Own Me Wholly!

by Reese Gabriel

  "Yea, it kind of freaked my mother out as I was growing up. She was pretty sure I was going to turn into him one day. She was waiting with a wooden stake to drive through the heart."

  "Personally I think you could do worse."

  "I know ... big shoes to fill and all that."

  I can feel a little pain back of his blase statement. I react out instinctively. “No,” I say firmly. “I don't want to hear that. You're not filling anyone's shoes. For one thing, Thomas isn't going anywhere; second of all, he wants you to be your own man. He'd never forgive himself if you felt you had to be him."

  Brian studies me. “You're it, you know."

  "I'm what?"

  "You're his true love."

  A part of me wants this to be true, believe me, more than life itself. “Monica is his true love,” I correct. “Every month, on their anniversary date, he sends roses."

  "I know; he hasn't missed a month in eight years. But that is duty, Caroline, there's a difference."

  "Brian,” I try and stop him before it's too late. “I don't want to get mad again; I know it's me, I'm brittle and all, but you have this way of pushing my buttons. With all due respect, I know the man, I know his marriage."

  "I know he's a dominant, Caroline."

  I set down my burger, ketchup and onion, my culinary diversion forgotten. “What did you say?"

  "I know my father is only aroused by submissive women. For a long time it confused the hell out of me when he told me—I thought he was some kind of pervert, wanting to take control of a woman, push her hard into ecstasy, but we talked more and it made sense. I can see what it's about now."

  I go from exposure to flat out paranoia. “You take a good look around, Brian.” The blood is pounding in my head. “There are witnesses. You lay a finger on me, I'll scream and you'll be in jail faster than you can whip that jacket on and off. That said, I will now get up, walk to the door and leave in my car. Alone. Follow me, try to contact me ever again and I will call the police."

  "Caroline, you don't need to be scared of me. I'm just telling you what I know because I think we can help each other. We're the only two people in the world that can talk about this part of my father's life. Without each other we are both stuck, trying to figure it out alone."

  "I'm not stuck. And you know what? I'm not running off this time. I want to eat my fucking hamburger and I'm going to do it in peace. All by myself."

  "That's your choice.” He stands up, pulls a twenty from the pocket of his jeans. I see the outline of his cock.

  I am overcome by something primal. Deeper than our names, deeper than today, tomorrow or yesterday.

  My mind splits, the night stretches before me, two roads, two possible outcomes, instantly playing themselves out, start to finish:

  In the first version he reads my mind and seizes control.

  "Yes.” He extends his hand, giving me permission to go with him. I take it; everything makes sense as he becomes the perfect safe place in substitution for Thomas. We go to the car, I sit in the passenger seat, he opens the door, he closes it, and he tells me to get ready. I wait for him to go to the driver's seat, to push it all the way back.

  "This means a lot to me, Caroline. You'll swallow, won't you?"

  "Every drop, Brian,” I promise.

  "Take it out, Caroline, and tell me what you see."

  My fingers are so weak that I can barely work his zipper. He's so hard underneath his jeans. I feel like I'm going to faint. I pull it out; I free the erection through the opening in his boxer shorts. He's so large; he's circumcised in my imagination, not like his father.

  "I see ... a beautiful cock."

  "What do you want to do with it, Caroline?"

  "I want ... to worship it."

  "Do you think you're worthy?"

  "No,” I readily admit. “But I'd like to try."

  "Are you going to pretend I'm my father?"

  "No. But I do want to give him this gift,” I admit. “Honoring his son."

  "You will swallow?” he checks again.

  "It will be my honor,” I salivate in anticipation.

  "Very well,” he guides my head into place.

  I take his cock between my lips; I feel it harden even further. I center on his pleasure, nicotine to my veins, his hand stroking my head, letting me bob up and down, wet and slavishly attentive.

  His breathing gets shallower, his body gets tenser, and his hand tightens its grasp, fist in my hair. “Yes, yes, Caroline."

  I feel the spasms in my crotch; I come, clenching on empty air, a helpless, needy cunt.

