by Mimi Strong
He gazed at me with a dopey expression and said, “Am I dreaming?”
“You sure are, baby.” I grabbed both of his hands and pulled him in closer to me, then put his hands down between my knees and used them to part my legs.
“This is awesome,” he said, and as he grinned, he got three or more adorable dimples on his wholesome cheeks.
“We should do this before you wake up,” I said, and I guided his hand all the way up to my panties. I feared there would be an electrical shock, a punishment for not doing as I was supposed to, but I felt the good kind of zap.
That first touch from a new hand is so incredible. My mouth dropped open and I let out a sigh. With a little coaxing, Calvin started to move his hand and pushed a finger under the narrow crotch of my g-string panties. His finger caressed my damp pussy, heading straight for my opening. Without a courtesy stop at the clit, he dove right in with two fingers. I leaned back on the washing machine to give him better access.
He fingered me, staring down at his fingers as though in a daze. A happy sort of daze.
This gentle, soothing touch was not what I had in mind, so I grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him in toward me for a kiss. His mouth wasn't nearly as minty fresh as mine, but it was still good, and after a second, I didn't care. His tongue was as hesitant as his finger, which only made me more impatient.
I pulled back and tried to coax more out of him. “What do you want to do to me?”
He laughed nervously.
I reached down and squeezed his cock through his jeans. He stopped laughing. I undid the jeans and reached in for his cock. He shuddered at my touch and pulled back as though his knees were buckling.
“Easy there, big boy,” I said. “Pace yourself.”
The look in his gorgeous blue eyes changed. He was no longer bewildered, but he was completely aware of everything, and he wanted me. As I moved my hand up and down on his rigid shaft, my hand getting slippery from his pre-come fluid, he went back at my pussy with his own hand, more certain this time.
At last, he finally found my clit. My g-string was now pulled off to the side, exposing my mound.
He smiled and gave me intense eye contact as he matched the rhythm of his hand strokes to mine. Up, down, up, down, pause, squeeze, up, down.
The fire was in my belly, the need growing more urgent. I had to come or I was going to explode. Part of me couldn't believe it was happening. The cute guy with the strong arms and broad shoulders, the one I could barely make eye contact with when we were in the elevator together, was rubbing me, pleasuring me. His lips were parted, so I kissed him some more. He felt like he was about to come in my hand, so I stopped jerking him and wrapped my arms around his neck as we kissed.
He got confused and stopped moving his hand. Without any pressure, the heat in my loins flared up and I cried out in pain.
“Stick it in,” I urged him, my lips on his neck, his earlobe. I licked the side of his neck and then kiss-bit the side of his neck, enjoying the tangy, salty taste. He hadn't showered yet, and he tasted so good.
I felt something at my vagina, something bigger than a thumb or finger. He pressed against me, but it wouldn't go in. We stopped kissing and I stared down, worried as hell something was cursed with my vagina, and it was too small or something, but the problem was I'd scooted back a ways on the washing machine, and even though Calvin was long, he wasn't that long.
With his tip nestled within my folds, he put both of his hands firmly on my ass, and lurched me forward onto him, one inch.
With the head of his cock inside me, I finally got a taste of the fullness I'd been craving. I whimpered and wiggled, trying to move myself forward onto him, but he said, “Slow down. Easy. Easy now, girl.”
He bit his lip and bowed his head.
I didn't want him to come too soon either, not until he'd given me what I needed, so I waited.
I waited forever.
He breathed in and out slowly.
“Calvin, I—”
He cut me off with, “Shh,” and a tremble in his lower body.
Since he wasn't helping me out, I figured we both didn't have to suffer, so I moved my own hand down onto my clit to help myself feel better about the wait.
Unfortunately, the fairy's curse was still in effect, and I gave myself a painful shock.
This zap, however, had an interesting side-effect on Calvin.
He said, “Aw, fuck it.”
