by Strong, Mimi
Her Teddy Bear #3 - Dress Up Your Teddy (Erotic Romance)
© 2012 Mimi Strong
Description: Naomi's not sure how she feels about her recent booty call. Instead of waiting for Trevor to call her, she takes the initiative and invites him out as her date for Halloween. Things get hot and heavy between them, and they keep heating up until Christmas Eve, when everything boils over.
Length: 17,600 words, or 71 book pages long. This is the third and final story in a 3-part series.
Spice Level: Erotic and romantic. This story contains super-hot sex, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.
Part 1: Rocky Horror Halloween
When I woke up Saturday morning, the memory of the previous night's booty call was slipping away like a dream.
Had I actually driven over to his fancy, suburban robot-house in the middle of the night and let an inebriated Trevor MacIntyre “make love” to me?
As I climbed out of my bed, I pulled an inch-long, curly, dark chest hair off my breast. It wasn't attached (thank goodness for that), but I was surprised by the tenacity of the little bugger. I'd had a shower at Trevor's house and thought I'd gotten all of him off me.
Holding the hair, I hesitated before tossing it in my bathroom garbage can.
I gave myself a funny look in my mirror and said, “Smarten up, girl. You're the rebound. The transition.” I was too smart to get into someone who wasn't out of his ex-wife.
When I parted my fingers, the hair wouldn't drop. It was stuck to my finger. How fitting. I rolled my eyes, flicked it off, and climbed into the shower.
As I washed myself, I remembered Trevor's touch. His large hands, roaming and pillaging my body. His thick fingers caressing my breasts as he sucked on my earlobes. His firm you-know-what nudging politely between my legs. How eager he made me.
Damn.
I wanted him again. More seriously, though, I was concerned about him. What had driven him to get so drunk by himself on Friday night? He needed a good friend, someone to talk to.
I decided to phone him, and was so keen to do so, I nearly got out of the shower without washing out my shampoo.
The call rang and rang, then went to voice mail. Twice.
I recorded a message saying, “Hey, Trev … Trevs. Trevor. Hey, is there a short version of Trevor? Tre? Uhhhhh.”
Deleted.
“Hi. It's me. Naomi. Just wondering … how's your head?” Pause. “I mean, how's your head feeling, not how's your … oh crap.”
Deleted.
“Trevor. Naomi calling. What was the deal with last night? You don't return my text message, and then … what, you have to get drunk just to talk to me?”
Too angry. Deleted.
“Hi. I had fun last night.” Nervous giggle. “Oh, for fuck's sake.”
Deleted.
No wonder people mostly text each other; voice mail is the worst. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to figure out what to text him, either. Here's a tip: If you have to put a smiley face after something to soften it, maybe you just shouldn't say the thing that requires the smiley face.
My mother came into my bedroom while I was yelling at my cell phone.
She handed me a big mug of coffee and said, “Drink this, then come with us to the Farmer's Market.”
“Not in the mood.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave me her concerned-yet-stern motherly look. “Drink your coffee and get in the mood. We'll go in about half an hour.”
I sipped the coffee. The smell alone improved my perception of the world by just a fraction. “Mom, I don't understand men.”
“If they're hungry, feed them. If they're angry, feed them.”
“What if they won't talk about their feelings?”
She leaned against the door frame of my bedroom, the way she had a thousand times over the years of talking to me about my problems. “Does a man really need to tell you about his feelings, or aren't you able to tell from how he acts?”
“Mom! Are you from the past or something?”
She came in and sat on my bed next to me. “Trevor likes you. He wouldn't have taken you for that second date if he didn't.”
“I think I screwed up, though. I yelled at him because he didn't tell me he had his ex-wife staying at his house.”
“Are you mad because he didn't tell you, or because she's there?”
I sipped my coffee and thought hard. “Because she's there.”
“So, your problem's not actually with Trevor, is it?”
“You're just saying that because you love him.”
She brushed her hand through my damp hair. “I want what's best for my beautiful girls.”
“That's so weird.” I held my free hand to my stomach. “I just felt my emotions shift, like, physically. There was this sensation right here, and now I feel differently about the whole thing. You're right. I don't have a problem with him. My beef is with,” I breathed her name out with fire, “Roxie.”
My mother pursed her lips. “I don't even like her name.”
“Let's put a hit out on her.”
My mother got up and smoothed out her jeans. “Farmer's Market. Twenty-five minutes.”
I mumbled that I'd be ready, and as soon as she left my room, I composed the perfect text message for Trevor:
Got plans for Halloween? I need a date. Don't wear suede.
I sent the message, and then stared at the phone, awaiting a response.
Trevor finally sent me a text message back while I was at the Market with my parents. I squealed and jumped up and down, then I showed my mother, who nodded with approval.
She asked, “Will you go to a costume party?”
“I've got Rocky Horror, same as every year.”
She wrinkled her face. “Oh, sweetie. You're not going to subject him to all of that are you? People throwing food at each other. So many people in corsets. Nipples everywhere.”
My father interrupted her, saying, “Au contraire, my dear wife. Let him run the gauntlet. If he survives Rocky Horror with Naomi and all of her theater friends, then we know he has what it takes.”
