Sunday, May 29, 2011

Flash Fiction: An Unexpected Guest

Chuck Wendig has a Flash Fiction Challenge going on his blog. The theme is "An Unexpected Guest". Here's my entry.

An Unexpected Guest
by CJ Lemire

I’ve known Mike for about five years. He rented the place two houses up from where I lived at the time, through some deal with the landlord where he stayed there for free in return for renovating the kitchen. I was going through a bad breakup. He drove a Camaro, and worked outside, with his hands. I drove an Accord, and worked in a cubicle, on a computer. We drank a lot of beer that summer. He moved on after that, but we stayed in touch, and once every blue moon his number shows up on my caller ID.
I was at work when he called. “I’m passing through. Gonna be working a job about 20 miles north of you. How about we get together for a beer, grab dinner, shoot some shit?”
“Come on by the house,” I said. “Meet Darla. Have you found a place to stay? We have a guest room.”
Darla was pissed. She denies it, but she has this double standard thing where her friends and family are welcome to drop by the house any time. Mine, not so much.
That night, they fucked. Darla got over being put out once she saw what a charmer Mike was. And Mike wasn’t one to let a thing like friendship get in the way of hitting on a woman he found hot. Dick takes priority, he’d say.
Another man might have been angry. Hit him. Hit her. Kicked him out. Kicked her out. Another man wouldn’t have lain awake half the night in the guest room like I did, jerking off to the sounds of my friend fucking my wife, my dick made hard by her moans, much more vocal than when I fuck her myself.
Mike made himself at home. Darla pretty much stopped wearing clothes around the house. I’d get home from work, and he’d be on my couch, watching porn on my TV, drinking my beer, my wife on her knees sucking his cock. “What’s for dinner?” he’d ask.
He made her show me her asshole. How stretched it was getting, from their fucking. She’d never let me have her there. “That’s an exit, not an entrance,” she’d said. Different rules for different dudes, apparently. I didn’t question it.
I spent every night in the guest room, stroking my cock and listening to them fuck. And every morning, getting up and making them coffee and breakfast, serving it to them in bed. On the third morning, and every day after that, she made me lick her pussy while they flirted and ate. Usually, it was still full of his spunk. He laughed at that.
After two weeks, I came home to find her in tears. Apparently the job was done. Or shacking up with Darla was starting to seem too much like responsibility. Either way, it was time for him to move on.
I held her that night, in our bed, while she sobbed. She rolled over on top of me, knelt up, and sat on my face. I licked her pussy to a couple of nice orgasms, which made her feel better. After, she let me fuck her. She read her magazine while I did it. Told me she could barely feel me inside her. Asked if I was done yet, so she could turn out the light and get some sleep. I lasted about thirty seconds.
After a few days, things settled back to normal. Almost like he’d never been there. But I know, six months or a year from now, I’ll get a call.
“I’m passing through,” he’ll say.
“Come on by the house,” I’ll reply. “Darla will be excited to see you again.”
When I tell her, she’ll get all girly girl, and put on her frilliest undies from Vicky’s. And I’ll move my things into the guest room, knowing that for however long he stays, I’ll get to enjoy the sounds of my wife getting off like she means it.
The things we do for love.


  1. I read this first thing in the morning, then I sat back in my chair and thought about it. I liked it. I liked it a lot, actually. But WHY did I like it so much? (It's an untenable domestic situation in my opinion.) So I made breakfast and drank more coffee, and as I stared at the goldfinches outside my kitchen window, it hit me. I love the power play involved, the fluid change of who's in control. Who has more? The dominant male who charges in and seemingly takes everything or the male who gives it up? (sigh) Lovely.

  2. Thanks Amy. I agree it's an untenable domestic situation. I also think it satisfies a need of the narrator's that's so deeply embedded it couldn't be removed without breaking him.

  3. Which is why it's so fascinating and worrisome at the same time. Recognizing traces of ourselves in fiction is what keeps us reading, right?