Wallbanger

by Alice Clayton

  I was glad I had something to do, something to fixate on, as the beginning of a battle was starting to wage inside my body. Ever since we’d acknowledged the pressure that giant bed could have placed on us, all I could think about was that very pressure. As well as the pressure of an O long denied, waiting patiently—and sometimes impatiently—for her release. The pressure was so strong, so intense, that every single part of me could feel it.

  Currently taking sides in this internal debate were my brain, Lower Caroline (speaking for the distant O), Backbone, and although she’d mainly kept quiet lately, letting Brain and Nerves take control, Heart was now weighing in.

  It should be noted that LC (Lower Caroline wanted a hip but abbreviated name) had somehow drafted Simon’s penis into the fray, and even though his penis didn’t have direct access to her yet, LC felt it necessary to speak up on his behalf. While I didn’t much like the term penis, internally I felt strange about calling him dick or cock, so penis it was…for now.

  Now, Backbone and Brain were solidly in the wait-for-sex camp, believing this essential to the foundation of this burgeoning relationship. LC, and therefore Simon’s penis, were in the have-sex-with-him-as-soon-as-possible society, obviously. O, while not officially in residence, could be counted among LC’s supporters. But I felt a twinge, and just a twinge, of her floating above both camps, along with Heart, who was currently singing songs about everlasting love and warm, fluffy things.

  Take all this into account and what do you have? One totally confused Caroline. A Caroline divided. No wonder I had sworn off dating. This shit was tough. So was I glad to have something to think about other than the pressure cooker of sex indeterminate? Yes. Could I spend a little more time trying to come up with a more clever name for Simon’s penis? Probably. It deserved it. Mammoth Male Member? No. Pulsating Pillar of Passion? No. Back Door Bandit? Hell no. Wang? Sounded like the noise those doorstopper things made when you flicked ’em…

  I said it out loud to myself a few times, cracking myself up a little. “Wang. Wang. Waaaang,” I muttered.

  “Hey! Nightie Girl! Get yourself over here,” Simon called, breaking me out of my wang study. I left behind the mental battle, picking my way carefully across the craggy rocks to where he was poised.

  “I need you.”

  “Here? Now?” I snorted.

  He lowered his camera just enough to raise one eyebrow. “I need you for scale. Get over there.” He pointed me toward the edge of the cliff.

  “What? No-no. No pictures, huh-uh.” I backed away toward my blanket.

  “Yes, yes, pictures. Come on. I need something in the foreground. Get over there.”

  “But I’m a mess! I’m all windblown and sunburned, see?” I pulled down my v-neck just a little to show him how I was beginning to pink up.

  “While I always appreciate you showing me your cleavage, save it, sister. This is just for me, just to give me some perspective. And you don’t look windblown. Well, only a little.” He tapped his foot.

  “You’re not gonna make me pose with a rose in my teeth, are you?” I sighed, shuffling over to the edge.

  “Do you have a rose?” he asked, looking serious except for the shit-eating grin.

  “Shut it, you. Take your pictures.”

  “Okay, just be natural. No posing, just stand there—facing the water would be great,” he instructed.

  I complied. He moved around me, trying different angles, and I could hear him muttering about what was working. I admit, even though I was shy about having my picture taken, I could almost feel his eyes, through the lens, watching me. He moved around for only a few moments, but it felt longer. The internal war was beginning to wage again.

  “You almost done?”

  “You can’t rush perfection, Caroline. I need to get the job done right,” he warned. “But yes. Almost done. You getting hungry?”

  “I want those clementines in the basket—grab me one? Or will that mess with your masterpiece?”

  “Won’t mess with it. I’ll call it Windblown Girl on a Cliff with a Clementine.” He laughed and headed back over to the car.

  “You’re funny,” I said wryly, catching the tiny orange he threw me and starting to peel.

  “Are you sharing?”