We were standing in line for pomegranates, and I hugged him and said, “Thanks, Dad!”
Just to be bratty, I stuck my tongue out at my mother.
The person at the fruit-seller's booth, a girl about my age, said, “Who's next!” and gave me side-eye for sticking my tongue out at my mother. I felt stupid and embarrassed about the tongue, excited about my date with Trevor, and scared about his reaction to the midnight show. My emotions bubbled up and rained down around me.
Thunder rumbled through the sky and it began to hail.
My father quickly paid for a dozen pomegranates and we ran for the gate to the parking lot. My pulse pounded in my head and the three of us ran wildly, as though yeti were after us, even though the hailstones weren't that big.
On Halloween, I helped my mother hand out candy to the little trick-or-treaters, though we didn't get that many kids, as the house isn't in a very family-oriented neighborhood. My parents bought the place long before all the new condo developments went in, before the real estate developers (like Trevor) changed the demographics of the area. My parents grumble about the changes, but I wouldn't say it's any better or worse now, with all the fancy coffee shops and French restaurants. Actually, I like the coffee shops.
After the batches of superheroes and fairies dwindled down to just a few who-are-they-kidding older teenagers, I retreated to my bedroom downstairs to put on my full Rocky Horror.
My parents had renovated the basement a few years earlier, planning to eventually put in a kitchen so they could rent it out. I moved down
there “temporarily,” and the kitchen was shortly forgotten. Occasionally, my father would peruse the newspaper and mention what rent on a bachelor unit in the neighborhood was going for, my mother would look over his shoulder and nod, and nothing more would be said. I don't think either of them was keen to have a stranger living below them.
My room was big, with a generous closet—all the better to hold my costumes.
For that evening, I had a glitzy outfit that wasn't an exact duplicate of anyone from the movie, but definitely inspired by the sexy ladies.
I wore tall, black, lace-up boots, thigh-high stockings with garters, a black leather mini-skirt, and a sparkling, copper-hued corset that shoved my boobs up to form an impressive shelf of boobage. You'll notice I didn't mention panties. Oh, I was wearing some, but they were a very special pair, given to me as a joke gift a few years ago by some theater friends at college. They weren't exactly crotchless, but they had an opening. During normal wear, the two folds of fabric crossed over—much like the front flap on mens' tightie whities—but if a girl wanted to get into a little trouble without a lot of fuss, the good parts were … let's say accessible.
As I pulled on the thigh-high stockings, my pulse began to race with excitement. The tightness of stockings on my legs always gets me hot, and with the anticipation of a midnight show, plus the plans I had for Trevor, I was in overdrive. Alone in my bedroom, I kept posing for my full-length mirror, rubbing my hands up and down my body, pleased that the clasps for my garter were visible as bumps underneath the thin leather skirt.
I had turned around and was checking out my round, spankable bottom when the doorbell rang.
My mother was already running for the door, clomping madly overhead, so I chuckled to myself and let her have her fun talking to Trevor while I checked my makeup again. My hair was such a normal-looking color, with the shades of brown, so I'd had to compensate in other ways wild and untamed look going on. Thick, black lines ringed my eyes, set off by long, sparkling false eyelashes. My mother would hate it; I looked perfect!
I threw a ragged lace shawl over my bare shoulders and raced upstairs. I found Trevor in the kitchen, with a hammer, tapping a piece of trim into place below one of the kitchen cabinets. His black hair was different that day, gelled up into little spikes.
“And then you use the big nail to sink in the finishing nail,” he said.
“Secret trick,” my father said.
My mother nodded. “So smart.” She turned to me. “He's so smart.”
Trevor beamed. “Now you just fill the hole with a little wood fill in a matching color, and it's invisible.”
Seeing Trevor with a tool, fixing that little patch of trim that was always coming loose, gave me a feeling. Like a pang. My heart squeezed and I felt a force drawing me forward, to him. A little voice in my head said, you love him.
He turned and smiled at me, and the squeezing in my chest only increased, until I thought I might faint.
My mother broke the spell, saying, “Naomi! You're not wearing that out of the house!”
I gave Trevor an exasperated look. “She's always like this. Every Halloween. I took her one year just so she could see everyone at the show dresses up.”
She pursed her lips. “I was the only one there with clothes on.”
Trevor placed the hammer back into my father's never-used toolbox and put one protective arm over my shoulders. “Naomi looks beautiful, as always. I'll be at her side all night.” He stared down into my eyes, a good foot below his. “Wait, who is this girl?” He let go of me and stepped back.
My parents laughed. My father said, “Let's scrape off some of that shoe polish and see who it is.”
“You guys!” I said.
My father said, “Sounds like Naomi.”
I grabbed Trevor's big hand in mine and dragged him away. He seemed to be wearing standard Trevor clothes, though the all-black version, with a shiny black button-down shirt and black trousers. We'd texted back and forth about what to wear, and while he didn't want to wear anything silly, or get his tuxedo covered in food, we'd both agreed plain black would be just fine for him.
