Getting Her Back

by Wylder, Penny

  "To be fucked." He climbs up my body again so is cock is resting between my legs. For a split second I wonder if he's going to put a condom on, and then I realize that's probably the stupidest thought I've ever had.

  He doesn't wait, he fits himself against my entrance and pushes in slowly, smoothly. Oh God. Christian has always been big, and I've never been with anyone as big as him. I'd forgotten what it felt like, the way he stretches me open.

  It's a good thing he warmed me up, because I'm not sure I would have been able to fit him otherwise. He slides in, and in, and in, until I'm suddenly reminded of this full feeling. The way every part of me is so full of him that I feel complete.

  I open my eyes, and look up at him. He's looking down at me, and I can see in his eyes that he's feels the same memories, the same conflicted pleasure. I love this. I'll never get enough, and even though we both agreed, this is more complicated than either of us are willing to admit.

  I can’t open my mouth. If I start to talk everything that I'm thinking will come pouring out, and this is not the right time. Instead, I squeeze down on him with my pussy, letting him know that I'm ready.

  And then he starts to fuck me. Slow at first, easing in and out getting my body used to his size again after three years. But God, it feels so good. The friction of his skin on my skin, the depth he's able to reach inside me, the way he rolls his hips so every thrust catches my clit again, everything merges, making me ready to come almost immediately.

  Faster, and even faster he presses into me, grunting with arousal and effort. I'm so far gone, only able to breathe, and barely that. I lift up my legs and wrap them around his waist, allowing him even deeper. He's the only one that's ever been able to reach that spot at the back of my vagina, the one that makes me see sparks and fireworks and scream his name over and over again. He touches it now, and my body's already sensitive enough that it feels like a sunburst cascading across my skin.

  I don't ask this time, I just come. Orgasm tearing through me like a pleasurable hurricane, looking to destroy my body. I let out a low moan, my pussy clenching down on his cock, my body shuddering underneath him. He doesn't stop, not even for a second, which makes it all so much better. My orgasm rides at the driving force of his thrusts, going on and on, until a second orgasm comes on the heels of the first.

  My voice is suddenly free for this one, and I cry out. I haven't come like this in a long time. I didn't even think I was capable of doing something like that anymore. Christian’s eyes are closed, and just seconds after my second orgasm he comes, groaning against my skin. He keeps thrusting as he comes, warmth filling up my center.

  We’re both still for a moment, breathing heavily. Finally, Christian moves, pulling gently out of me and going to clean himself off. I don't move, instead I reach for one of the pillows on the bed and scoot it under my hips. They say it's better to lie on your back for about twenty minutes after sex to ensure the best chances for pregnancy. Whether or not that's an old wives’ tale, I don't really care. I'm going to do it anyway.

  Christian comes back from the bathroom and heads toward his clothes. "I guess I should've asked," he says. "Are you even ovulating right now?"

  “Not today," I say. "It starts tomorrow or the next day."

  "Then I'll see you here, same time, day after tomorrow," he says, buckling his belt.

  "You're leaving now?" I ask.

  He nods. "My job is done. You wanted this businesslike, remember?"

  "Yeah."

  He gives me a final look before heading out the door. "Please just lock the door behind you."

  A few seconds later I hear the front door shut, and suddenly the space around me seems large and silent. I am very, very alone. But this is what I wanted, isn't it?

  7

  In true Audrey fashion, I'm way too eager. On the way home from the apartment, I stopped at a drug store and bought a pregnancy test. It was all I could do not to take the test immediately when I got home. All I managed to do was wait until the morning, and even though it's incredibly unrealistic for me to think that I'd be pregnant after just twelve hours, I can't help myself.

  And even though I know that the chances are slim to none, the disappointment I feel when the test tells me I'm not pregnant is enough to make me cry. I'm not usually a big crier, and the way too hopeful part of me says that maybe I am pregnant and it's too early for the test to tell. That the brand-new hormones in my body are what are making me cry. But I know that's not true. I've never been pregnant, but I've wanted it for so long, that I feel that I'll know.

  When I meet Ellen for brunch, she rolls her eyes when I say that.

  "You know you won't actually be able to tell when you're pregnant, right?" She asks.

  "It's not like it's totally impossible," I say. "I mean, I know it's rare but I've heard of it happening."

  “Yeah, exactly," she says through a mouthful of eggs. "It's rare. You're only gonna be more disappointed if you think that you're going to be the exception to the rule."

  "I guess so," I say, taking a sip of my tea. Then I clear my throat. "I have something to tell you. About the guy."

  Her eyes light up. "Oh, do tell. Was he an absolutely amazing lover? Or have you decided to find somebody else to seed your garden?"

  I start laughing. "I'll tell you about it if you promise never to say ‘seeding your garden’ again."

  "Fair enough," she says, waving a hand.

  "It turns out… I know the guy."

  She raises an eyebrow. "Really? Who?"

  I cringe, anticipating a reaction. “It was Christian."

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. "Are you serious?"

  "You know that Christian is the last person I would joke about."

  "And you slept with him?"

  I hesitate for just a second. "Yeah, I did."

  "I am… Amazed that you didn't kick him in the balls and walk out of there."

