by S. Walden
“Relax. It’s no big deal. When I get the overwhelming urge again, I’ll bring you along. How’s that?”
I nodded. The second item I noticed was a large box of books. I peered inside.
“I’m into Stephen King and Tom Clancy,” he said, watching me.
“You’re such a guy,” I mumbled, and he laughed.
“Read them all.”
“What’s back here?”
“All my tools,” he replied.
“Tools?”
“I didn’t mention I owned a house in Baltimore? It was a fixer-upper, so I learned how to do everything myself.”
I fingered his hand tools—wrench, hammer, crowbar.
“All my big stuff is in a storage unit. Miter saw. Ladder. Tile saw. I just keep these guys around for easy access. Just in case.”
“So you’re a fixer,” I said.
“That’s what they tell me,” he replied.
We fell silent as I contemplated this revelation. Reece was a fixer. He liked to fix things. Is that why he was dating me? He saw my OCD as a project? I shuddered at the thought. If it was really a project he was after, then the “I love you” didn’t count. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a way to weasel himself into my life, take over, and starting “correcting.”
I thought about our love-making. I thought about the control he wielded in bed. I thought it was sexy at first, but maybe it meant something else entirely. Maybe it was Reece exerting power over me—turning me into what he wanted. The girlfriend he never had. It was easy for him. I was compliant. I was changing—ignoring my rituals. Fighting my tics. But that’s good, right? Those are good things. So why was I freaking out? Oh my God, I was really freaking out.
“Bailey?” Reece asked carefully. He must have seen the panic in my eyes.
“I’m not a project!” I screamed. I pushed past him for the living room, and he caught my arm.
“Where the hell did that come from?” he asked.
“You . . . you fix things. You wanna fix me. That’s why you’re dating me, right? You wanna fix my OCD. You wanna—”
“Stop.”
“—make me into some new person. You wanna—”
“Stop it, Bailey.”
“—change me. You don’t really love me. You just said that—”
“I said stop!” he shouted, shaking me.
I shut my mouth. I tried to focus on my breathing—without counting—but it wasn’t working.
“Don’t you ever say again that I don’t love you. I’m not here to fix you. I have no desire to change you. Help you manage your condition? Yes. But you told me I was supposed to do that.”
I remained silent.
“I would have never pursued you with the intention of changing you. Why would I bother? Seems like a lot of work if you ask me.”
I listened intently.
“I fell in love with you because of you. I like your quirky ways. You know how many times I got myself off thinking about your ‘just so’ ponytail? You know how fucking weird that is?”
I cracked a smile.
“I stole all your pens that morning because I wanted you to come after me and scream at me. I wanted an excuse to act on my weird attraction to your weird tics.”
I laughed.
“Camden said the most ridiculous and inappropriate thing to me a long time ago when I told him I was attracted to you,” Reece said.
“Oh yeah?”
He nodded. “He told me not to get involved with you because people with OCD are hard to handle. Hard to date. Hard to live with.”
I shrugged. I couldn’t be upset with that advice. It was good advice.
“He . . . gave me examples.” Reece scratched his stubble and cleared his throat.
“Do share,” I encouraged.
“He said you may be one of those who counts the number of times you bounce up and down on my dick during sex.” He paused, staring at me, waiting for my reaction.
I clapped a hand over my mouth to hide the grin. “What an idiot,” I mumbled.
“I know. But it got me thinking. All night I thought about you doing that. It turned me on. Are you hearing what I’m saying to you? I got turned on thinking about you counting out loud!”
“You’re as freaking weird as I am,” I noted.
“I know, right?! Bailey, if you think I wanna fix you, you’re dead wrong. I don’t even wanna help you manage this thing you’ve got going on. I’m only doing it because I know it’s the right thing to do, but I’d much rather you go tic-ing all over my heart and brain.”
“You selfish bastard,” I replied, but the flattery was evident on my face. I blushed and grinned.