  “I suppose so, the least I could do for the man who brought me here, right?” I laughed, biting into a wedge and feeling the juice dribble down my chin.

  “You got a hole in your lip?” he asked, capturing the moment as I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Do you actually think you’re funny, or are you just assuming you might be?” I countered, beckoning him over with the peel. He shook his head, laughing as he took a wedge. Of course, he took a bite and no dribble. He opened his eyes wide in feigned amazement, and I took the opportunity to smash another wedge in his face. His eyes remained wide open, as juice now ran freely off the tip of his nose and on to his chin.

  “Messy Simon,” I whispered as he looked at me. In a flash, he pressed his lips to mine, getting juice all over both of us as I squealed into his mouth. “Sweet Caroline,” he whispered through his grin. He turned us so the sea was behind us, held up the camera, and took a picture: us covered in orange mush.

  “By the way, why were you saying ‘wang’ earlier?” he asked.

  I just laughed harder.

  “This is it. This is now officially the single best thing I have ever had in my mouth,” I announced, closing my eyes and moaning.

  “You’ve said that about everything you’ve eaten tonight.”

  “I know, but I seriously can’t handle how good this is. Smack me, pinch me, throw me overboard, this is too good,” I moaned again. We sat at a little table in the corner of a small restaurant in town, and I was determined to try everything. Simon, showing off his language skills, had ordered for us. I told him to go for it, that I was in his hands and I knew he wouldn’t steer me wrong. And the boy did good. We feasted.

  We went with traditional tapas, of course, accompanied by glasses of the house wine. Little bowls and plates showed up at the table every few minutes after that: tiny pork meatballs, slices of ham, marinated mushrooms, beautiful sausages, grilled squid with fruity local olive oil. With each bite, I was sure that I had just eaten the best thing ever, then another wave of gorgeous food would show up and convince me once again. And then these prawns arrived. Unreal. Fried crispy in olive oil with tons of garlic and parsley, smoky paprika, and just a hint of heat. I swooned. I actually swooned.

  Simon? He loved it. He ate it up. My reactions as much as the food, I think. He ate it up.

  “Honestly, I can’t handle any more,” I protested, dragging a piece of crusty bread through the olive oil. He smiled as he watched me shamelessly enjoy another piece of bread before finally pushing back from the table with a groan.

  “Best meal ever?” he asked.

  “It really might be. That was insane.” I sighed, patting my full tummy. Ladylike, schmadylike, I’d pounded that meal down like someone was going to take it away from me. A waiter appeared with two small glasses of a local wine. Sweet and crisp, it was the perfect after-dinner drink. We sipped slowly, the breeze coming in through the windows lightly scented with the sea air.

  “This was a great date, Simon. Really. Couldn’t have been more perfect,” I said, taking another sip of my wine.

  “Was this a date?” he asked.

  My face froze. “I mean, no. I suppose not. I just—”

  “Relax, Caroline. I know what you meant. It’s just funny to consider this a date: two people traveling together, but only now on a date.” He smiled, and I relaxed.

  “Hmm, we haven’t really followed the traditional rules so far, have we? This might even be our first date, if we wanted to get technical.”

  “Well, technically speaking, what defines a date?” he asked.

  “Dinner, I suppose. Although we’ve had dinner before,” I began.

  “And a movie—we’ve already had a movie,” he reminded me.

 
I shuddered. “Yes, and that was definitely a ploy to get me to snuggle with you. Scary movie, so obvious,” I scoffed.

  “It worked, didn’t it? In fact, I do believe I slept with you that night, Nightie Girl.”

  “Yes, I’m cheap and easy, I admit it. I suppose we really did do this whole thing backward.” I grinned, sliding my foot across the floor under the table and kicking him lightly.

  “I like it backward.” He smirked.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Not touching that one.”

  “Seriously, though. As I’ve mentioned, I have no experience with this stuff,” he said. “How does this work? What if we were doing this…not backward? What would happen next?”

