Sucking Wind
by Otto Burnwell
Copyright© 2026 by Otto Burnwell
Erotica Sex Story: Your casual act of gallantry on the subway for a woman in distress wins you a string of blow jobs. It's turning out to be too much of a good thing.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Oral Sex 2nd POV .
You’d texted your wife a little while ago, saying you’d left your access card at home and were heading back to pick it up. Security would probably give you a temporary badge so you could get into the office. But you still wouldn’t be able to get into the IT closet without your own card. Minding the servers means you have to be hands-on. So, forgetting your access card is a pain in the ass. There’s no one else on the floor until nine in the morning and the only other person you could call for access is your boss. That’s the very worst option.
So you headed home to pick up your card, make a quick turnaround, and hope there was no obvious outage before you could get back.
That was well before sun-up. It’s now after nine and you aren’t home yet. Your wife has already texted asking where you are. Then called, leaving voicemails. She’s probably called work, called friends, so now everyone knows you’re missing. She’ll be calling hospitals soon. When she can’t get in touch with you, she will go straight to morbid images of you being dead somewhere. She’s got an overactive imagination and she’s not afraid to use it on you for making her worry.
The good news is that you’re not somewhere mangled and bleeding. But—you are sitting naked in a ratty club chair in an un-renovated, pre-war apartment in the East Village, getting a professional-grade blow job. The somewhat hot older woman—not old old, but older than you—crouched between your knees, is throat-fucking herself as a thank-you for your random act of gallantry for her on the subway.
You’d like to pause and text your wife some kind of excuse to keep her from worrying, let her know you’ll be a teensy bit late getting back. But then you’d have to come up with a reason why, with unassailable details and witnesses she can cross-examine. And right now, you really don’t want to interrupt a masterful practitioner in the middle of a magical performance being carried out on your pecker. You might be better off faking amnesia from a make-believe blow to the head.
You watch with a kind of awe as the woman head-dances on your crank, in no hurry to finish. You let yourself relax into the moist sliding of her mouth, the firm touch of the tip against the back of her throat, the squeeze as if she’s trying to swallow you whole. You’d love to reach down and take hold of her throat, feel yourself moving in her gullet. But that seems cheeky, seeing as how she’s only showing a little gratitude, not trying to impress you with her artistry.
You savor the way your nerves hum, radiating from the base of your dick, a dynamo revving up slowly to deliver electricity measured in gigawatts.
You’d been on the uptown train heading back to your apartment when this woman came into the car, feral, hunted. She stopped, quickly scanned the faces of the passengers in the car and then fixed on you.
As if pleasantly surprised at seeing you, she called out, “what brings you out so early, babe?”
She came straight over, flung herself down beside you, leaned in close, and started babbling like the two of you were old friends who hadn’t laid eyes on each other in years.
Trying to stay focused on her face and not stare at her substantial tits rubbing against your arm, you took in her heavy makeup, low-cut sweater, bare-midriff, short skirt, and whatever she was using as a fragrance. It made you anxious to play along. Maybe she is someone you’ve totally forgotten but she knows you well enough to grip your thigh, giving you a friendly rub, raking her knuckles against your balls. Maybe she’s just a total stranger who’s mistaken you for someone who would expect her to give his nuts a friendly stroking. Or—maybe she knows you well enough to put her hand on your thigh up against your nuts. Or maybe—she’s working and warming you up with a little pre-show between your legs.
As she rattled on, talking about how long it had been, what the two of you were doing the last time you saw each other, how bad she felt about not staying in touch—two sketchy looking guys came through the door at the end of the train as if hunting for some one or some thing.
You saw her eyes flick toward the two guys, then back on you, and burst out laughing as if you’d just said something hilarious. She leaned her head against your cheek. The smell and the feel of her hair, and the pressure of her hand against your balls made your skin buzz, even as you realized she was using you to ward off those two guys. Guys who looked like a couple of assholes intent on hassling a lone woman just trying to get home from a long night out.
When the two guys stopped, looking at her, and then at you, it made sense. She’d chosen the biggest, scariest guy in the car.