“I know it.”
“You wanna do it right here on the floor and listen as I count, don’t you?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“You’re so bad,” I whispered.
“Do you forgive me for it?”
I slid my arms around his waist. “I’ll do something even better.”
“Oh yeah?”
I nodded and kissed him tenderly. And then I unbuckled his belt.
“Bailey, I was kidding,” he said, but he made no move to stop me.
“Bullshit, you were kidding,” I replied, and tugged his jeans down his legs. His boxers went next, and I stared at his hard penis, suppressing the urge to giggle about how it got that way. Counting. For Christ’s sake. I couldn’t have found a better boyfriend.
“I’m gonna blow you so hard,” I said, gazing up at him. “And you’re gonna count the strokes.”
“Me?”
“Well, I can’t very well do it with my mouth full,” I replied. “This is your twisted game, mister. Start counting.”
I slid my mouth over his shaft, listening as he hissed.
“One.”
I pulled away and stuck out my tongue, running it softly along the underside of his penis, all the way to the head, swirling it around the tip and tasting the saltiness of his precome.
“I’m confused,” he breathed. “Is that two?”
I ignored him and took him in my mouth again, relaxing my throat and pushing my face farther down, down, down until he was almost completely in.
“Fuck me,” he moaned.
I pulled back. “I don’t hear you counting.”
“I don’t know what number we’re on,” he said, holding my head and pushing his dick against my lips. “Just suck my cock.”
“Count,” I demanded, and he shoved his penis in my mouth. I squealed.
“I’ll count, you little cocktease.” He pumped his dick in my mouth, counting each stroke out loud, holding my head as I moaned and pushed against his thighs. I really wasn’t trying to get away. I just wanted him to think I was.
He pulled out suddenly and waddled to the dresser. He took out a tie and turned to me.
“I’m taking over this entire operation,” he said.
I wanted him to. I wanted to be trussed up with all his ties. I couldn’t make sense of the freedom I felt when I let go and let him control me.
He shed his pants and underwear, then hauled me off the floor. He sat down on the bed and turned me around, securing my wrists behind my back with his tie.
“I never see you wear ties at work,” I said.
“It’s not really a thing anymore. Work culture’s changed. Now it’s all about the unbuttoned collar and suit jacket,” he explained, pulling the knot tighter. He spun me around. “I wanna look at your ass while you blow me.”
I nodded, and he unbuttoned my jeans, pushing them down my legs and instructing me to step out of them. I waited for further orders.
“You’ve got everyone fooled but me,” he said thoughtfully, staring at my red panties.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’ve masturbated in front of your other boyfriends,” he replied.
I shook my head. “I swear to God I haven’t.”
“Hmm.”
I chewed my lower lip.
“Spread y
our legs,” he demanded. I obeyed. “You wear those shirts buttoned all the way up, but I know you, Bailey,” he said, running his fingers lightly over my crotch. “And I think you’re holding out on me.”
I shook my head. “I’m a good girl,” I pouted.
“Oh, you wanna play that game?” he asked, pushing my panties aside and rubbing my silky folds.
“But I am,” I insisted, panting lightly.
He was up in a flash, pushing my face into his bed. “God, I love your ass,” he breathed, stripping my panties and fingering me from behind.
I squirmed and gasped into his comforter.
“This is my favorite kind of fishing,” he said.
My face burned bright red, lying there hooked on his finger like a trout. No no, not a trout. Some other pretty fish. I wanted to be a pretty fish. Like a rainbow fish.
“You gonna be a good girl and suck my cock?” he asked.
“Yes!”
He pulled me to my knees and sat on the bed in front of me. I licked my lips and waited for him to tell me what to do.
“It’s all you, Bailey,” he said, pulling my hair up in a loose ponytail and holding it in his hand.
I bent over, taking him in my mouth again. I was better at it when I used my hand, too, but I realized I’d have to do the best I could.