  “Well, I suppose there would be another date, and another after that,” I admitted, smiling shyly.

  “And bases. I’d be expected to try to round some bases, right?” he asked seriously.

  I spluttered my wine. “Bases? Are you for real? As in, cop a feel, over the shirt, under the shirt, those bases?” I laughed incredulously.

  “Yes, exactly. What am I allowed to get away with? As a gentleman, I mean. If this were truly a first date, we wouldn’t be going home together, would we? Dating now, not hooking up. Remember, apparently I give good woo,” he said, eyes twinkling.

  “Yes, yes, you do. We wouldn’t be going home together, that’s true. But to be honest, I don’t want you sleeping in the bedroom down the hall. Is that weird?” I could feel my ears burning as I blushed.

  “It’s not weird,” he answered quietly. I slipped off my sandal and pressed my foot against his, rubbing lightly along his leg.

  “Nooking is good, right?”

  “Nooking is most definitely good,” he agreed, nudging back with his own foot.

  “As far as your bases are concerned, I think you could definitely plan on a little under the shirt action, if you were so inclined,” I answered. Internally, Brain and Backbone gave a little cheer, while LC and Wang kicked a few chairs. Tatas were just glad someone was considering them for once, instead of being just a stopover on the way to points south. Heart? Well, she was still flitting about, singing her song.

  “So, we go a little traditional, but not totally traditional. Take it slow?” he asked, his eyes burning, the sapphires beginning to do their little hypnotic dance.

  “Slow, but not too slow. We are grownups, for goodness sake.”

  “To under the shirt action,” he announced, raising his glass in toast.

  “I’ll drink to that.” I laughed as we clinked.

  Fifty-seven minutes later we were in bed, his hands warm and sure as he slipped each button through, revealing my skin. He went slowly, purposefully, and he let my shirt fall open as I lay beneath him. He gazed down at me, his fingertips lightly drawing a line from my collarbone to my navel, straight and true. We both sighed at the same time.

  I can’t explain it, but knowing we’d set some boundaries for the evening, silly as it may be, made it so much more sensual, something to be truly savored. His lips hovered around my neck, whispering tiny kisses against my skin, below my ear, under my chin, in the dip between my neck and my shoulder, and working his way down to the swell of my breasts. His fingers swept out, lightly, reverently, ghosting across the sensitive skin as I inhaled and then held my breath.

  As his fingers gently grazed my nipple, every nerve ending in my entire body reversed and began to pulse in that direction. I exhaled, feeling months of tension begin to simultaneously flow out of me and build up even more. With sweet kisses and soft touches, he began the process of getting to know my body, and it was exactly what I needed. Lips, mouth, tongue—all of it on me, tasting, stroking, feeling, and loving.

  As his lips closed around my breast, his hair tickled my chin in the cutest way, and I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close. The feeling of his skin against mine was perfection, and something I’d never experienced before. I felt…worshipped.

  As we explored that night, what started out as funny and cute and part of our classic banter became something more. What was crassly called “under the shirt action” became part of a romance, and something that could have been merely physical became something emotional and pure. And when he cradled me to him, bringing me into his nook with tender kisses and breathless giggles, we fell into a contented sleep.

  Flaily and Mr. Snorey Pants.

  For the next two days, I luxuriated. Truly, there isn’t another word in the English language to articulate the experience I indulged in. Now for some, the definition of a luxurious vacation might be endless shopping, spa pampering, expensive meals, elaborate shows. But to me, luxurious meant spending two hours napping in the sun on the terrace off the kitchen. Luxurious meant eating figs dripping with honey and dotted with crumbles of local cheese while Simon poured me another glass of Cava, all before ten a.m. Luxurious meant time alone to wander through the small, family stores of Nerja, poking through bins of beautiful lace. Luxurious meant exploring the nearby caves with Simon while he photographed, losing ourselves in the colors under the earth. Luxurious meant gazing at Simon dangling from a rock face while he searched out another foothold, shirtless. Did I mention shirtless?

