The Sweetest Smile by Jim Dawson

The Sweetest Smile by Jim Dawson

Deena’s sweet smile scared me more than her right hook. I first encountered her in a two-story suburban home we both broke into. An undersized defensive tackle whose four sacks in the first five games helped my high school team top the league for the first time in a decade, I can’t claim to be a loner. Party invites poured in, yet I sought alone time, often in an unknown home.

 I popped open a sliding porch door after downing a few beers at a party down the block. The dual barbeques led me to expect a good cache of booze. I loved hanging inside houses, especially when the family slept upstairs. Stealing never appealed to me, and violence never crossed my mind, but a handle of nice whiskey occasionally left with me. A flathead screwdriver under the door and a double move of lifting up the bottom while pulling the handle jumped the lock open. But a thorough hunt of the downstairs revealed no booze. The house clearly held parties with a huge, outside TV and a nice pool, but no whiskey. So, I raided the fridge stuffed with Thanksgiving leftovers.

With dark meat, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and gravy crammed between two slabs of homemade bread, I sat in the dad’s recliner as the jamb of the door to the garage splintered and three people dressed in black entered. 

“Who the fuck are you?” The leader asked in a normal voice. The brashness of making so much noise impressed me nearly as much as her knowing I didn’t belong. She clearly cased the place. I took a huge bite and chewed instead of answering, buying a bit of time and getting what turned out to be the only bite of the delicious sandwich. The woman ran at me with a crowbar raised high in her left hand, her long hair tied in a tight ponytail. I moved my head and brought my arm up to block the blow when her right cross nearly knocked me out. Turkey and cranberry sauce flew out of my mouth to drip down the silent TV like blood and brains. I took hard shots on and off the field, but, man, she delivered a wallop.

“I said, who the fuck are you?” She asked, holding the crowbar with both hands.

“I’m just eating a bite,” I said, and she raised her leg to slam her work boot into my chest, but I caught it. Battering my way past guys forty to fifty pounds heavier made tossing her on her ass easy. She leaped up quickly, but I gained time to stand and step back against the wall, keeping the three thieves in front. I recognized Benny from playing hoops at lunchtime. He shot well but played soft. He’d most likely run, though the bowling ball head and broad shoulders on the other guy looked hard to hurt. Two-on-one sounded better than three-on-one, but not good enough.

“Deena? Is that you?” I asked, figuring it had to be Benny’s older sister, the All-State field hockey player who got suspended her senior year for knocking two girls out. She growled in answer. I took a sideways step toward the still-open porch door when Deena charged. Her quickness shocked me, closing in seconds. I ducked the crowbar, which sank into the drywall. The twisting pull she needed to free the weapon gave me time to drive my forearm up under her chin. Her head flew back. The crowbar thumped on the wood just before her ass hit the floor.

A hallway light flipped on, and a voice yelled from upstairs.

“Whose down there?” I fled out the porch door, across several backyards, and noodled through the neighborhood back to the kegger, where none of the drunks staring at their phones noticed my absence.

Two hours later, Deena walked down the hatchway steps into my basement. I moved downstairs in my junior year for ease of access. A dealer had just left, and two teammates were on their way, so the hatch remained propped open. Her wavy hair fell loose across her shoulders, a dangerous smile broadened her round, brown face as she sauntered along the pool table to bump her belly into mine. I looked down into her mocking eyes and swallowed hard, feeling deeply threatened and very turned on.

“You cost me a lot of money tonight,” she said, “You owe me.”

“You cost me a good meal. You owe ME,” I said. She pushed into me, full of menace and sex. I wanted to rip her clothes off, but she hid one hand behind her back as if hiding a weapon. My dick pulsed as nervous sweat dripped down my back.

“You want a line?” I asked, needing to say something, and nodded at the drugs laid out on the Megan Thee Stallion mirror. 

“I never touch that brainless shit.”

“It isn’t coke, which I never touch either,” I said, leaning in to close the distance between our lips. She looked down at the drug.

“Speed?” she asked, sounding scornful.

“Special K, a short but intense ride.”

“Intense is good,” she said, looking up at me, “But I like long rides.”