Your broken nose from an out-of-control game of Red Rover in high school suggests buttoned-down mayhem, and you are good-sized. The beard and tied-back hair makes you look older, more intimidating. Which was the point, given your lack of natural defensive abilities.
It was enough for the two scags to decide on leaving, while making a show of being in no particular hurry. They passed on through the car and headed out the other end. You could imagine them choosing to wait for her elsewhere.
Once they were through the door, hearing it roll shut, she leaned to watch where they went and then gave a deep sigh, flopping against the back of the seat.
She apologized and said how good a sport you were, going along, letting her feel you up. She continued to gush over how much you’d saved her from all kinds of unnecessary bullshit.
As your body tried to hold onto the feelings that ebbed away so quickly, you asked if she knew the guys.
“Just a couple a guys expecting a little special treatment from me for a few drinks right at closing time, you know?”
She leaned out again to look into the next car, but seeing nothing, she leaned back again.
“So, are you on your way home from work,” she asked, “or just heading out?”
Before you could answer, she went on, “Because you have to let me do something for you being my knight in shining armor and everything. Let me make you some coffee, maybe something sweet to go with it. You’re okay with sweets? Not that I’m one to judge if you’re not. Just a little freebie to go with the coffee.”
Of course, your entire body says yes, as you tell her that coffee would be very nice and that you could use something sweet, which you assume are sweet rolls or donuts. You don’t tell her where you were headed, and yes, you probably should have, but you’re keen to stay just a little while longer with someone so grateful, so sweet smelling, so eye-filling, and it seemed downright rude not to give in to such gratitude.
At the very next stop, she hopped up and pulled you out of the car onto the platform.
She invited you to her apartment just a couple of blocks from the station, and, yes, her fragrance and enthusiasm pulled you along.
As you walked along behind her, you mentally composed the text you’d send to your wife explaining your delay, as you imagined how you and this woman looked together, her bewitching and overpainted for this early in the morning, and you dragged by the wrist, in jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. But you couldn’t take your eyes off her shapely ass as she led you along the street of brownstones to the stoop leading up to the front door of her apartment building.
Once inside, she apologized for the climb and headed up the stairs, not bothering to look back to see if you were coming along. Which you were. The cheeks of her ass peeked down at you as she climbed the stairs.
Inside, you glanced around, trying to decide if she was living alone or with roommates, or a boyfriend, or a husband. There was enough chaos for two, so you figured it was an apartment belonging to a couple of girls. She swept a cat off the easy chair in the corner and had you sit as she made coffee in the little kitchenette.
Still singing your praises, she rattled off details of her flight from the two ‘scuzzies’ she’d run into, and how it wasn’t just your size and fierce nordic jawline but your eyes—she paused, and turned to you, repeating that. Your eyes. Anyway, she said that you looked game so you were it.
“Boy, it would’ve been a bitch if you freaked out on me or told me to piss off,” she said.
She handed you the mug of coffee, then took a pillow off the sofa and dropped it on the floor under herself as she settled onto her knees in front of you, sitting on her heels. Resting her folded hands on your knee, fully fixed on your face, she said again how grateful she was, and how she’d offer to make you breakfast or lunch or something but she’s lousy in the kitchen.
As she was telling you about some cuisine disaster involving alfredo sauce, you lost the track of her story because she was stroking along your inner thighs, which you tolerated, convincing yourself it was a key point of her story, and not the least bit suggestive, despite the commotion in your pants. Which you hoped didn’t offend her, thinking you were not entirely focused on her replay of all her struggles and short-comings in the kitchen.
It dismantled you, having a strange and attractive woman—even one that is ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty years older than you—down between your legs, her gaze fixed on you, her smell alluring in its unfamiliarity, all of it pinning you to the chair.
Then as if she’s just had this brilliant idea, she asked where you were headed so early this morning, and if she interrupted anything important as she shucked her sweater, unhooked her bra, tossing both onto the sofa.
You were truthful but incomplete, and she asked if they’d miss you at work.
It was a struggle to answer, to make words into a complete sentence, like it’s no big deal for you to be staring into a lovely pair of tits, the nips popped out against a large reddish halo. You won’t remember what you said, you’ll only remember it was something to make this last.
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