“One. Two. Three . . .” he counted.
I found a rhythm and stroked him, unable to keep the spit from dribbling down his shaft. It was a mess, my mouth grew tired, and I tried to ask for a mini break.
“What’s that?” he said, leaning over. He held my face on his cock.
“Bray!” I cried.
“A break? You need a break?”
I nodded quickly, and he stroked my cheek.
“No, honey,” he said, holding my hair firmly. “No break. Keep sucking.”
I squealed as he gently pushed my face down on his dick. I choked and screamed, feeling him swell in my mouth. He controlled the remainder of the blow job—moving my head as he wished, stroking my cheek as I moaned and begged for release.
“Shhh,” he whispered, and then he threw his head back, twisting his hand in my hair harder as he came in my mouth. He groaned, holding me still, making sure I took every last drop. He pulled out, watching my face carefully.
“What are you gonna do with all that semen in your mouth?” he asked, grinning maliciously.
I tried to stand up but lost my balance and fell to the side. He laughed.
“Were you trying to make it to the bathroom to spit it out?”
I nodded.
“No, honey,” Reece said. “I need you to swallow it.”
My eyes grew wide.
“Go on.”
I scowled. He bent over and picked me up like a baby, laying me carefully on the bed. I twisted my body, trying to free my wrists that were still tied behind my back. He shook his head.
“Swallow.”
I grunted. He placed a pillow under my hips to ease the pressure on my wrists.
“Swallow,” he repeated.
I squealed.
He spread my legs and dipped his face between them, licking my swollen pussy.
“Somebody’s wet,” he noted.
I tried to buck him off me, and he pushed my knees into the bed, holding me spread wide.
“Bailey, Bailey, Bailey,” he said, staring at me between my legs. “You have the prettiest little pussy. And she looks like she needs to get off. Badly.” He paused and looked up at me. “So swallow my come so I can make her feel good.”
I thrust my hips forward. I was completely powerless against my sexual needs. My brain said not to give into his brutishness (even though I secretly liked it), but my body rebelled against every thought.
“Awww, you want my mouth on your pussy?” he asked, watching my hips move desperately.
I whimpered.
He bent down and kissed me gently, teasing me open with his tongue. He kept it there, right at my opening, torturing me. And then he spoke against my flesh.
“Swallow my come, and I’ll make you come.”
For the record, I don’t care what any woman says. No one likes swallowing come. And if she says she does, she’s just trying to be cool. It’s disgusting and vomit-inducing. The only reason we do it is because it drives men wild. Or in this case, the only way to get eaten out. I swallowed, trying hard to ignore the burn as it slid down my throat, leaving a nice bleachy aftertaste.
“Ugh!” I cried. “Yuck! Fluck!”
“‘Yuck’ and ‘fluck,’ huh?” Reece asked.
“You’re an oral sex bully!” I gasped.
“Oh, Bailey, hush up,” Reece replied, before plunging his tongue in me.
I moaned as he held me down—thighs spread wide and aching—concentrating on his lips nipping my clit. Then drawing it into his mouth. Sucking gently. Tweaking it with his tongue. Tickling me with his fingers. Playing games with my body where he withheld the amount of pressure against my clit he knew I needed in order to come.
I begged. I promised all sorts of things. I even cried.
“Stop torturing me,” I sniffed.
He brought me to the brink of an orgasm. He knew I was there. He could feel my body contract around his finger. And he took his hand and mouth away.
“Reece!” I screamed.
He kissed my inner thighs, giving my body a few minutes to calm down—giving the orgasm time to recede—before kissing me again. He swirled his tongue, and I was consumed all over, feeling the excitement build even faster this time. I willed my muscles to keep from contracting. Perhaps I could trick him before he realized I was about to explode. But my body betrayed me, and he felt the tightening on his finger once more, pulling out and backing away before I reached my climax.
“Motherfucker!” I shouted, my face wet with tears and sweat.
