by Mimi Strong
We got everything put away, and then it was just us and a freshly-made bed.
I said, “If only I had something to give you for your birthday present, this would be the perfect time for me to give it to you.”
He grinned and started unbuttoning my frilly pink blouse, both of us standing at the foot of the bed.
“I could order you something online,” I said. “It would take a few days to arrive, but you could print out the picture in the meantime.”
He pulled the blouse away and let it fall, tickling my arms on the way to the floor. He leaned down and kissed the tops of my breasts, held up high and proud in the pretty pink bra. Nodding down, I smelled the top of his head, taking in the scent of his scalp, which always smelled so good. His hands moved up and down my back, and then he was kissing my neck, his hands in my hair.
I reached down for his T-shirt and tugged it up and off so I could put my hands all over his hot skin. He kissed my shoulder as we closed the distance between us and rocked from side to side to…
“We should have music,” I murmured.
“Really?” He pulled away and turned the stereo on.
“Isn’t this your meditation music?”
“You don’t like it.”
“No, no. This music is nice. Is that a sitar? I feel like a snake charmer.” I moved my neck from side to side in a bad parody of a white girl doing a scene from Disney’s Aladdin.
“You’ve already charmed my snake, so whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
I laughed and grabbed him so I could unfasten his pants and get him ready for the real snake charming event.
I pushed him, naked, onto the bed, and slipped out of my cargo shorts before climbing on alongside him, still wearing my nice underwear.
“You’re not naked,” he said.
“Think of me as a birthday present you unwrap a little at a time.”
He lay back and closed his eyes.
Instead of starting at the top, kissing his lips, I began at the bottom of his body, giving both of his feet a light, invigorating rub. He had nice toes. Men always have good feet, without bunions, because they don’t wear ridiculous shoes like we do. I rubbed his arches, then pulled his legs apart from each other so I could kneel in between them as I squeezed his calves.
I moved my hands up along the inside edges of his legs, making him laugh and squirm. He peered down at me. “I feel so vulnerable with my legs apart like this.”
“Now you know how girls feel.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what you girls see in big, hairy men.”
He was naked, so I leaned forward and kissed the tip of his cock. “You’re big, but you’re not that hairy.”
I moved back down a few inches with my body, and went back to rubbing his legs again. Keith grew very quiet and still, his eyes closed.
As I rubbed his legs and then moved my fingers up gradually to gently rub his sack and shaft, I watched him, thinking about how many girls would be looking at photos of him and imagining themselves doing what I was doing.
I glanced down at my body, and at all the natural creases forming from the position I was in, and for the first time since I’d gotten the underwear modeling offer, I imagined men looking at photos of me while they jerked off.
I may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for a certain segment of men, I’m the bee’s knees.
As I took Keith’s cock into my mouth, I thought about all those sexually frustrated men who couldn’t have me, and I got even more turned on. I threw one leg over his leg and rubbed up against his shin as I sucked his beautiful cock.
He was big and hard, like a tower that couldn’t be knocked down. I got excited, moaning and breathing hard—so much so, that he tapped me on the shoulder to check I was okay.
Embarrassed, I wiped my mouth and took a break, saying, “Just wanted you to have a good birthday.”
He sat up and put his arms around me. “I do have a request. Remember the first time? With our legs wrapped around each other?”
“That was fun.”
“Lay back and let me kiss you before we get started.”
I rolled onto my back and held my arms out for him, but instead of joining me for kissing on the mouth, he moved down and pulled my panties off. Oh. That kind of kissing. Well. Happy birthday to me, too!
He put a pillow under my hips, and then another pillow under his chest as he wriggled into place. “Perfect,” he said, bending my knees up and making his way down between my thighs. “Now just relax your legs open a little more.”
I giggled, because these sorts of instructions are funny at the doctor’s office and even funnier in bed.