  He comes quickly, letting me swallow.

  I put my head on his chest afterwards, bawling my eyes out. He understands; it's nothing personal. He's a good man, a smart man; he just strokes me, holding me.

  I lean on his shoulder as he drives me home. Thomas’ jacket, Thomas’ smell...

  The second possible outcome is more cut and dried.

  It is a hell of a lot less exciting but I'm not sure I can handle excitement.

  I choose it over the first.

  "Wait,” I tell him before he can leave. “Don't go. I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

  "It's okay."

  We finish our hamburgers and he drives me home.

  I smell Thomas on the jacket across the seat but I don't lean on his shoulder, I don't cry and I most certainly do not unzip his pants.

  Although it's evident he has a hard on.

  Better not be from the twit waitress.

  We've already pulled up to my front door when I am hit with an awkward realization. “Oh, Brian, I didn't think. How will you get home?"

  "I can walk from here. It's just a couple of miles to my motel."

  "No, you can sleep on my couch,” I insist.

  "You sure?"

  "I'd rather you did. I don't want to be alone ... not completely."

  I put out a pillow for him and a sheet.

  "What time are you going to get up?” he asks me. “I'll make sure I'm gone by then."

  "Thanks,” I smile. He's taken his shirt off. I feel weak. I wish I were stronger ... I would go to him, let him fuck me with that hard on. Get it over with, this little thing between us. Then we can both move on.

  I tell him seven ... but I set the alarm for six. I'll want to check on Thomas, but maybe, secretly, I want to see Brian again, too.

  I say good night and head off to bed. I'm just coming out of the bathroom in my pajamas around the corner from the living room when I hear him. I freeze, holding my breath. The lights are off, but I hear him breathing.

  More rapidly. Sighing, too.

  He can't be, can he?

  I walk on tiptoes, as close as I can get. He's sitting on the couch, his body in shadow. It's too hard to tell, but I think I see his hand, stroking.

  "Want to watch, Caroline?"

  My pussy clenches. My heart stopped.

  I've been caught.

  "I know you're there. It's okay, come out."

  I present myself. He turns on the light, leaning across the couch. He keeps his hand on his cock. He has a big hand, but an even bigger cock. Bigger and thicker than I imagined.

  "You don't mind if I play a little, do you?"

  "No...” My voice is a little high pitched. Thomas says I do that when I am secretly displeased or disconcerted about something but don't want to admit it.

  For fuck's sake. It's my living room, though. How could I not mind?

  "I just needed to unwind. I need to come about twice a day. What about you?"

  "Some ... something like that,” I mumble.

  "Have a seat,” he says.

  I do not feel in a position to argue.

  I take up the recliner, which is kitty corner to the sofa. I have a perfect view.

  "Are you bi, Caroline?"

  "No.” How can he just carry on a conversation like this, while pulling his cock?

  "Because I saw you looking at the waitress."

  I stiffen. �
�I'm not bisexual,” I try to put an end to it.

  "So why all that interest?"

  "If you must know, I didn't like the way she looked at you. And don't you dare read into that. I just know the type, manipulative, a born user."

  "Like Monica?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Didn't have to. What was her name, anyway?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Yes you do."

  "Mandee,” I say, unpleasantly.

  "She was attractive, don't you think?"

  "I told you, I am not bisexual."

  "I bet you wouldn't mind her licking your pussy, though, if we had her here right now, as our little slave girl."

  I feel the twitching. My nipples harden.

  "She could crawl to you across the floor, after she sucks me off. Imagine that, Mandee, her little sleek body buck naked, a nice little collar on her throat, scampering over to you, trying to be a good little slut so we don't beat her ass."

  I want it to be me attached to that cock but I don't say it.

  "Touch yourself, go on. You know this turns you on.” He touched his nipples, one after the other. “You could have your lips here, and here, while Mandee does her thing, here.” His cock looks so god damn good, protruding through the opening in his jeans, right through the split in the zipper as he squeezes it, hard. “Go on,” he prods. “Do it."