“Now Bailey,” Reece chided. “Is that any way to talk to the man who’s making you feel so good?”
“But you’re not,” I whimpered. “You’re being mean to me.”
He hovered over me and stuck out his bottom lip. “Poor baby. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just revving you up like an engine. Just a few more times, and then I’ll let your engine turn over.”
My mouth dropped open. “No,” I breathed. “No no no! Please don’t, Reece. I can’t bear it!”
“Oh, you’ll bear it,” he said. “You’ll have to.”
He went back to work, teasing my pussy, bringing me to the brink, feeling my muscles contract, and pulling away. Over and over. I lost count. By this point I was screaming bloody murder. He had to pause, grab another tie, and gag me.
I cried into the silk as he continued playing with me. He was merciless, and I wondered what I’d done to deserve it. It wasn’t long before I got my answer. The passion built again, and I was expecting him to pull away. But he didn’t. He kept up the assault with his tongue, and I screamed into the gag as he finally brought my body to the peak, holding me there, forcing spasms I’d never experienced. He brought me down again, but just a fraction, before another mind-numbing spasm. It was exquisite pleasure and pain, and I gripped it as long as I could, pumping my hips, crying out his name against the gag as he forced me up and down. Up and down on the choppy sea before laying me gently in the surf.
I was spent—dazed—thinking I deserved every bit of that orgasm because I was a good girl.
“That’s called the Hurricane Reece,” he whispered in my ear.
“Uhhhh,” I replied.
He untied my gag, and I worked my jaw side to side.
“I like it,” I said.
“Just like it?”
“I love it,” I corrected.
“Better than a real hurricane?” he asked, rolling me over and untying my hands.
“Way better,” I replied.
He gathered me in his arms, and we lay in his bed, breathing long and slow.
“May I stay with you during the storm?” he asked a moment later.
“Of course,” I repl
ied. “Why on earth would you think you wouldn’t?”
“I didn’t wanna be presumptuous,” he said.
I traced circles on his chest.
“Never,” I mumbled, and then I passed out.
Hurricane Holly visited town a week later.
I hid my wetsuit under yoga pants and an old, ratty sweatshirt. I hid my surfboard under a pile of blankets in the back of my Honda. Reece never suspected a thing, and I couldn’t wait to see his face when I stripped.
“Bailey, I don’t know about this,” Reece said on the drive into Wrightsville Beach. Police were already evacuating the area, and I was stopped by one particularly aggressive cop.
“Ma’am, you need to turn around.”
“I live here!” I lied. “And I’m not going anywhere without my dog!”
The officer grunted and waved me through.
“Free country,” I mumbled. “If we wanna die, that’s our prerogative.”
“Did you just lie to a cop?” Reece asked.
I shrugged.
“Oh my God, Bailey, you lied to a cop!”
“Reece, take the stick outta your ass,” I replied.
We both fell silent. Reece was the first to laugh. I followed right after.
“Who are you?” he chuckled.
“I’ve no idea!” I giggled. “It’s your fault. You’re turning me into this non-rule follower.”
“Hey, don’t blame it on me, sister,” Reece replied.
I pulled into an empty space in the parking lot next to Johnny Mercer’s Pier.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Reece said.
We climbed out of the car and waved to Christopher, who was sitting on a bench waiting for us.
“I always come out to see Christopher surf before a hurricane. Don’t you know it’s the best time to go?”
“He’s crazy!” Reece replied.
“Why? ‘Cause I’m a black surfer?” Christopher asked, walking toward us. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief. I could tell he was about to have an awesome surfing session. “Why you gotta be so stereotypical, huh Reece? Just ‘cause I’m black don’t mean I can’t surf. What the hell else am I supposed to do in this white town?”
I grinned.
“No, man, I wasn’t saying you being a black surfer was crazy,” Reece said. “Only that you’re surfing right before a hurricane.”
“Best waves, right Bailey?” Christopher asked.
