Five-Mile Fuck
Story Codes:

Five-Mile Fuck       
by Nancy Palmer    
         
          “I’m going for a run.”

          “Don’t forget,” I said, “Alex is coming at six . . .”

          My husband mumbled something and headed out the door for his daily five-mile trek.  Not even the
heinous Mississippi heat and humidity could deter Jon from running.  When it came to exercise, I lacked his
discipline.

But writing was another matter, especially since relocating to Jackson.  It was too damn hot to do anything
else, ideal climes for holing up in our new air-conditioned digs and working on my craft.

Jon and I had finally gotten settled in.  The place was a cute two-bedroom with hardwood floors and a
screened-in porch.  Compared to our tiny Brooklyn apartment it was a veritable palace.  The cost of living was
so much cheaper down here; we were kicking it like royalty:  washer/dryer, dishwasher, huge bathroom,
colossal walk-in closet, we even had our very own yard.   

Sitting on the sofa with my laptop, I took a hit of gin and tonic and tried to shape up a poem before Alex
arrived.  He would be our first official guest.

I had met Alex at the M.F.A. residency in Louisville.  A tall and lanky redhead, Alex had lived in the Jackson
area his entire life.  He worked as a library clerk at a local college not far from our new place.  I looked forward
to seeing him again.

After Jon had accepted the job at the law firm, I had contacted Alex immediately, seeking his advice on the
local housing situation.  He had provided a few leads, but made it clear that he was hardly an authority on
local real estate.

Alex was the quintessential struggling writer, a dedicated and talented scribe who had sacrificed for the sake
of art.  At forty-two, he was a good twelve years older than me, but could’ve easily passed for mid-twenties.
And he was the real deal.  Alex was no hipster tool leeching from his parents while posing as an outlaw writer.  
There was nothing cool, progressive, and/or remotely hip about Jackson; that he had remained here his entire
life, alone, surviving and writing, was a major inspiration for me.  Guts, I thought.  If he could do it, then I could,
too.

Granted, our situations were vastly different.  Jon’s salary coupled with my earnings cobbling freelance work
and adjunct teaching gigs afforded me a relatively comfortable lifestyle.  Still, I admired Alex.  In more ways
than one . . . .

For those unfamiliar with low-residency M.F.A. culture, allow me to enlighten—

—What happens at residency, stays at residency.

Crammed with lectures, readings, and workshops, those biannual ten-day intensives are an alternate reality.  
The workload is heavy, for sure.  But there is time to play.  And drink.  And, if a girl is so inclined, sample some
strange dick.

I had gobbled Alex’s cock at residency, blowing him in my room at the historic Brown Hotel.  A true southern
gentleman, Alex had reciprocated, giving me a toe-curling rimjob, making me come seconds before my
roommate—a pothead playwright from Pittsburgh—had interrupted with her own low-res cocksman in tow.
Now, fiddling with my poem, Alex due any minute, I couldn’t help but wonder if we might pick up where we had
left off.

I wasn’t unhappy with Jon.  Not in the least.  Still . . . .

The knock made me jerk.  Setting my laptop aside, I got up and went to the door.

“Hey, stranger . . .”

Alex handed me a bottle of wine.  “Housewarming gift.”

We hugged and I gave him a tour.  Then I offered him a drink.

“What are you having?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Hook me up,” he said.

I made him a stiff one and we lounged on the sofa.

“Smells good,” Alex said.  “What are we having?”

“Rosemary chicken.”

“Yummy.”

“Jon’s running; he’ll be back in a little while.”

Alex looked good.  Perhaps a little thinner than I remembered.  We talked about writing.  He was working on a
novella.

“Been blasting out the poems?”

“Trying to,” I said.

“Have you found a teaching gig?”

“Not yet, but I sent my resume to several colleges in the area.  Maybe something will open up.  A class or two
would be nice.”

Five miles.  How long did it take Jon to run five miles?  Forty-five minutes, give or take.  A little longer in the
Mississippi heat.  Jon had been bitching about its effect on his stamina.  He said it was like breathing steam.

“It’s weird, you know, not knowing a soul.”

“You’ll meet people.”

“Will you be my Jackson friend?”

“Of course,”

“Dude,” I said, placing my hand on his thigh, “it really is good to see you.”

“You too,” he said, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.

The tension was palpable.  I wanted to release it before dinner.  Otherwise, we were in for an awkward
evening.  What happens at residency, stays at residency.  Fuck that noise.  And besides, I was no longer a
student.  The rule didn’t apply to alumni.

I slid my hand higher, squeezing the firm bulge at his crotch.  Alex was really happy to see me.    
“You sure this is cool?”

          I responded by unzipping his chinos and freeing his cock.  Then I knelt before him and licked his shaft,
base to prick cap, basting him.  Alex gasped when I took him into my mouth.  Lunging up and down, I moaned
around his prick as his fingers dug into my scalp.  I kept it up, giving him sloppy head until he was properly
primed.

         Coming up for air, I said, “Fuck me, dude, come on.  We’ve got about fifteen minutes before Jon gets
back . . .”

         I shucked my panties, lifted my seersucker sundress and straddled him cowgirl-style.  He filled every
inch of my wet cunt.  I grinded in his lap, bucking and riding, taking Alex’s dick while Jon huffed and puffed in
the scorching heat.

      Alex reached around and slid a finger into my asshole; I responded accordingly, upping my pace,
slamming my pussy down on his cock.  He pumped his finger faster and faster, thrusting in and out of my
starfish.

      The timer ticked.  Jon ran and ran, tackling steep, lung-searing hills as the merciless sun beat down.  It
was shameful, really.  I was a harlot.  Low-res poetess slut.

      I dismounted and turned around for some reverse-cowgirl; this position enabled me to ride Alex while
keeping an eye out for Jon.  Pussy filled with cock, I gazed out the window, regarding the sun-baked asphalt
while rubbing my clit.  A pick-up truck zipped past.  It’s true, you know.  A lot of people in the south really do
drive pick-up trucks.  I had never seen so many in my life.  They were all over the fucking place.
Alex felt up my tits, squeezing and kneading, tweaking my nipples.  I kept on grinding my hips and frigging my
clit.  Another truck sped past.  Honest, I swear.

      Once again, I knelt before him.  But this time I gave him a handjob, jacking his dick with one hand while
rubbing my pussy with the other.

      “Don’t come on the sofa,” I said.  “It’s brand new . . .”

      Alex shot his load on the floor; I got off with my hand.  Then we straightened up.  I wiped the cum off the
floor with a paper towel.  In fact, I was tossing the wadded ball into the wastebasket when Jon returned.  Hair
pasted across his forehead, he was drenched in sweat.  He looked like he had been swimming instead of
running.
      “Jon,” I said, “this is Alex . . .”
      
      “I would shake your hand,” Jon said, “but I’m pretty sweaty.”
      
      “No problem,” Alex said.

      I mixed two fresh drinks for me and Alex.  Then I pulled the chicken from the oven.  While Jon took a quick
shower I showed Alex the poem I had been working on.
      
      “This is good shit,” he said.  Then, “Do you ever write prose?”

      “It’s been a while . . .”

      “Your poetry is very prose-like.”

      “Yeah,” I said, “I like simple direct language.”  

      “You should write a story.”

      “You think?”

      “Definitely.”

      So that’s what I did.  The very next day.  I wrote a story.

      And this is it . . .

--THE END--





"Nancy Palmer" is a pseudonym for Ben Newell whose sex letters have appeared in Hustler Fantasies and
Penthouse Letters.
Ben Newell - Author of Smut Writer