He grabbed my ass and pulled me into him, impaling me on his gorgeous cock, which was fair-skinned and as attractive and wholesome as the rest of him.
Then he just completely unleashed, eyes closed, banging away as hard as he could.
My tits shook up and down from the movement. All those surfing muscles. He drove himself into me, deeper and deeper. I parted my legs, leaned back until I was lying on my back holding my knees, and he didn't miss a beat.
Ripples of pleasure flowed over me. I could do this for hours. I wasn't coming, nor was I impatient to come, I was just enjoying.
“Oh, Becca,” he said, then, “Oh, shit, oh Becca, oh shit, oh Becca, oh God, oh God, oh God ...”
A tickle started in my loins, circling around my clit and up through my spine. Every time he said my name, my heart pounded harder and pretty soon I was coming too.
I joined in.
“Oh, Becca,” he said.
“Oh, Calvin, oh! Oh Calvin, oh shit, oh shit, oh Calvin, oh God, oh Calvin!”
His cock inside me began to tremble, actually tremble, like a dam about to explode, and I came. I felt like I was coming all over him, melting like ice cream down the cone of his big, fucking amazing manhood.
He grabbed me under my knees and actually lifted my butt up an inch or two from the washing machine. He must have been up on his toes, and he slammed into me, mid-air, and it was the greatest thing, ever.
With a final, “Oh Becca,” he unloaded into me, gasping and sweating, thrusting and bucking.
I came a second time on the splash of his come, my insides sucking at him, pulsing my inner muscles in that mysterious rhythm, where you don't know which pulse is yours and which is his.
Sated, he dropped me back down and fell onto me.
I stared up at the bare bulb hanging down from the ceiling.
A spider was building a web between the light's cord and the basement's ceiling.
I glanced around and decided that if we were going to fuck again, it would not be in the laundry room.
He pulled out of me, apologizing.
“Don't apologize, that was great,” I said.
“But I came too fast.”
“No, you didn't.”
He pulled up his jeans, which were resting around his knees, and said, “I'm a lot better the second go 'round.”
“I may have to take you up on that,” I said.
I pulled my thong back over, trusting the lined gusset would keep me spill-free until I could get back to my apartment.
Calvin shuffled around awkwardly, his hands in his jean pockets. “Should I get your number?”
“I live three doors down from you. Do you really need my number?”
“Oh. Uh ...”
“Listen, this was really fun. I've got a bunch of things to do today, but how about we make plans for tomorrow?” I grinned at my own wickedness. If tomorrow was today again, I did have plans for him, and if tomorrow was actually a new tomorrow, I could still have plans. Calvin was sweet, as was his cock.
“Sure,” he said, and then we had a brief moment of kissing, but I pulled away quickly and ran off, because I didn't want to get turned on all over again. Not that there was anything wrong with being turned on again, but I had things I needed to do.
Part 2: Wear a Great Dress, Make the Party Sexier
My head was a bit more clear, thanks to the great sex with Calvin, but the lusty pangs were back. They were manageable for the moment, but I was cautious of anything that might turn me on. Already I was getting used to having a raging libido, a
nd I gotta say, it wasn't a bad thing.
When the guy that my friend Deena and I refer to simply as Douchebag dumped me six months earlier, sex was not on my mind. Having sex probably wouldn't have occurred to me for another half-year, if the whole fairy-mother-magic-business hadn't happened.
I'd been in love with Douchebag. At least I had been in the beginning. He was a reformed bad boy, trying to pay off his debts and make amends. I'd fallen for his act, even helping him track down a half-brother he'd had a falling-out with over a loan a few years earlier. The loan had been from the brother, to him, which should have been my first red flag.
But I was young and stupid, and he was the opposite of the previous boyfriend, who'd been a special kind of asshole in a completely different way.
I didn't always date men who were bad for me. In high school, I'd had two sweet boyfriends (not at the same time), and they'd both treated me well. Losing my virginity had not been the horrific experience it was for so many of my friends. We'd had candles and condoms and lots of talking. Too much talking, if you ask me, but it was the kind of experience I'd hope for my own daughters, if I were to have any.