“I got plenty, so you can ride as long as you like,” I said. She put the blade on the table, scooped up the rolled bill, and expertly hoovered up two lines, which I barely noticed, unable to keep my eyes off her yoga pants stretching over the corded bands of her hamstring muscles. We downed a couple of shots, took turns spinning records, and snorted lines. The shock on my buddy’s faces when Deena kicked them out nearly pulled me back from the edge. Larry, who played linebacker behind me, and Ed, the defensive end playing to my right, and I formed the core of our shut-down defense, and we backed each other – no questions asked. When Deena forced them up the stairs, it felt wrong, like a violation of trust, yet I let it happen.

More than a girl, more than a fighter, Deena made her own rules which she demonstrated by grabbing my cock with one hand and crashing her other forearm into my chin as payback. My hands went to my face, and she shoved me on the couch, then straddled me and stuck her tongue down my throat as if boring a hole. I mashed my mouth into hers, our necks battling for dominance.

My hands squeezed her hard ass as she abraded her clit on my cock. She pulled her head back and bit my lip, the metal taste of blood siccing my wildness on her animal. I rolled on top of her, and we pulled each other’s shirts off. The nipples of her apple breasts stood out firm and ridged. She yelped and bucked as my teeth clamped on. Her nails scraped down my chest, and I peeled her pants down, drinking in her fleshy allure. She unbuttoned me and stroked my hard cock, then brought her legs up by her head, spreading open her soaked, succulent pussy.

I swirled the head of my cock in the juices of her lips, then pushed forward, teasing without going in. She snapped her teeth and thrust her hips into me, cleaving my swollen head past her lips. She gasped. I shuttered. But before my hips drove deeper, her powerful legs thrust me off her. I landed on my feet, staring in amazement at the ninja-amazon-warrior as pre-cum bulged from the end of my throbbing cock. My mouth clamped onto her calf and sucked blood to the surface.

Through a moan, she said, “Not yet.”

“Sure,” I said, my lips glued to her silky skin.

“We gotta go back and finish,’ she said, panting. No way I was breaking back into the same house, so I worked my mouth down the inside of her thigh towards her pussy to end the discussion.

“No,” she said, kicking me with her other leg and standing up with hands on her hips, letting me familiarize myself with her goddess body, “There’s something I need in that house, and you will help me get it.” She rotated slowly, letting my roving eyes take in each swerve and dip of her lushness. My voice came as if from another room.

“The police will be all over that house.”

“They split already,” she countered, “I checked on my way over. What did they have to do? Clean up the turkey? They probably wrote it off as a kid’s prank. No one will expect us to go back. Think how hot it’ll be to hit the same place twice in one night. You know you want to.” And she was right, not about hitting the same place twice but doing a B&E with Deena sounded very hot.

“I don’t steal,” I said. 

“Why not,” she said, a sneer snarling her thick lips.

“It’s not what I do.”

“You break into people’s houses to what – beat off on their dirty laundry?”

“Sitting in other people’s living rooms jazzes me, but I don’t need to profit or hurt anyone.”

“You never took one single thing?”

“Ok, I take whiskey. And I’d take drugs but never found anything good. Oh, wait. I took some Xanax.”

“You’re a junkie thief,” she said, leaning in, her nipples pointing accusingly.

“And you are a petty crook.”

“Nothing petty about me. You got no idea what I’m up to. I’m cracking into the safe in that lazy fuck’s office.”

“I want no part of that.”

“Then you’ll have no part of this,” she said and arched her back as she bent over to pick up her clothes. Three DII schools asked coach about me, and my grades went up this year. So my next few years laid out great. Slipping in and out of houses undetected amused me at little to no risk. Serious crime held no interest, and money didn’t motivate me. I simply sold a few drugs when in need of green. So, I told myself she didn’t tempt me, yet I felt like Robert Johnson at the crossroads, facing my devil, a sweat-dripping, muscled devil.

Figuring she toyed with me and would boot me as soon as she got what she wanted, I refused her offer, so she dropped to her knees, cupped my balls, and took me into her mouth and down her throat. No one had ever swallowed me before, and I ached to splash in the back of her neck, but she pulled her mouth off with a pop, leaving my dick bouncing.

“Don’t cum yet,” she said, pinching close the yawning hole at the tip of my purple head, “Daddy’s got work to do.”  She stood and glided her tight pants over her curvy thighs, turning to accent the wiggle as the stretching material bumped over her ample, bulbous ass. After we finished dressing, with the sweetest smile, she extended her hand, and I took it.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Jim Dawson 2024