He dove in, his tongue pushing down, and I sucked in a deep breath, no longer feeling the giggles. I grasped handfuls of the bedcovers as he bore down on my clit as eagerly as I’d enjoyed his cock a moment earlier.
Taking his time, he brought me up, up, to the point of the waves crashing, but eased off instead, allowing the waves of pleasure to recede.
I begged. I pushed my pride aside and I truly begged for release. “Harder? Harder? Don’t stop. Don’t… noooo. You bastard. You tease. I’m leaving this room as soon as feeling returns to my body.”
Then he went in again, and I moaned and begged, and still he wouldn’t let me come.
I even tried to be sneaky about it, but he had fingers inside me, and could tell by my tension or my breathing, or possibly the sheen of sweat that appeared on my stomach whenever I got close to detonation.
Finally, I just gave in. You win, Keith, you sex-a-thon-having meditation-nut. Do to me what you want, because it’s your birthday, and when we’re done I’m going to acquaint myself with the massaging shower head in your bathroom.
Once I was as compliant as Silly Putty, he climbed on top of me, his penis against my stomach, and kissed me until he was as hard as ever. We sat up together, wrapping our arms around each other and kissing. He put a condom in place, then sat up with his legs loosely bent, forming a circle with his knees under mine.
We were both still sitting, facing each other, legs interwoven. My butt was still raised on the pillows. I leaned back on my palms and raised my hips as he slid forward to merge with me, moving easily into me as a thrill raced up my spine. I wrapped my legs around him, sitting upright and feeling him completely within me, from his root and all the way up, his upper body wrapped in my arms.
We rocked back and forth like this, and when my legs started to shake from the position, he gathered up the pillows that had escaped and propped me up under my butt.
Now we were really in our groove, barely moving, but fully in contact. We stared into each other’s eyes, and I wondered what he saw that made his expression so raw and serene at the same time. He kissed me, and we both kept our eyes open, as if we were afraid the other might disappear, like a dream in the morning.
CHAPTER 22
Monday morning, Keith drove me to the studio for the commercial shoot, and I wouldn’t get out of the van. It wasn’t nerves that got the best of me, but I was addicted to that man! I couldn’t stop kissing him and grabbing onto his sweet, sweet ass, and other parts.
“What have you done to me?” I said.
He growled and kissed my neck while fondling my boobs through my zip-up hoodie jacket. “Me like pretty girl.”
Finally, I pulled myself away and reluctantly opened the van door. “Wish me luck,” I said.
“Break a leg.”
“Anyone’s leg but mine.” I leaned back over to his side for one more kiss.
What had he done to me? Quite simply, he’d subjected me to a marathon tantric sex session the night before, thus ruining me for all other regular sexual encounters, for the rest of my life. Keith’s super-slow lovin’ fried out some of my dopamine circuits, and now I craved him like a chocolate addict craves the good stuff from Belgium.
I dragged myself away from the old green van and in through the austere door of the photographer’s studio. The same guy who did the photos
was directing the commercials, so at least I got to work with the same crew again, including…
“Mitchell!”
He stopped where he was, at the opposite end of a long corridor just inside the lobby. He started running toward me in slow motion. Laughing, I did the same, lifting my knees high and pretending I was racing frantically toward him, but in slow motion.
We collided together in the middle, hugging and pretending to sob.
He pulled away and went back to regular Mitchell mode. “You, Miss Thaing, were a handful Friday night,” he said, his blond eyebrows raised high.
“I sure was. Then Keith picked me up from the bar and I went home and got myself a handful.”
“You did better than me! I went home and microwaved two Jenny Craigs and ate them both. For dessert, I ate jam straight from the jar with a spoon.”
“That’s quite the sad tale.”
“I’ve had worse nights.” He shook his head. “Come Christmas, everyone thinks it’s so funny to dress me up like one of Santa’s elves.”
“You would make a cute elf.”
“I know.” He wrinkled his nose. “True confession? I like being an elf. I own three different costumes, but if anyone asks, they’re rentals.”
