Letter to the Editor

Karl the Plumber rang my doorbell at 11:15.

It wasn’t even noon yet, and I was already half-stewed. I should have been drinking absinthe, but I couldn’t afford the stuff, so I was making do with green Kool-Aid and cheap gin.

I knew it was Karl the Plumber because he was overdue for a visit; and because he’s the only one who ever rings my bell other than the UPS guy and the Jehovah’s Witnesses; and when Karl rings the bell, he leans on the buzzer, making one long, aggressive tone.

He looked rough, unshaven, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time, and he reeked of cigarette smoke.

I handed him my thumb drive, and he plugged it into his laptop, scanning quickly through the accumulated files.

“Good stuff,” he grunted, unplugging the USB memory stick and dumping it into the right hand pocket of his black jacket. He pulled out a billfold and carefully counted out five-twenty dollar bills, laying them out neatly on top of my kitchen table, right next to the bottle of gin and the half-empty pitcher of Kool-Aid.

“Is that all?” I asked, “You got anything else for me?”

“What do you think?” he asked, unzipping his trousers and fishing his penis out.

I gulped down the last of my drink.

He was still flaccid. His cock reminded me of a tequila worm, big and fat and soft and wrinkly; uncircumcised, the pink head peered malevolently out from beneath its fleshy hood. His testicles hung down, fat and heavy and hairy. He stood next to me as I sat, and slapped me across the face with his dick until he was hard.

I took him in my mouth. He tasted musty, sweaty, male. I wanted to swallow him whole, but he took me by the hair and pulled me away.

It’s not that he possesses an especially big cock. It’s the attitude that’s intimidating, that always takes my breath away. My pussy was juicy and slick with anticipation.

“Where do you want it?” Karl asked.

“In my cunt,” I whispered, starting to pull my t-shirt off over my head.

“Don’t,” he told me, “Stay dressed.”

Karl the Plumber took a step back and started taking his clothes off, neatly, orderly, draping his jacket over the back of a chair, folding his shirt and pants and stacking them on the seat. He always carries a gun, and it gives me the creeps. It is a small, ugly, black thing that he keeps in a holster, tucked deep into his armpit. That too came off, and was hung off the back of the chair.

At last Karl was naked, and his dick stuck straight out like an exclamation point.

He cleared off the kitchen table by the simple expedient of turning it over, tipping it ninety degrees so that gin and Kool-Aid and twenty dollar bills spilled across my kitchen floor. My glass bounced off the linoleum, but did not break. He returned the table to its more conventional orientation, and picked me up and bent me over the table top so that my breasts were squished flat through my shirt, and my face was pressed hard against the wood-grained formica.

He yanked down my sweat pants and slapped my bare ass hard, so hard that I yelped despite myself. That made him chuckle, and he did it again, just out of spite.

He pried my butt cheeks apart and spit on my exposed asshole, and then I knew what was coming, for sure. I clenched my teeth and tried to relax and get ready for it, but he was already cramming his erection up my ass.

I whimpered out loud, something between a ‘Yes’ and a ‘No’. It didn’t matter really; I was onboard this freight train now, for better or for worse, and the knobby head of his penis was shouldering its way roughly through the tight ring of my anus. It hurt, it hurt a lot, even through the insulating layer of alcohol, and I had to force myself to breathe.

Karl the Plumber fucked my ass hard and deep, showing me no mercy, no shade of tenderness, no consideration at all. I might have been a fleshlight in some anonymous, generic hotel room as far as he was concerned; just some soft, warm object to jerk off into. Karl grasped my face with his big, meaty hand, covering my mouth and nose so I couldn’t get air into my lungs. He gripped me so hard my teeth cut into my own cheeks and I tasted blood in my mouth. He jammed himself deeper and deeper into my poor, maltreated posterior, harder and harder, grunting with each thrust. My pussy was drooling wet; my clitoris was excited and erect, and absolutely bursting with frustration. The weight of his body was pressing me into the table, and each time he lurched forward I got a jolt of electric pleasure in my clit.

I felt him come in my asshole, his big dick twitching back there as he pumped into me, his bony hips pressed hard against my buttocks. He held me like that, frozen in ecstasy, for a long long moment, and then he was done.

He pulled his cock suddenly out of my ass and released my face, letting me fall gasping to the floor. I lay there in a pool of alcohol and green sugar-water, wheezing and coughing violently, my grey sweat pants around my ankles. I even threw up a little bit, and spit blood onto the linoleum.

Karl got dressed quickly and efficiently, and left me like that, prone and twitching, pants around my ankles. He went to the bathroom to take a piss, and I heard him flush. Then he was gone.

Eventually I got up, cleaned up the mess, and poured myself another drink with shaking hands. I lay down on the couch and ate a grilled cheese sandwich and half-watched Mexican soap operas with the sound turned off, people going through the flamboyant motions of life, love, and scandal, as Karl’s semen slowly leaked out my asshole.

I had bruises on my ass, bruises on my face, and my anus was sore and tender. I fell asleep there, in a little puddle of his liquefied come, with the television on.

I didn’t get off then, but I did later.

I masturbated that night to an incredibly intense orgasm, fingers crammed up my pussy and gliding over my clit, replaying the whole scene that morning over and over in my mind in vivid Technicolor, slowing down and zooming in on the juicy details. It was the kind of orgasm that wracked my entire body, seemed to go on and on forever, cresting and then building cresting again, and when it was done my thighs were weak and empty and my fingers were coated in my own sticky come.

I compose and collect and revise, I cut and paste and borrow and steal and revise again, slowly filling up the thumb drive, and I wait and wait, and I wonder when Karl the Plumber will visit me again.

END

3 Comments »

  1. Elsie, I have a fever…over 38C and feel like shit – actually worse – due to a common cold. I am also lying in my bed with my laptop for company. Despite how awful I feel I needed to read this when I saw you had posted a new story….and am surprised that despite how awful I feel the thick, hard and now persitent erection that grew while reading this piece is still twitching as I write this. Maybe I should cure it…thank you….amazing!!

  2. NIce piece!

    Presumably the ‘plumber’ tag was in your head for a reason when you wrote it and I’ve just been trying to connect the dots there and work out in what sense he was a (gun-carrying) plumber, apart from making your ass leak! It made me think he might be some local mafia type for whom ‘fixing leaks’ means dealing with informers – the way you sometimes come across people called ‘house cleaners’ because they clear up evidence left behind after a murder! In which case, my thought processes went, what were the files he downloaded to the memory stick?!

    Then again, no reason why he shouldn’t be a real plumber!

    Nice scene and well written as always.

  3. Grendel said

    very very nice … so much good stuff … I have to visit you more often … I’m reading all day today when I should be writing my own stuff … you’re addicting Babe,

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