  And luxurious most certainly meant that I got to spend each night in that bed with Simon. Now that’s a priceless luxury, not offered on every grand tour. We rounded another base or two, teasing each other with a little over-the-panties encounter. Were we being ridiculous, waiting until the last night in Spain to consummate this “thing”? Probably, but who the hell cared? He spent almost an hour kissing every inch of my legs one night, and I spent about the same amount of time having a conversation with his belly button. We just…enjoyed.

  But with all this enjoyment came a certain amount of, well, how shall we say, nervous energy?

  Back in San Francisco, we’d spent months engaged in verbal foreplay. But now, here? The actual foreplay? It was not to be believed. My body was so in tune with his, I knew when he walked into the room, and I knew when he was about to touch me, seconds before he did. The air between us was sexually charged, vibes zinging back and forth with enough energy to light up the entire town. Sexual chemistry? Had it. Sexual frustration? On the rise and getting close to critical.

  Oh, hell, I’ll say it. I was H-O-R-N-Y.

  Which was why after we spent the afternoon in the caves, we found ourselves in the kitchen, kissing madly. We were both a little tired from the day, and I’d been wanting to test out that beautiful Viking range. I was preparing vegetables for the grill and stirring some saffron rice when he came in after a shower. It’s almost impossible for me to explain the sight of him: worn white T-shirt, faded jeans, barefoot, scrubbing at his wet hair with a towel. He grinned, and I began to see double. I literally couldn’t see through the haze of lust and need I suddenly felt surge through me. I needed my hands to be on his body, and I needed it to happen immediately.

  “Mmm, something smells good. Want me to get the grill started?” he asked, walking over to where I was chopping vegetables at the counter. He stood behind me, his body only inches from mine, and something snapped. And it wasn’t just the pea pod I was holding…

  I turned around, and my tummy actually fluttered at the sight of him. It freaking fluttered. I pressed my hand against his chest, feeling the strength there and the warmth of his skin through the cotton. Reason waved bye-bye, and this was now purely physical. An itch that needed to be scratched, scratched, and then scratched again. I slid my hand up around the back of his neck, and pulled him down to me. My lips crashed against his, my intense need for him pouring into his mouth and down to the tips of my toes. Toes that kicked off their flip-flops and started shamelessly rubbing themselves across the tops of his feet. My body needed to feel skin, any skin, and needed it now.

  He responded, matching my rough kisses with his own, his mouth covering mine as I groaned at the feel of his hands on the small of my back. I quickly spun him around and pressed him up against the counter.

  “Off! I need this off,
now,” I muttered between kisses, yanking at his T-shirt. In a great whoosh of fabric, his shirt was thrown across the room as I maneuvered my body against his, sighing as I felt the contact. I was alternately trying to hug him and climb him, the lust now running freely through my body like a freight train. I reached between us and palmed him through his jeans. His eyes caught mine, and they crossed a little. I was on the right track. Feeling him getting harder by the second under my fingertips, suddenly all I wanted, all I needed, all I had to have to function in life, was him. In my mouth.

  “Hey, Nightie Girl, what are you—oh God—”

  Moving instinctively, I snapped open his jeans, dropped to my knees before him, and brought him forth. My pulse raced, and I think my blood actually boiled within me as I saw him. My breath drew in with a hiss as I regarded him, faded jeans pushed down just enough to frame this luminous sight.

  Simon does commando. God bless America.

  I wanted to be gentle, I wanted to be tender and sweet, but I simply needed him too badly. I glanced up at him, his eyes clouded but frantic, as his hands came down to brush my hair back from my face. I took his hands in my own and placed them back on the counter.

  “You’re gonna want to hold on for this,” I promised. He groaned a delicious groan and, doing as he was told, leaned back a little. He pushed his hips forward, but kept his eyes on mine. Always on mine.