by Mimi Strong
Finally, when I could wait no longer, I climbed up on top of him and pressed the tip of him to my opening.
As he held my thighs and tried to thrust into me, I put a hand on his chest and said, “Careful.”
“Oh.”
“I'm really wet and ready for you, but you're so big.”
“You're just saying that,” he said.
I eased down, taking in a couple inches of cock. He was so long that the thickness of him was a surprise, as he was so well-proportioned.
I went a little further, my vag expanding to take him in.
“Come here,” he said, patting his chest.
I moved forward on him and lay on his chest, letting him support the weight of my upper body.
He rocked his hips under me, pushing a little, but not much, and easing back out again. It felt good. So, so, so good. My whole area, from my clit to my butt was tingling, alive, and my pussy was so full and wonderfully stretched.
I was nice and wet, so slippery, and I began rocking my hips in rhythm with his. He pushed against me, pressing deeper, but with the position I was in, I could ease back up on his chest if it got to be too much.
He gently plunged in and out of me, and I moved without thinking.
Pulsing.
Riding.
Rocking.
Like a boat on the ocean.
My orgasm burst out like an opening flower, like a rose, and I felt divinely beautiful in my ecstasy. His hands were all over me, on my ass, on my back, in my hair, on my tits. Such big hands. His touch felt like more than one person, so encompassing.
As I rocked, riding my orgasm to its peak, his breathing changed and his muscles clenched under me, like he was holding back.
I pressed both hands onto his chest so I could hold myself and he could drive into me, a little further. I took more of him inside me, as much as I dared.
He gasped and plunged, his cock impossibly firm inside me, and then it got steamy. His hot seed flowed into me, pumping, and setting off a second wave of my orgasm as he splashed inside me and my eager cervix swooped down automatically, as nature intended, kissing the top of his penis inside me, dipping and dipping against the fluid, and as he flooded me with his warmth and his passion, I shuddered and ground down against his hips, locking him inside me.
We were both panting.
I relaxed my arms and fell down onto his broad chest, glistening with sweat.
My own side also glistened in the soft light, and I was as sweaty as he was.
He started to say something, and I held my finger to his lips to stop him.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Damn?”
He laughed, and his softening cock slipped out a little, reminding me of its presence.
“Am I that predictable?”
“In a good way,” I said. “I liked hearing you say that.”
After a moment, lying like this, his penis started to get hard again, and he nudged it into me, sliding in easily on his own fluid.
I pulled away from him, slipped off, and rolled onto my side. “I need some recovery time!” I said.
He glanced at the LED clock next to the bed and frowned. “How long?”
I shrugged.
“Oh!” he said, sitting up. “If you thought the computerized lights were cool, you should see the bathroom.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
Part 3: Hoping for a Second Date
The rest of the night, my first date with Trevor, was a little more mellow, but still amazing.
I thought we'd have sex again after a shower, but we ended up in his custom tub with jets. The thing was almost the size of a hot tub, but shaped perfectly for two people.
We relaxed in the water with some bubbles. We faced each other, each with our torsos resting in a groove, and I rubbed his feet while he massaged mine.
He said, “Mm, mutual.”
“Mutual is good,” I said.
“This is the life,” he said, and I don't remember much else, because I actually fell asleep, right there in the warm, bubbly tub.
I'd only had a couple glasses of wine at the restaurant, but that, combined with all the sex, and then the hot bath, put me out like a little lamb.
He woke me up and got me toweled off and tucked into bed.
His bed.
With Trevor.
He spooned me, but his cock was getting hard from touching my bum, so I made him roll over the other way. I lay on my side facing his back and spooned him, my arm around his chest, stroking the fur than ran down his midline.
“My teddy bear,” I said.
“I'm a big, bad bear.”
“No, you're a teddy,” I said, and then I crashed.
* * *
In the morning, I was eager to have sex again.
There was nobody in the bed with me.
I walked naked into the palatial bathroom, expecting to find him in the shower, but he wasn't there.
I had a quick shower, toweled off, and then laughed at the fact that I had a shirt and underwear in the bedroom, but no skirt. I put on what I could and ventured out looking for him, the towel wrapped around my waist.
I found Trevor in his huge, all-white kitchen, talking on the phone and pacing, a grim look on his face. He was mostly listening or giving one-word answers. I was dying to know what the call was about, but I gave him his privacy and went looking for my skirt, which was where I'd left it, by the front door. I finished dressing, ran up to the bedroom to hang up the towel, and by the time I came back down, Trevor had his shoes on and was pulling on his leather jacket.
I asked, “Is everything okay?”
“No, but everything is normal. Same shit, different day.”
“Was that your … ex-wife?”
He grimaced. “Come on. I gotta get you home or your mother will think I'm not a gentleman.”
I rolled my eyes. “It's morning. I think it's a bit late for that.”
He gave me a forced smile. “You had too much wine and crashed on my sofa. We'll say that.”
“Sure.”
* * *
The whole ride back to my house, I didn't ask why he was rushing me out, and he didn't offer any explanation.
We made small talk about the autumn leaves while my heart broke.
I held my hands in fists, upset with myself.