We started walking toward the hair and makeup room, where the illusion I was a professional model would begin.
“Hey, speaking of quirks,” I said. “Do you happen to remember why I got a tattoo that reads Doves Cry?”
He gasped. “That happened? I thought I was dreaming.”
“Any clue what it means?”
“Give me a minute,” he said.
I got into the makeup chair, introduced myself to the sleepy-looking makeup girl with a pixie haircut, and got comfortable as Mitchell ran off to make me a mocha.
He came back with the drink and told me the story.
Apparently, we were listening to Prince songs in the limousine that first night we went our partying, with Gunner and Daniel, the models. I had really enjoyed Prince’s When Doves Cry, and how the opening ba-wang sounds moved around the car’s surround sound speakers. At my request, they replayed the song a couple of times, until finally I told the guys I was confused, because I still didn’t understand what it sounded like when doves cry.
Daniel, the straight guy with the shaggy brown hair, said, “What it sounds like? You mean when the doves cry? It’s a seven-note melody. Doot-da-doot. Doot-doot-do-doot.”
As Mitchell relayed the story, making the pixie-haired makeup artist snicker, I dimly remembered all of that happening. I’d had one of those moments you only get when you’re drunk or over-tired, and not yourself. That night, I realized I over-think everything. The key to life seemed so simple in that moment, as we were all laughing and playing music in the limousine. I just had to let go. If I had to cry, I’d cry.
Then I did start to cry, right there in the limousine. Messy tears. Snotty nose. The whole drunk-girl-crying experience. But they were happy tears. My only fear was I worried I’d forget my revelation when I sobered up.
We then did the only logical thing. We drove straight to an all-night tattoo parlor—not the nice kind with attractive people who won’t tattoo you if you’re drunk, but the seedy kind with scary dudes who can’t spell, where you watch closely to make sure the supplies are sterile—and I got my tattoo.
Mitchell finished the anecdote, assuring me I didn’t complain at all about the pain.
The makeup artist applying my extra eyelashes begged to see the tattoo, so I pulled my loose-fitting shorts down and showed her. The ink was looking less black and more blue every day as it healed.
“That is so cute,” she said. “I’m, like, totally jealous. You have a great tattoo and an amazing story. All I have is a fucking tramp stamp.”
She turned around and bent forward to show us a thorny mass of roses on her lower back.
“Um, the flowers are pretty,” Mitchell said.
“It’s nice,” I lied.
She turned around, her lip curled up in a sneer. “You know what my guy does? He pulls out at the last second and says, ‘Water the roses. Pew, pew.’”
I gasped. “No.”
“Yes. He comes on my tramp stamp. He’s mentally ill or something.”
“I’m sure he loves you, though, right?”
She continued, “Of course he does. He rubs my feet when I come home after a long day, and he made me a bacon omelet this morning, and I love the big, stupid idiot, so what-cha-gonna do?”
With a straight face, Mitchell said, “He sounds like a keeper.”
I pointed to the girl’s wedding band. “How long have you been married?”
“A year. It’s good, except for the tattoo thing.”
I nodded, because that was perfectly understandable.
An hour later, I looked like a Vegas showgirl crossed with a lion. My hair was bigger than a drag queen’s wig, having been teased mercilessly and augmented by another pound of blond, wavy hair.
They hadn’t gone so crazy on the hair for the still photos, and I was surprised by how powerful a lion’s mane made me feel.
The photographer, who had someone else on the camera as he was directing today, came by and frowned, then walked away.
I blinked up at Mitchell’s reflection in the makeup mirror, both of us lit up brightly by the flattering light bulbs. “He hates me,” I said.
“That was his good frown,” Mitchell said, patting my shoulder. “Trust me, I know. That frown was him acknowledging that you look fierce, and now the pressure is on him to not blow it.”
“I can’t believe you said I look fierce. People actually say that word around here, don’t they?”
