by Mimi Strong
Mr. Suit guy put his lingum away in his pants, and Ms. Mousy got her panties back on. The two had an awkward exchange, both of them apologizing, saying they didn't know what had come over them.
I stared down at my hands, no longer glowing.
My whole body was still in the afterglow of orgasm, and I felt like a goddess, a sex goddess.
I scurried out of the hallway to save the two the embarrassment of realizing they'd been seen.
Out in the main space of the gallery, I made a bee-line for the refreshments. I've never smoked a cigarette in my life, and yet I found myself craving one at that moment. A glass of champagne would have to substitute.
I grabbed a glass and tipped it back.
A man approached me from the side, saying, “I can buy you a beer if you're that thirsty.”
I turned to him, smiling in embarrassment. “I didn't mean to chug that,” I said.
When I got a good look at him, I felt even more chagrin. Ooh, girls, he was handsome. He had thick, dark hair, dark eyebrows, and pale, cool gray eyes. Full, kissable lips. His nose was narrow and refined with a small bump on the bridge, and he wore glasses, nearly invisible with their thin frames.
He put his hand out. “You have a familiar face.”
“Becca Hodge. And… do I know you?”
He snapped his fingers and pointed at me, taking a step back. “Becca! It's me, Robert Lyle, from high school.”
“I remember,” I said, fibbing.
He shook his head. “You may remember me now, but you certainly didn't remember me back then.”
I detected more than a little hint of bitterness in his voice. His eyes flashed, and I knew.
I'd hurt him. In high school.
My head started to spin, and I remembered everything. Him, asking me to a dance. Me, telling him yes, and then laughing in his face. I was not a typically cruel person, not even in high school when so many people are cruel, but that one day, something evil had taken hold of me, and I'd taken pleasure in humiliating the young, geeky Robert Lyle.
I had been picked on earlier that morning, teased by the boy I liked. This happened shortly before I started dating my first boyfriend, when I was so ungainly, caught between childhood and adulthood and unsure of anything.
After that brief interaction, I'd forgotten all about Robert, all about him asking me on that date.
But by the look of him, he hadn't forgotten.
My voice caught in my throat, and I said, “Oh, Robert, I'm so sorry I laughed at you.”
He smiled and nodded. “Have another champagne. It's free.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Even though just moments before, I'd felt like a goddess, I now felt like a bag of shit.
I did take another glass of champagne, and I did drink it down. And the next one. And another.
The drinks numbed my pain.
It wasn't fair for Robert to still be angry at me over something I did over ten years ago. We were all stupid kids back then, we all did stupid things.
The idea of seducing him, as per my assignment, was the farthest thing from my mind. I just wanted to make things right.
Part 4: Rematch with Calvin
Two more glasses of champagne later, plus a “quick” stop-in at another party Deena wanted to check out, I staggered back to my apartment in the wee hours of the morning.
I'd forgotten the events of the day, forgotten pretty much everything but my name. Even getting my keys in the door was a struggle, so much of a struggle that I sat down in the hallway and started to laugh.
Bless his heart, Cute Calvin came to my rescue. He heard me and came out of his apartment, four doors down. If you're good at details, you'll notice that earlier, I mentioned him as living three doors down from me. He did. I was trying to break into my neighbor's apartment, which Calvin sweetly pointed out to me.
I said to him, “Are you in your jammies?”
He wore flannel pajama pants, no shirt. His chest was all bumpy with muscles and I wanted to touch it, so I did.
He said, “You're like a walking party.”
“I'm a mess.”
He took the keys from my hand and tugged me toward his door.
“Oh, goody,” I said, thinking sex, of course.
“I'll make you some coffee,” he said. “Or tea. Name your poison.”
What I really wanted in my mouth was his cock. Just looking at his naked upper half made me want to strip off the other half and do very naughty things to him.
“Coffee,” I said, trying not to slur my words.
He led the way.
His apartment confused me, in my inebriated state. It was like my apartment, but not. Everything was backwards, and everything was just a tiny bit different. I had white tiles in my kitchen, and he had black. I walked around his apartment, pointing out all the differences.
Bless his heart, the boy actually seemed to find this all quite fascinating.
We got our cups of coffee and sat on his sofa, which wasn't a futon, but an actual grown-up sofa, with matching throw pillows and everything.
He pulled off my shoes and started to rub my feet.
His touch, his thumbs digging into my soles, felt incredible.
“That's amazing,” I said. “Are you a professional… um… massager?”
He laughed. “No. I actually restore pinball machines and sell them online. But massage therapy certainly is an interesting line of work.” His hands moved up, squeezing my calves. He squeezed so hard it nearly hurt, but didn't. “I like to make people feel good.”
I gave him a questioning look. “People? Do you have a girlfriend?”
He shook his head, “No. I split up with someone a few months ago. Actually, she moved out the day you moved in.”
“Oh. Grouchy redhead?”
“Yeah.”
“She was so mean!” I yelled. “She wouldn't let me use the elevator because she said she had it booked first and she didn't even need it the whole day.”
He grabbed his coffee cup and took a sip. “She certainly had her moments.”