  I tuck my fingers under the waistband of my pajamas. I have panties on because of the male company. They are wet. I gasp as I feel it, my fingers being grabbed at by my hungry little cunt.

  I come in record time. I try and keep it quiet, but he wants to hear, he encourages me. I moan, only half aware as he tears at my clothing. I end up bare assed on the soft chair, my legs hoisted up over the arm rests, pussy gaping, giving, over and over, letting him see and possess my deepest intimacies.

  "That's it, Caroline, that's it,” he encourages. “Show me."

  I feel shamed and aroused and just plain open, bleeding my fragile, edgy self. At a certain point I can't take any more and I come down from the ceiling of self-pleasuring.

  He's just looking at me still, grinning, the over confident bastard. His eyes get that intense look that a man gets just before. It's all I can do not to run to him and swallow him whole, or at least give him my face and/or breasts to come all over.

  It's a tissue instead.

  Such a pity.

  He closes his eyes as he releases himself, flooding the blue tissue with thick gobs of white sperm. I tear myself away. I yank up my pajamas. I manage to be long gone, locked in my room before he can open them again.

  I take off the pajamas and stuff them deep in my hamper, deep as I can get them.

  CHAPTER II

  I call the hospital the minute the alarm goes off.

  No change.

  I have to do something so I cook breakfast. For Thomas’ son, asleep on my couch. He must be exhausted. I'm not sure where he came from to get here or how. A man only has one father and he lost so much time already. I can't bear to see him lose anymore.

  He stirs a little. He's on his back. Chest exposed, just a fine line of hair over his pectorals. He has left the jeans on. And a fresh hard-on.

  Damn, you forget what men in their twenties are like.

  I sure got an eyeful last night. Watching him play with himself, my own fingers half buried in my pussy. I'd give anything to know what he was really imagining. I think he must have been imagining himself fucking the blonde when push came to shove. I sure would if I were a man. Who would pick a woman in her thirties, gravity assaulted, used goods, over a fresh little piece with bright eyes and a totally tight and screwable body? Me, I feel like I need a couple of screws drilled into me to hold me together.

  It's funny, but I'm not thinking of the implications of our little exchange last night. I'm just cooking bacon, barefoot in my kitchen, in the oversized t-shirt and elastic shorts I put on in place of the pajamas. No, it's definitely not about Brian and me. It's about Thomas, I owe him everything. I exist to help him. And so does Brian. The whole fucking world revolves around him if you ask me.

  Condition unchanged. Stable.

  Whatever that means. He's made it through another night. That's another hurdle. Just a million more to go. The heart has to heal. He has to breathe on his own. There could be brain damage. He had a stroke; we don't know what that means. Blood was cut off to his spine, no guarantee he'll ever walk again.

  I have already tried to call Monica; she's got her phone on voice mail.

  Still trying to get over this whole there's-a-man-in-my-apartment thing. I would be naked now otherwise. Hell, I wouldn't be cooking. I would be eating cereal from a box, hunting for donuts at the convenience store.

  I'm not a morning person. I need diet soda and space. Even with Thomas I can count the number of times on one hand we woke up in the same bed. And that was for logistical reasons more than anything. Can't explain why this is just not a part of us, not a part of me. I've never been married, never even come that close. Did as much as I could to keep men away, including the alcohol. Lots of sex, not much commitment. Forever in the wrong beds, nowhere relationships, pining after married men, preferring to believe their absurd promises of a future together than to risk anything real.

  The proverbial rock bottom for me happened thirteen months ago and eight days. It wasn't as dramatic as you might think. Ironically, I woke up feeling fine, as I always do from a drunk. Never once blessed with a hangover I couldn't cure with a little caffeine. Fit as a fiddle, I went to run in the park on a Sunday morning. Up north, air exhaling in smoky rings.

  Thirty-four years old, not a scratch on me.

  Five miles, never flinched. I was almost disappointed. Then it hit me. I'm trying to kill myself here and it isn't even working.