My good dating luck didn't last after high school, unfortunately.
Things finally came to an end with Douchebag when I opened some of his mail, thinking it was for me. He'd applied for another credit card, and the letter I opened was his statement. Now, it wasn't printed in big capital letters that the guy was cheating on me, but there was a purchase at a jewelry store for the previous month. I hadn't received any jewelry, nor did I have a birthday coming up. You figure it out.
On top of that, there was the fact of the credit card even existing. Douchebag had cut up all his credit cards, right in front of me. He was putting every spare dollar from his job into paying down his existing debts, which was why I frequently got stuck picking up the tab for movies or pizzas or bottles of wine to take to friends' parties. My job at the casting agency barely paid enough for me to live off, let alone me and a big jerk with a matching big appetite.
Instead of waiting for him to get home to our apartment, which was much nicer than the hovel I was currently living in, I phoned him at work and dropped the bomb.
He tried to, “Becca-it-was-nothing,” me, but I just ended the call. He phoned back a minute later. I let it go to voicemail. He called, again and again, which only made me more sure about my decision. I grabbed some garbage bags and threw all my clothes in them, stuffed everything in my little car, and dropped the key through the mail slot on my way out.
Oh, I'd considered ruining some of his things, but at the time I wasn't that angry at him. I was more disappointed with myself. We'd been having sex at most once or twice a month, and so I really couldn't blame him for looking elsewhere. I know this was stupid, but it was how I felt in the moment. When someone you love, someone you think you'll get married to, cheats on you, your brain shuts down. In the heat and heartbreak of the moment, blaming yourself is not uncommon—or so I learned from some of the internet-based support groups I turned to.
I blamed myself for not being sexual enough.
I spent the first few weeks at Deena's house, and after I was past the ice-cream stage, she took me to this funky meditation class where we focused on bringing the fire into our yonis.
Every woman has a yoni, and it's exactly what you think it is. Don't quote me on this, but the word yoni comes from Hinduism and it's a symbol for regeneration and associated with the goddess Shakti.
At the meditation class, the silver-haired woman led us in a group chant, a bunch of heavy breathing, and then all these imaginary scenarios to breathe fire into our yonis.
I was so nervous in the class full of women who seemed way more into their yonis than I was, that I didn't feel much fire. Maybe a few little tingles.
Deena said she didn't feel anything either, but her face was all flushed, and as soon as we got back to her apartment, she locked herself in the bathroom for two hours.
I watched reruns of Friends and felt like an old prune, all dried up and past my sexual peak at twenty-six. Friends is my comfort drug. I love those characters more than most of the people in my life, because they never let you down. Well, there's the final season and all the downer stuff with people moving on with their lives, but besides that, they never let you down.
Sometimes I wonder if my life would make a good sitcom, and if it did, which part. The early days with Douchebag were cute. We had big plans to take over the world, and we'd stay up late on our first dates, hatching various plans. We were going to open a cafe and serve pulled-pork buns. We were going to do a lot of things. But then, it just fizzled.
Enough about me and my life story, though, right? I know I'm a lucky girl, lucky to be born in a country that respects my freedoms (most of the time) and my life is good. You want to hear about all the fornicating. Where is the fornicating?
Well… would you believe I fucked the skinny clerk at a clothing boutique?
You know those cute hipster boys who wear the tight jeans and the too-small T-shirts that show off their tattoos? Have you ever wanted to just grab one by the skinny ass and tell him to shut up about his favorite band and just eat you?
No, me neither, not until my second Saturday.
He had big, brown eyes, and at first I thought he was wearing eyeliner, but it was just his thick lashes. His dark hair was long in front and fell across one of his eyes. His ears were stretched out with those big gauge earrings, and as he showed me back to the changing room at the little dress boutique, I started wondering if he had any piercings elsewhere.