“Good riddance,” I said, pushing my toes into his side to see if he was ticklish.
He placed his coffee on the end table, then yanked me along the sofa. My dress slid up to my waist, exposing my panties, and I squealed.
He climbed onto me, kissing me on my neck, my arms, my cheeks, my mouth.
I wrapped my legs around him and thrust my hips at his.
My need was back, and as urgent as ever. I strained against him, trying to fuck him through our clothes, but that wasn't working.
He pulled away and helped me out of my dress, tossing it aside. That dress was worth over a thousand bucks, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything but getting him back inside me.
In a matter of seconds, he had his cock out of his flannel pants, my panties pulled down, and his cock slamming into me. My panties were caught around my knees, my legs folded up toward my face. He grunted and pumped into me, a driving rhythm.
Between gasps, I said, “Do it, do it… in the other place.”
He pressed my legs up and leaned into the backs of my thighs. “You want me to fuck your ass?”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded.
“Oh, Becca,” he said.
I thought he'd misunderstood me, because he kept fucking me, my knees bumping into my face from the position. I was sinking deeper into the sofa, but he just kept going. I thought maybe he'd mis-heard me about the ass, or was choosing to ignore it.
“Oh, Becca,” he said. “I'm going to fuck you in the ass. Do you want that?”
With his cock still inside me, he groped around under it and nudged at my back opening with his thumb. The touch sent off contact tingles throughout me, and my muscles clenched against his cock.
“Oh, Calvin, yes. Do it.”
He pulled out and grabbed my hands, helping me to my feet. My head spun a little from the drinks, but I was lucid. I let go of one of his hands so I could squeeze his cock. H
e had such a lovely cock, with the most beautiful, smooth skin.
“I have lube in the bedroom,” he said.
“Lube!” That did sound good, so I followed him to his bedroom. He had clothes and a mess all over the place, and the sheets smelled like his body. In other words, it was perfect. We certainly didn't need lube for my pussy, which was so wet for him.
He got me into position, doggy-style, and he rolled on a condom. I was going to tell him he didn't need one, since today would be today again tomorrow and there were no consequences, but that was an awful lot of strangeness to expect a guy to believe, especially from some slutty neighbor who'd demanded he fuck her in the laundry room that morning.
I put my face in my hands and had a good laugh at myself. Here I'd been so down on myself for the past few months, thinking I didn't have a sexual bone in my body, and now I was fucking anything with a dick, even thinking about fucking people without dicks. The mousy waitress at the art gallery had been so hot in her rapture, I'd wanted to finger-bang her myself and make her come.
Calvin's cock nudged into my pussy from behind and slid in and out a few times. It felt so good, I almost regretted asking for something else. I'd not been a fan of doggy style before, found it slightly embarrassing and animalistic, but I was in full animal mode now. I arched my back, tilted my hips, and totally presented myself to him, all of me, every part, to do with as he desired.
He pulled out of my pussy and I heard a squirt of something—lube. He applied some to my ass and massaged the tight little knot with a finger. I nudged myself back, encouraging him to push in, and he did. Even just a single finger felt so much bigger in there, compared to my vagina. I've always felt tight, never had any complaints, but my ass was so much tighter. I actually worried about hurting his finger.
“You feel so good,” he said, riding his finger in and out.
“Really?”
“Yeah, you're so hot and slippery. I just want to fuck you in every orifice, I want to ...”
“What? Fill me up with your come?”
He pulled the finger out and something else pressed up against my opening. I tensed instinctively, nervous about the much larger thing going in.
We stopped talking, moving the communication level down to animal grunts. I moaned as he pressed against me. He made a sound that seemed like a question, and I made an encouraging sound and wiggled back toward him, bringing him into me, into my opening.
He slid into my ass easily, thanks to the lube. He was bigger, his cock wider than Jed from the dress shop, and the sex felt different, especially with the lube. For the first few slides of his shaft in and out, I was embarrassed, because it had a bathroom-type feeling. But that sensation quickly faded into nothing but pure, mind-blowing, ass-tingling pleasure. Even though he wasn't in my pussy, as he slid in and out, it felt like he was actually in all of my openings, filling me up.
Soon my hole felt no longer like the business-place it was, but something that was made exactly for this use, exactly the right dimensions for a thick, hard cock. Calvin pulled nearly all the way out, telling me in a few sounds and grunts how he loved the tight grip of my asshole as it hit the edge of the head of his cock and locked on.
I grunted and moaned and grabbed a pillow to hang onto.
Just when I thought the sensation couldn't get better, he reached under and stroked my pussy folds and nestled his finger against me, lengthwise. He'd put more lube on his hand, and it was incredibly slippery. I could actually feel how hard my nub was, how it was pushing out of my body, so firm, so greedy to be stroked.
We fell into a rhythm, with me swaying forward and back against his hand and him pumping in and out of my ass.
We came at the same time, with his shudders pushing me past the red zone, into the white-hot zone. I grabbed his pillow and actually bit it, jammed it into my mouth as I wailed into it. The room around me disappeared into hot, purple, radiant light.