  I'm a fucking failure at slow suicide.

  Or was I a mess inside?

  I went to a doctor, told him flat out I've taken shitty care of myself for twenty years. I drink like a fish and the only green things I ate are the snacks on St. Patrick's Bar at Donovan's Tavern.

  He couldn't find anything wrong with me either.

  Good news, he called it.

  I quit my job, headed south to Orlando with everyone else in the known universe. Wandered around the amusement parks for a couple of weeks until the cash ran low then decided what to do next. Came down to a coin toss. A bar on one side of the street, a church on the other, with a meeting. It came up heads for the meeting. I went for three out of five and five out of seven. Fuck it, still heads.

  I gave up fighting the little dwarves in the sky or whoever it is run the universe. Off I went, trotting my ass down the stairs to the faded linoleum basement.

  A half hour later I met Thomas and my life changed forever.

  "Hey.” Brian's standing behind me. That chest is still bare and it's closer than ever. He's lean, he's yummy ... he's ... in my space and I'm not even pissed off.

  I blush. “Hey,” I say back, using the same lips that wanted to taste that cock, the same lips that wanted to worship—correction, still want to worship.

  "Something smells good."

  "I hope you like it,” I blurt. “Eggs, bacon, toast?"

  "My favorites. Can I help with anything?"

  "No. Sit.” I let him have the head of the table, such as it is. “You take your coffee with cream and sugar, right?"

  "Good memory."

  I set the cup down. My hand trembles a little.

  "Caroline?"

  My throat is bone dry. “Yes?"

  Oh, god, if he asks for my body, if he says anything at all...

  "I really appreciate you letting me crash here."

  "It was nothing."

  "No. It was a lot."

  I can smell him. He smells like a man. A little sweat, a little left over cologne. A lot of testosterone.

  "If you say so..."

  "I do. Why are you so nervous?” He asks.

  "I'm not."

  He touches my hand.
I feel the heat, instant, paralyzing. This isn't right. Am I just responding to him because of Thomas? Is it all vicarious? Not that my flesh could tell the difference at the moment.

  Come on, Caroline, speak up, and tell him to let go.

  "Sure you are, you're shaking like a leaf."

  "Too much caffeine,” I quip as he caresses my fingers.

  My toes curl in reply. Bare toes. Oh, hell, I do not have enough clothes on. This is why I don't like men here...

  "Don't make a joke,” he says sternly. “Tell me what you're really feeling."

  "I am attracted to you,” I say, “and it scares the hell out of me."

  Fuck, where did that come from? I am not attracted right now, I'm worried about Thomas. Period.

  "There, was that so hard?"

  "Yes it was."

  "You're not really scared though, are you? I think you feel guilty."

  "I refuse to be analyzed,” I declare, “By men who are younger than the sweaters I have hanging in my closet."

  "Analysis isn't what I'm interested in.” He stands up, body to body. “And I really don't care about your sweaters. In fact, I'm not too keen on any clothes at all for you."

  He's tugging up my t-shirt.

  "Brian, no. What happened last night ... it was the heat of the moment. We were both upset. We have to know our places. Thomas, your father, needs us, you can't betray that."

  "I'm not betraying anything, Caroline, I'm following my feelings. Tell me you don't have the same?"

  "I don't."

  "Is that the truth?"

  My shirt is off; he tosses it onto the floor. I cover my breasts. “It is,” I insist.

  "I think you're lying.” He cups my ass cheeks through my shorts. “I wonder if a spanking would change your story?"

  "No one does that to me,” I squirm.

  "Except for him, I know.” Brian kisses me. There's big trouble here; this won't end well.

  "Let go of me. This is just some game to you, isn't it? Competing with the old man? Well I'm not a prize."

  He doesn't let go. “I am not doing anything but living in the moment. I have to have you, I wanted you the second I saw you, Caroline, you're so beautiful."

  "Stop saying that. You think you're being clever, you're just immature."

  I punch at his chest, he does back off, but by then I start to cry. Oh, shit, I don't want to do this in front of him.