  I take a bite of toast. "Believe me, I thought about it. But he had some good points about why we could make this work, and if it turns out that it's not working, I can always find someone else."

  Ellen stares at me for a minute, like she's trying to figure something out. "How was that? I mean, was it weird? After everything that happened, I feel like that would be hard."

  “It wasn't the easiest thing I've ever done, but the chemistry between us has never been the problem.”

  "Yeah, it's just that you've always said you thought he was the love of your life. Are you really going to be able to let him get you pregnant and then walk away?"

  "The love of my life is going to be someone who wants the same things that I want, at the same time that I want them. That clearly isn't Christian. I don't know if I'll ever find another 'love of my life,’ but regardless, he can't be it if we want such different things."

  Ellen looks unconvinced, but she also doesn't push the issue. "Okay," she says. She finishes swallowing the bite she has in her mouth and takes a drink of her coffee. "On not an entirely unrelated subject, what's the one thing that you always wanted to do besides be a mother?"

  "Be a painter?" This is something we've talked about often. Ellen thinks I'm more talented than I am, and she wants to help me become what she deems a 'real artist.'

  She points at me. “Yes!"

  "Ellen, we talked about this."

  "You're right," she says, "we have. But not like this." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a thin folder. "See?"

  She hands the folder to me and I take it. It has the logo for the Prince Art School on it. It's one of the most prestigious art schools in Manhattan, and in no way would I ever be able to get in there even if I wanted to. I can't afford to quit my job to go to art school. "What is this?"

  "Just read it."

  I open the folder quickly glancing over the contents. I expected an application for the school, that's not what it is. Instead, it's an acceptance letter to a five-week workshop taught by Alexander Prince himself. It starts in three days. "What on earth?"
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br />   "I have some connections at that school," Ellen says. "I know you always say you don't want to go to art school, but this is so short I thought you might give it a shot."

  I was stunned. Alexander Prince is considered one of the best artists of modern times. "How was I accepted when I didn't even apply?"

  "Oh," she says, "I did that. When they saw a few of your pieces they were practically falling over themselves to print out the acceptance letter."

  Blood rushes to my face and I am embarrassed that someone saw my work, but also pleased that they liked it. But there's more than one reason that I don't drop out and go to art school. Art school’s expensive. "How much does it cost?"

  Ellen grins like a Cheshire cat. "Not a damn penny. Apparently, Mr. Prince wanted to do a workshop for talented artists who can't afford to pay for art school. So for everyone who applies and is accepted, there is no tuition necessary."

  I shake my head. “This can’t be real."

  "But it is," she says, her face so happy and smug I kind of want to slap her and hug her at the same time. "And they knew most of the people would be working professionals, so the classes are at night."

  I'm still shocked, but there's happiness and anticipation building in my stomach. "I don't know how you found this, Ellen, but thank you."

  “You’re going to do it?”

  "Hell yeah, I'm going to do it!"

  It's been a while since I've painted seriously. After things fell apart with Christian, I was in a serious depression for a long time and had no desire to paint. When I came out of it, I was busy trying to put my life back together. I was dating, trying to find his replacement, and I was deciding whether or not I wanted to pursue motherhood alone. There have been a few occasions when I've painted, but it was never serious. This makes me want to run home right now and break out all of my art supplies, even though I have to go to work. Now I have two things to look forward to: this art workshop and a positive pregnancy test.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, the only thing I can think about is meeting Christian. I go to the store and buy some ovulation sticks to make sure that I'm ovulating, and I am. This really could be the night.

  The only thing that can possibly distract me from thinking of him is painting. The second I got home from work on Friday, I pulled out all my art supplies and spread them out over my living room. I stayed up way too late experimenting with ideas that were bouncing around in my mind.

  I daydream about what the workshop will be like, what styles we’ll experiment with, and whether or not this might lead to something more in art.

  I paint all day, focusing on an abstract background of blue-and-white shapes from which faces appear. Some of the faces I know, or resemble people that I know like Ellen, my mother, there's even one that looks a bit like Christian. Some of them I don't know, purely from my imagination.

  They all have back-stories in my head. Some are artists like me. Some are characters from books that I've read. Some I fancy to be people that I passed on the streets of New York City and inexplicably remember their faces.

  I spent so much time on the painting that I almost forgot to leave for my date with Christian. I don't have enough time to fully wash all the paint from my hands, I just have to put on the clothes that I've chosen and run out the door. The first time I went to this apartment I was anxious because I thought I was going to meet a stranger. Now I'm anxious because I know that I'm not going to meet one. Ellen's words from breakfast yesterday echo in my head. How am I supposed to do this? How my supposed to let the man I once loved so deeply give me a baby and then simply walk away? Will that break me all over again? I don't believe it will, but I also know not to trust myself when it comes to things like this.

  Christian is waiting in the living room when I enter the apartment. I note the way my body reacts when I see him, perking up, and feeling light. It's the same way I used to feel when I came home to our apartment and found him waiting for me. I also note the way I’m suddenly aroused, my body craving more of the feelings that he can give me.

  "Hi."

  "Hello," he says. "You seem out of breath."