I woke up nestled in Calvin's arms. I kissed his hands and rolled into him, snuggling and spooning us tighter.
I was cold.
I opened my eyes and found that I was in my own bedroom.
Had Calvin carried me home from his place, or was it Groundhog Day all over again?
I buried my face into my pillow and started to cry.
I felt a hand on my back. I rolled over, startled, and found myself looking at Calvin's sweet face.
“Are you having a nightmare?” he asked.
I sat up and hugged him tight to me.
“Not anymore, Calvin. Not anymore.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny fairy smiling at me, right before she flew away.
THE END of WHY NOT TONIGHT
Kissing Coach
Description: Feather is a busy personal coach who's more focused on her clients than herself. She is hired for personal coaching by a handsome young man named Devin, to help him get over his phobia of kissing.
Length: Kissing Coach is a complete novel, about 200 pages in print. There is no sequel. The full novel is included in this anthology.
Heat level: Romantic and spicy, with some graphic sex scenes. This novel has a fun, chick-lit flavor.
Turn the page to dive into this sweet erotic romance, Kissing Coach by Mimi Strong.
Or click here to return to the main Table of Contents.
How to Get a Guy to Kiss You
1. Remember, you can always kiss him! But if you want him to think it was his idea, try smiling a lot and being generous with the giggles. You are still a strong, intelligent woman, even if you chuckle at a pun.
2. Your guy may be too nervous to pick up on your verbal hints, but he will understand body language. Tilt your chin up and lean in. (It helps if you stop talking for a moment.) 3. Move in so close that it would be more awkward for him to not kiss you.
Part I
If you want to have strangely fulfilling personal relationships with people for money, do I have a career recommendation for you!
No, I don't mean strip-o-grams or any of the other sordid things that probably came to your mind, you naughty thing. I'm talking about working as a coach.
I'm a coach. Specifically, I'm a Style and Dating Coach. That's what it says on my business cards, right below my name: Feather Hilborn.
When I had my business cards done up, shortly after my twenty-first birthday, I was the only person offering the service in my city. Since then, a few copycats have popped up, but I assure you, I am the city's original Style and Dating Coach.
Not long ago, I was celebrating one year in business, and I thought I had everything figured out. I had goals and charts and plans. Then, I received the strangest assignment to date.
The young man on the phone seemed reluctant to give a lot of details.
I asked him, “Would you say you're more concerned about clothes and grooming, or about dating manners?”
“Uh,” he said.
I proceeded to ask him two more questions, both of which he answered with the same non-answer.
“I take it you're shy,” I said. “I do have some—”
“I'm NOT shy!” he shouted into the phone.
I rolled my eyes so hard, they were in danger of getting stuck at the back of my head. Shy or not, there was something amiss, but after a year of working hard and studying people, I was good at my job. I excelled at figuring out what was lacking in a client, and then fixing it. I'd sent people to meditation classes and I'd sent them to boxing rings, as needed.
My friends were mystified that I got paid to dole out the same advice friends and family give out for free.
The key is the money. My clients are paying for my advice, and paying is what gives anything value. The more I charge, the better my advice seems.
I just had to convince the I'm-not-shy guy on the phone of my capabilities.
Keeping my voice gentle, I offered him my next available consultation, an introductory half-hour session, and stated my payment terms.
“Do you have anything sooner?”
he asked.
There was desperation in his voice, and it tugged at my heart. “I could shuffle things and meet you today, at four o'clock.”
“Thank you,” he breathed out, almost as a sigh.
We made arrangements to meet at the coffee shop near my apartment. I told him I was a blonde, and would be wearing a red jacket and typing on a red laptop.
He said, “I have tan skin, black hair, and I'll be wearing a blue jacket and dying of embarrassment.”
I laughed. “We'll just be having a conversation. I won't be checking your prostate.”
“Of course not. I'm sure that would be extra.”
“And the coffee shop doesn't approve of my more invasive methods.”
“Exactly how far do you go to help your clients?”
I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped. The conversation had taken an odd turn, and I had to maintain my professionalism.
“I look forward to meeting you,” I said. “One last thing. I didn't catch your name.”
“Devin Nelson.”
I got to the coffee shop well ahead of time, as is my way. Running late gives me anxiety, so I try to allow myself plenty of time to get to places. Optimism is your enemy when it comes to being on time, because you optimistically assume there'll be no traffic or delays. This explains why some of the sweetest people are always thoughtlessly late.
The cafe was one of those indie joints that uses the same color scheme and general finishings as a Starbucks, right down to the collage-look pre-fab art on the walls. If you squinted, it looked like a Starbucks, and yet, it wasn't. Kinda like Brad Pitt's brother.
I chose a table by a window and sat with my coffee.
The guy and girl at the table next to me were on a blind date, both of them staring attentively at each other, at their interview-best and extra loud in their speech. Some people will brag about being experts at human interaction, adept at spotting the blind-daters in a coffee shop. Really, it's not that hard to spot 'em. More difficult is figuring out if the girl's smiling because she's polite, or because she's wondering if he brought a condom.