Why did I always pick emotionally unavailable men? First it was gay dudes who didn't quite know they were gay, and now … my sister's co-worker. A guy with an ex-wife and god knows how many other problems I had no clue about, because I'd practically blown him upon meeting him. If I worked out the time, it probably was less than two hours from us being introduced to me actually blowing him, in his truck.
I looked around the vehicle, feeling embarrassed and ashamed of what I'd done the night before, in that seat, under the cover of darkness.
When he pulled up in front of my house, I opened the door and jumped down, not waiting for assistance from Trevor.
By this point, I was stewing in my own anger, more pissed at myself for being a dumb girl than at him. He was a guy, ruled by his cock, and I'd made myself way too easy for him.
As I was jingling my keys, trying to get the stupid front door open, he caught my elbow and said, “You seem quiet today.”
I turned and snapped at him, “Maybe I am quiet. Maybe it's just how I am.”
“Did I do something wrong?” His eyebrows knit together in concern.
Really? No, really? Did I have to explain to him that rushing a girl out the house in the morning after sex without so much as a coffee is poor form? Maybe he was utterly clueless and that explained why he was getting divorced.
Instead of telling him all these things, I kept them to myself and said, “Don't mind me, I'm a grumpy bear before I get my coffee.”
He blinked. “Oh.”
And that was it. He wasn't picking up on the clue train at all.
He stretched his arms out and said, “Do we hug or something?”
I said, �
��How the fuck should I know!” I didn't wait for a response, just went into my house and shut the door behind me.
Inside my house, I stood there by the door, feeling stupid. I locked it. I stayed there, where I could see the shape of Trevor through the glass panels.
Ring the doorbell, I thought. Or knock. Do something.
But he didn't.
He turned and walked away.
* * *
My parents were out, at a flea market or something—their usual Saturday fun on the weekends they didn't travel up to our cabin by the lake.
I angrily paced the house, then went to my room and had a good cry into my pillow.
When I stopped feeling sorry for myself, I called up my sister Nikki and let her have it.
She claimed her cell phone was dying, but promised to come pick me up in half an hour and take me for breakfast.
I yelled into the phone, “It would have been nice if your terrific guy Trevor had made me breakfast!”
Then I felt like an idiot, because she'd already ended the call.
Also, because I was being an idiot. Of course Trevor wasn't a mind reader, and of course he couldn't have known what my expectations were. He probably had some sort of big property development deal that needed his attention, and perhaps he wasn't capable of sleeping nine or ten hours in a row like I am.
I took my idiot self into the bathroom and started a nice, hot, idiot shower, and another cry.
And then, to cap things off, I got wicked cramps and my period started.
I was on the pill, but I hadn't taken my pill the night before, because I'd been at Trevor's house, and I guess my body decided that since I already felt crappy, why not throw some nice uterus-agony on top of everything?
Nikki got there earlier than expected, and when she came into the house to get me, she found me sitting in the shower in the fetal position, sobbing and bleeding, the water pouring down on me.
She just turned off the water, handed me a tampon and a dark towel (my mother bought a second set of dark towels when Nikki and I hit puberty), and went to wait in my bedroom.
* * *
Seeing my puffy face in the mirror only made me want to cry some more, but I put on some makeup, combed out my hair, and got dressed while Nikki used my laptop on my bed.
We agreed that we wouldn't start talking about Trevor until I'd had my coffee.
I'd started drinking coffee at fourteen. It was my parents' idea. Most parents keep their kids away from the stuff, saying it “stunts their growth,” but I was such a grumpy, surly bear in the morning. They figured since it worked wonders for them both, it might do the trick for me.
And it did.
* * *
Nikki had set the pot brewing when she walked in the door, and I took my first cup in a thermos. I took it with me into Nikki's car, holding it like a security blanket as we drove to the local greasy spoon all-day breakfast place.
We took a booth inside the restaurant and ordered coffee and breakfast.
Around the time I was desperate for a second refill, Nikki said, “Out with it. What did he do? I'll kill him. Just so you know. He may be my boss, but I will kill him if he did anything to hurt your feelings.”
“He's your boss?”
“Duh.”
I groaned and banged my head on the table. “Yeah, I don't know why I didn't clue in to that part. Probably because I wasn't listening.”
She gave me side-eye. “Were you talking, non-stop? About all your gay theater boyfriends? Were you flapping your mouth?”
I grimaced and thought about what I'd actually been doing with my mouth.
Nikki, who knows me well enough to read my face like a book, said, “Oh, shit.”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“What? Did you blow him or fuck him?”
“Uh, both.”
She said, “I'm gonna shove my fist up his ass.”
The waitress refilling our coffee cups didn't bat an eyelash or spill a drop.
After the waitress walked away, I said, “Please, let's just pretend nothing happened. I'm so ashamed of myself.”
Nikki tapped a sugar packet thoughtfully. “Don't be. Don't ever be ashamed of going after what you want.” She looked up and gave me the sweetest smile, meant to comfort, but it set me off crying. “We really get the worst period emotions, don't we?”