A skinny guy came into the room with two dresses. “Hey, girl. You look fierce. So, we’re all loving both of these dresses, but I’ll let you pick which one you like.”
“I won’t be in my underwear?”
Mitchell took the dresses and shooed the guy away.
He explained, “The concept is… you’re riding a bicycle in the park and as you ride by a cute guy, he sees you in your underwear. We shoot you in the dress, and then in the underwear, and do a little computer magic to mirror his eyes undressing you.”
“Really?” My stomach flip-flopped. “Isn’t that creepy? How does this sell the underwear? It doesn’t seem very sexy or empowering to me.”
Mitchell laughed, then stopped. “Oh, you’re serious. You said empowering and I thought you were pulling my leg.”
I squirmed in my chair and reached for my bottle of water. “You’re right. I’m over-thinking again.”
“You’ll be smiling through the whole commercial, so it won’t feel like you’re being victimized.”
I spat out my water, dribbling down my chin. “Mitchell, you don’t know what it’s like to be a woman.”
“Sometimes I feel like I have a sassy big girl inside of me. Her name is LaShonda, and she makes me buy cupcakes.” He blinked, looking as innocent as a curly-haired little cherub.
“Okay, I’ll wear the ivory dress. Let’s do this.”
He made an unattractive expression. “There’s one more thing. Promise you won’t be mad.”
“I’m not eating in the commercial. I already put that in the contract, and it’s not negotiable.”
“The cute guy is Dalton Deangelo.”
“You mean someone who looks like him.”
“No, it’s really him. When you were in the washroom at the restaurant, he said he wished he could make it up to you, how he hurt your feelings, and I had a few ideas.”
I sighed. “I guess that’s fine. He’s the reason I got myself into this mess, so he may as well be part of it.”
“You still like him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not as much as you, fanboy.”
Someone tapped on the door. My heart raced, anticipating Dalton, but the person who entered looked like a cross between a Vegas showgirl and a lion. WHAT? How could that be me? How could I be sitting in the makeup chair and also walk
ing into the room?
“Can I get your autograph?” my look-alike asked, handing me a cotton T-shirt and a felt pen.
“This nice young lady here is your lighting stand-in,” Mitchell said.
“Wow, for a minute I thought you had me cloned.”
The girl’s face squished up. “That’s so nice of you to say. I love you SO MUCH. Like, I know this is weird because you don’t know me, but I love you and I think we could totally be best friends.”
Standing behind her, Mitchell grimaced and mouthed the words I’m sorry.
“Thanks,” I said, and I signed her Team Peaches T-shirt, because that seemed like the thing to do.
She immediately began crying, and ran from the room.
“Did I do that wrong?” I asked Mitchell. “She seemed decent, but honestly, that was more terrifying than the paparazzi.”
“Don’t post any exterior pics of your home online,” he said.
“I’m not Lady Gaga.”
“No, but some of your Team Peaches people are quite organized. Yesterday, they staged a rally at a dog rescue in San Diego, because the place wouldn’t let a woman adopt a Jack Russell terrier. The woman was… big enough to have some mobility issues, and she wanted a dog to help get her out of the house. They told her she was going to return the dog six months later, overfed and blown up like a sausage.”
“Tell me you’re joking, because I have to shoot a commercial right now, and I do not have time to fly to San Diego and slap the sense into those people.”
“Everything worked out. She adopted the dog, and the shelter issued an apology and has promised to change their screening process. The dog’s name is Barkles.”
He held up his phone and showed me a picture of the little guy, being cuddled by his new person, all thanks to this group of people on the internet whom I had nothing to do with, but were acting like my hit squad.
“I hope everything works out.” My stomach flip-flopped again, and I felt like I was back on the teacups ride at Disneyland.
“You do look fierce today,” Mitchell said.
I turned and looked in the mirror, where I saw a scared little girl playing dress-up.