But wait, we're not at that part yet.
Here's what happened after the fun in the laundry room:
I was planning to go to the art gallery opening, but this time I was going to dress like a million bucks. After I cleaned up from the Cute Calvin excitement, I got in my car and left the neighborhood with all my credit cards ready. I live in Glassell Park, which is one of those areas people refer to as “gentrifying.” There's some gang activity in the less-hilly areas, but at least it's affordable.
When I lived with Douchebag, we were in Eagle Rock, which has a great semi-suburban vibe I liked. If you have a car, though, all of LA is your 'hood.
I didn't go to Robertson Boulevard, to the big-name stores, because my credit cards did have a limit, and it was not exactly a Chanel-sized limit.
Instead, I drove to West Third Street, to a boutique I'd fallen in love with a few months earlier.
The place had that air of we-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-like that I found obnoxious, but they had some hot dresses.
The shop wasn't busy that Saturday, but then again, it wasn't exactly Target, now was it? A woman came in with three little white dogs and let them run loose. If I wasn't mistaken, those were the same dogs that would be at the art opening later that night. Huh, small world, I thought.
I found the perfect dress, cherry-red, in a shimmering fabric. I didn't even look at the price tag.
The woman with the dogs was shopping right next to me, trying to decide between a black dress and a blue one. She was leaning toward the black, when I encouraged her to get the blue, because it brought out her eyes.
She said, “That's the sweetest compliment I've had in ages.”
“Get the blue dress and you'll be hearing compliments non-stop tonight.”
She held the dress up to herself and looked at me warily. “How did you know I was wearing it tonight?”
“Just a hunch,” I said, laughing.
The sexy guy came up to me and held out his hands. “Can I get something started in a change room for you?”
“You sure can!” I said, staring into that handsome face and thinking of starting something entirely more interesting than what he meant.
As he led me back to the room, I got a good look at his tight little buns. They were so perky. I wanted to grab those buns and squeeze them.
He lingered for a moment near the change room, and I entered, moving close enough pas
t him that I could smell his musk. No cologne. Just natural. Man-smell.
As I tried on the dress in the chilly, concrete-walled change room, I couldn't stop thinking about the young man who'd been helping me. I put on the dress without a bra, and when I saw my own nipples sticking up, hard, through the sexy fabric, I turned myself on.
The heat rose in my pussy as I turned this way and that, admiring my legs in the dress.
As I've told you before, I'm not gay, but I'd definitely fuck me.
The curve of my calf, the little freckle on my knee, even the shape of my ankles. Sexy. An expensive dress really brings everything out in a way cheap dresses rarely do.
I threw open the gray curtain and looked for the guy.
A woman with severe black hair tried to help me, but I told her, “I need a guy's opinion.”
She sneered and left the changing room. A moment later, the guy appeared, his hands held together and his face looking all helpful.
“Very nice,” he said.
In addition to the puppy-like brown eyes and thick, dark eyelashes, he had gorgeous eyebrows, magnificently full and straight. The big holes in his earlobes were starting to do something for me as well. I wanted to put them in my mouth. What would it feel like to stick my tongue through those holes? Maybe it was another symptom of the fairy's spell, but I had to know.
I asked, “Would this dress help me seduce someone?”
“I don't think you'll have any problem.” A wry smile twisted his lips. He had skinny lips, to go with his skinny legs in those tight jeans.
“Is it doing anything for you? I mean, unless you're gay?”
He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I'm not supposed to hit on the customers.”
He quirked one of those eyebrows up, and I nearly screamed with a rush of lust. Oh, I wanted him between my legs. Immediately. The heat in my pussy rose, raging like a barn on fire.
My hands rose up of their own doing and rubbed across my breasts for him, my nipples twin little hard-ons. “I'm not a customer yet.”
My gaze travelled down slowly, eating up every bit of his body. The guy had zero body fat, and his muscles weren't very big, but he was wiry, and he looked like he enjoyed sex.