“We do!” I said between sobs. I'd been a late bloomer like her, puberty-wise, not getting my period until I was nearly sixteen. The cramps were so terrible that I'd gotten put on the pill by seventeen. Nikki was the same way, so she totally understood. Things were manageable after that, but still not great.
Once I calmed down, and we got our pancakes and sides of bacon, she fished all the information out of me, blow by blow, so to speak.
When I was done with my sad tale, she shook her head and said, “Trevor's just like that. He's a real on-the-go-go-go kinda guy.”
“Was the phone call for business, then?”
“I don't know … uh ... I don't think we have anything out of the ordinary going on at work. Our last real estate purchase went through without a hitch, and we're just applying for permits now. Hmm.” She twisted her lips from side to side. “It might be ...”
I nodded, feeling a heaviness in my stomach that was more than the pancakes. “His ex-wife.”
She nibbled on her strawberry garnish and poked at the half pancake left on her plate. I'd eaten all of mine, because my period gives me intense carbohydrate cravings.
“They don't have kids or anything,” she said. “You'd think it would be a clean break, right?”
“God, can you believe we're so old we're dating divorced guys?”
“Life is messy.”
I groaned and clutched my abdomen. “At least there's always Midol.”
“And I love you.”
“Thanks. I feel like being mad at you for setting me up with Trevor, but you didn't do anything wrong. I messed it up all on my own, by making myself too easy.”
She gave me an older-sister-wisdom look. “Just because you got naked with him doesn't mean you're easy. There's more to a woman than that. A smart man knows better.”
My voice bright and chirpy, I said, “At least he's not gay! I think my loser streak of dating bisexual men has been broken.”
She nodded, and I wondered if that had been her plan all along.
“Don't rule Trevor out,” she said. “He may have gotten freaked. He's a super nice guy. He'll come around.” She patted my hand the way she always does when she's totally lying to make me feel better. “I'm sure he'll call.”
* * *
Brunch with my sister was Saturday. I spent the rest of the weekend on the couch, watching trash TV and eating breakfast cereal straight from the box.
My mother came in and shook her head at me and my pile of cereal crumbs. She muted the episode of Real Housewives and asked if we should invite Trevor for dinner Sunday.
I didn't tell her he hadn't called, and I'd been one-night-stand-dumped. I said, “I'm taking it slow.”
She pursed her lips and gave me a twinkly-eye look. “Is that why you slept over?”
“I slept on his couch,” I said. “Too much wine at dinner.”
She didn't say anything, but her expression said she was silently agreeing to keep the facade. If Dad asked, she might pass along the fib, and he would likely play along as well. Then again, maybe he'd believe it. Dad probably thinks my sister and I are both virgins. As he should!
On Monday, I took the time to do my hair and makeup really great. As I stared at myself in the mirror, the blue hair I'd had for the last year or so didn't seem right. Who could take a girl with blue hair seriously? Especially when she's as tiny and young-looking as me.
Maybe that was why Trevor didn't like me. If he was meeting corporate clients for business-social events, would he want a young girl with bright blue hair on his arm? How would that look?
I called in to work and let them know I needed a half-day for persona
l business. My work is really flexible, and I'd put in a lot of overtime the previous month, so it was no problem.
I phoned my hairdresser, who agreed to squeeze me in.
* * *
I walked into work with a smile on my face and my head held high. It helped that my cramps were gone and Aunt Flo was somewhat past the worst of it. Also, I looked stunning. My hairdresser had worked for hours to strip the blue from my hair, as well as the black chunks, and we'd settled on an array of natural-looking colors, from an autumn brown to some lighter, golden streaks. Some length had been sacrificed, because it was so damaged, but I was sporting a chin-length bob that looked like a million bucks.
When I walked into the office, everyone hooted and blew me kisses. They're a crazy bunch, but they're good people. After receiving their many compliments, I sat at my desk and declared war on my workload, war on my problems.
I work in the theater.
Okay, that sounded dramatic.
I work in the head office of a theater company, and if you want to think it's glamorous, please do. We won't discuss how I actually work in Accounts Receivable and do collection calls for about an hour a day. My job is to be sweet and lovable within the office, chipper and efficient with filing and making spreadsheets and reports for my boss, then I get on the telephone to people who owe us money and I act like (please pardon the vulgar expression) a cunt.
I phone people up and say, “You promised the check would be on my desk Monday, and today's Monday, and I don't see the check. Is it invisible? Is it microscopic? Oh, you forgot. Well, that's no problem. I'll send over a courier right now. Yes, I've just put in the order with our bike messenger service and he'll be over to your office in … oh, about an hour. I hope you won't keep the bike messenger waiting, or he'll ask to use your bathroom, and you know those guys sprinkle all over the seat. What's that? The check's ready now? Wonderful! Thank you so much. Please call if I can be of further assistance to you.”
I'd just finished up a phone call with some people who owed us about two hundred dollars. Those people really annoyed me, because I had to spend at least two hours tracking them down for a measly two hundred bucks, which is a lot to an individual, but not very significant to a big company like ours. The waste was what annoyed me—that I had to spend my time chasing people down and spending my hours to get what we should have been paid for, on time.