  "I was running a little late so I walked here really fast from the subway."

  He smiles. "You didn't have to do that. I'm not going to walk out of here if you're five minutes late."

  "That's good to know," I say, dropping my purse onto the couch. "Shall we?"

  Christian stands. “Of course."

  I don’t make him wait in the living room this time; instead I immediately head into the bedroom and start to strip. I'm down to my bra and panties when Christian catches me by the waist and hauls me against his body. He's already shirtless, and my arousal flames into full force just from touching him. "You got somewhere to be?"

  "No," I say, a little breathlessly.

  "Then what's your rush?"

  I feel color rise to my cheeks. I look away from him, suddenly embarrassed. I don't say anything, but neither does he. And I know from the way he's looking at me that he's not going to do anything until I answer his question. Finally, I find the words. "I'm ovulating."

  "Ah. So you're excited," he says.

  "Yeah, I am."

  He slides his hand down my waist, his fingers slipping into my panties before I can protest. “And probably very horny too," he says. The way his fingers are slipping through my wetness, there's no doubt that he already knows just how ready I am for this.

  I manage a smile. “I’m very ready for you to get me pregnant.”

  “I think you’re ready for more than that.” He slips a finger in my pussy, and I lose my breath. He doesn't hesitate, immediately adding a second finger. His thumb rests gently on my clit, pressing in circles, teasing me and keeping me on the edge.

  Christian curls his fingers up and back, stroking my G spot. I rise up on my toes with the pleasure of it, and he keeps steady. His fingers bring waves of pleasure quickly, stroking, stroking, stroking, until I'm gasping for breath.

  “You’re too good at this."

  He smirks. "I know."

  He fits the third finger inside me, strumming them across my G spot like I'm an instrument that he's meant to play, and I moan. "I hate you."

  “Yes, but right now you love my fingers."

  I grab his biceps trying to steady myself, and he wraps his free hand in my hair, holding me in place. "Your fingers are the only good part of you."

  He leans down so his lips are almost brushing mine. "I think you might live to have a conversation with my cock about that."

  I want to come back and say something witty, but now he's thrusting his fingers into me as well as stroking inside me and all my words are gone. My orgasm rises up almost out of the blue, shocking me, taking me swiftly and hard. It swirls up my spine through my chest out into my hands and my brain and my breath, and I gush onto his hand and down my legs.

  He teases me through my orgasm, using his thumb to send additional sparks of pleasure through my body. I relax down from my toes breathing deeply, and Christian chuckles. "Maybe you don't hate me after all."

  “Oh no,” I say, “I still hate you. But you happen to be very talented in the orgasm giving department."

  “You didn’t ask.”

  I stand up a little straighter, ignoring the fact that his fingers are still inside me. “No matter what you say, I’m not going to beg you for pleasure.”

  His hand is still in my hair too, and I feel his fingers tighten. “I thought we agreed you would do what I say?”

  “Within reason, Christian.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” he says, sliding his fingers out of me. I ignore the fact that I feel empty now, distracted by the fact that his fingers are now in his mouth, tasting me. The sound that comes from him makes me wet again, and he grins around his fingers. “I do love the way you taste.”

  Blood rushes to my face, and I turn away, embarrassed.

  “You never used to blush when I said things like that,” he notes.

 
“It’s been three years, Christian. You don’t know me anymore.”

  His hands creeps around my waist, easing me back against him. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I think I know you pretty well.”

  “Sex isn’t knowing someone.”

  “I never said it was,” he says, breathing against my shoulder. “I know that you’re still stubborn. I know that you’ve changed, become someone who goes after what she wants. I know that you’ve been painting, and I know that you’re just as sexy as the day I met you.”

  My stomach does a flip-flop, which I ignore. This is not what this is for. He’s not supposed to notice things about me. I don’t know if I want him to, and yet I can’t help but be pleased that he is. “How do you know that I’ve been painting?” I ask, latching on to the one thing in that list that’s the easiest to deal with.

  He grabs my hands and raises them so I can see. My fingers are spattered with blue flecks from my painting earlier today. It hadn’t even occurred to me that you could still see them. I hadn’t remembered. “Oh.”

  Still guiding my hands, Christian uses my fingers to tuck into the waist of my panties and push them to the floor. He leaves me only for a moment, and I hear the rustling of his pants before he’s against me again, and I can feel the hardness of his cock against my ass. “We haven’t used the bed yet,” he whispers in my ear, turning me towards the wall. “Why start now?”

  I let it happen. Christian guides me to the wall, pressing me to it with his body. His hands are on my hips, pulling them back just a little, and the way he’s arranging me to his liking turns me on more than I want it to. I’m dripping again, so, so ready.

  Christian fits himself against me, not easing in this time, instead thrusting in with one stroke. It takes my breath away, and I groan into the wall. I reach out for something to grab, something to hold onto while my body adjusts, and I find Christian. He grabs my hands, weaving our fingers together, holding my arms wide. I feel vulnerable, held open and pinned in place, but I also feel good. I’ve moved on from my conflicting emotions about Christian and I’m just enjoying the way he’s here. I like the way he fills me up, stuffed and aching.