When we got outside the front door, Trevor ambushed me with a kiss. As his lips crushed down against mine, I giggled and mumbled into his mouth about my lipstick and getting it all over his mouth. He continued to kiss me, roughly and then softly, until I stopped protesting and went limp in his arms.
His hands stayed above my waist, simply holding me up and against him as we kissed. I could taste the wax of my lipstick, along with the taste of Trevor, of his skin. His chin rubbed against mine, but his was smooth, recently-shaved. I arched my back, pressing my corseted torso up against his. The night was so quiet and dark, I could hear the scratching sound of my sparkling bustier scratching against the fabric of his shirt.
When he pulled away from me, I was keenly aware of the cool air on the bare patches of my skin, between the tops of my stockings and my garter belt.
“You look so ...” He stepped away and looked me up and down.
I started walking to his truck, waiting for him to finish with an adjective, but he didn't. He held open the door, and after I stepped up into the tall truck, he leaned in and put one hand on my thigh.
I pulled him toward me and kissed him some more. As we kissed, his hand traveled up slowly, between my thighs. His fingers explored the tight hem of the stockings, and then fondled the fasteners for the stockings. He kept kissing me, his tongue hesitant, but his lips sure. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I parted my legs, my body sending the signal for him to explore further.
Touch me, I thought, and he did.
His fingers moved down, rubbing in between my thighs, and then along the cotton surface of my special panties. The fingers moved up and down, exploring, and then one finger slipped through, into my wetness. His touch was searing, pushing my desire higher and higher. His fingers were slow at first, unsure, and then he pushed one fingertip into my wetness, between my folds and into me, then brought the slick finger out and up, searing again, over my clit. I moved up in my seat, tilting my hips, encouraging more. Wordlessly, he kept kissing me as he worked his fingers, faster now, in and out of me and around and around, up and across, feathering lightly and then gently grinding into my nub.
I was panting now, sucking at his lips desperately. Touch me. Don't stop.
My senses flooded and I cried against his mouth, crushing my lips to his as I came from his smooth, steady touch. He kept the exact rhythm until, gasping, I pushed down on his hand to stay still once the waves had stopped. My inner walls were still pulsing, and so I guided one thick finger inside me to feel what he'd done. The pulses went on, gradually fading as we kept kissing. He dragged his finger out slowly, tugged my leather skirt back down, and pulled away.
He gazed down at me, his gold-brown eyes bright, even in just the dim glow of the vehicle's interior dome light. Even clothed, such as I was, I felt naked and vulnerable, and had to look away.
He gently closed my door and crossed around the back.
Before he opened his door, I said quietly to myself, “Holy shit, holy shit. Girl, what are you doing?” I don't usually talk to myself, but this was an unprecedented situation.
When he stepped up into the truck, I laughed that the gelled spikes in his hair grazed the ceiling. “You're so tall,” I said.
“Hadn't noticed,” he said, chuckling. “Did I mention how ravishing you look tonight?”
“No, but you did ravish me. I noticed that.”
His voice innocent, he said, “Did I? Oh, you should complain to the store you bought those panties at. They seem to be … incomplete.” Still grinning, he started the engine and began driving us to the theater.
“I like these panties,” I said. “I should get more pairs and completely switch over.”
“It would definitely make things easier for when I visit you at your office. Or ...”
“For touring show suites,” I said.
He kept grinning, his
teeth glinting in the passing headlights. “I can think of so many possibilities.”
I reached over and stroked my hand up his firm leg, then wiggled over in my seat so I could rub one flirty hand down between his legs. As I rubbed his bulge, enjoying the fullness of what lay beneath the fabric of his trousers, I explained where the theater was.
After a few playful squeezes, I pulled my hand away so as not to distract him too much while driving.
A few moments of comfortable silence passed, and then he said. “Sorry, were you talking just now? I didn't hear anything, because someone had her hand on my balls.”
“You didn't hear me say where the theater was?”
He shook his head. “Not a word.”
I folded my hands on my lap and repeated the directions. It was an older theater, for second-run movies—the type of place that wasn't so new and shiny, and didn't mind a bit of food and water being thrown around at a midnight show.
As we parked, Trevor stifled a yawn.
I said, “Past your bedtime?”
“Just getting my second wind.”
“Ooh.”
“You'll see. We'll give those weird panties of yours a proper testing.”
“I can't wait.”
He got out of the truck and ran around quickly to help me step down. We walked up to the theater doors, through the gathering crowd of people in costumes inspired by the movie as well as miscellaneous fetish gear. (The guy wearing a ball gag made Trevor's jaw drop for a second.)
It occurred to me, too late now, that the drive over hadn't exactly gone as planned.
After my late-night visit to Trevor's, we hadn't talked about what happened that night, or about the fight that preceded it. We'd texted back and forth a few times to make arrangements for that night's Halloween date, but we hadn't actually spoken.
On prior dates, Trevor had protested the very idea of talking about feelings and relationships, and I wanted to give him space, but I also wanted to know what was going on in his head. And what was the deal with his ex? Clearly he liked me, or he wouldn't be risking getting manhandled by a dozen sexed-up Dr. Frank-n-Furters in corsets. Trevor held my hand and stuck close to me as I introduced him to my actor and actress friends.
