless prisoner paid 14 cents an hour, a crude factoid he always repeated at parties. He and his wife were really close to our family and we ended up spending lots of time over at their house and vice-versa.
When my tits budded into being and evil hormones flared into existence I was already eighteen, a late bloomer, both late to start my grade and too preoccupied with sports and art to date boys. The surprise hormones burned everything in their wake trying to catch up, eventually trapping me in a situation I didn't like.
Several summers ago I was in my first memorable heat. It's really difficult to describe but all I could think about was boys. I mean, after a few flattering words from an older neighbor at their standing weekly barbecue I was regularly leaving snail marks on Daddy Mike's leather couch. That bad.
That summer I started masturbating like a champ, and yet it sated nothing. Instead, the animal hunger for sex developed sharp teeth and I was dangerous to be around, like a cute predator disturbingly unaware of her own lethality. When I accidentally walked in on him in the bathroom I stared way too long like a creep, even going so far as to touch my private parts momentarily. Daddy Mike pretended he didn't see me but he had to have known. The goddamned door creaked, after all.
Uncounted seconds later I said "sorry" and closed the door behind me.
I could've kept my mouth shut, but I didn't. No, I announced myself and I wasn't in a hurry to duck out. Next time we were alone he broke the ice and joked he'd have to charge me for future shows. My blush and nervousness was all I could respond with. He wasn't all that attractive but the sight of his cock got etched in my memory and it wouldn't escape me. I wanted to pretend like it never happened, and yet instead I stupidly engaged in the conversation and said I didn't have an allowance. He offered to give me one and it gave me unpleasant chills. Things went south from there. Later at home I nearly broke my wrist off playing with myself, aggravating a stubborn tournament injury.
That was then.
Now, things were very different. Relatively speaking, I was a grown woman. Daddy Mike worked in the city and commuted from the suburbs and his wife would be expecting him home soon, but he didn't seem to particularly care about being late.
