by Meghan Quinn
“And The Titanic is?”
“You can’t tell me you’ve never had a Titanic fantasy. Kate Winslet . . . boobies.”
“Boobies are great, but no fantasies there. Honestly, I just want to make love to you on this floor, right here, right now.”
“With me wrapped in a rug?” I asked. I felt disgust on my face.
“Not much into fucking rugs, so you’re going to have to ditch the threads, love.”
Without giving me an option, Henry grabbed the rug, unraveled me, and tossed it to the side. His hand wrapped around my neck, pulling me into him, where he lowered me gently onto the cold hardwood floor. My back lifted off the ground for a short second before it became accustomed to the temperature.
“You’re so fucking beautiful; do you know that?” Henry asked, staring me in the eyes. “Every day, I wake up with you in my arms, thanking whoever wants to listen for letting you be mine.”
I was speechless as he cupped my face and slowly entered me, one inch at a time. Taking a deep breath, I adjusted to his size and waited for him to start moving, but he didn’t. Instead, he kissed me, deeply, as if he was starving for my kisses, completely desperate for them. His fingers caressed my cheeks while my hardened nipples danced with his bare chest. The friction only intensified the burn that was starting to build up in the pit of my stomach, that wonderful, all consuming, mind-blowing, life-altering burn.
“I love you so fucking much,” Henry whispered in my ear, just as he worked his hips, thrusting in and out of me.
My heart felt like it was about to rip out of my chest from the intimacy beaming between Henry and me, from the unbreakable connection we’d formed over the past two months.
Little moans escaped from my lips, a light sheen of sweat broke out over my skin, and my toes started to curl. My impending orgasm started to slowly prepare to rip through my body.
“Fuck,” Henry said in a husky tone, straight into my ear, sending another bout of chills down my body. “You make me lose control.”
Pumping harder, Henry continued to kiss up and down my neck, his body hovering just slightly above mine. I watched his arms flex with his movements, marveling in the way his hard body tightened with each thrust.
“Love, are you going to come? Tell me you’re right there with me. I want to hear you scream my name when I come inside of you.”
Dirty talk pretty much did it for me.
Instead of answering, my eyes immediately closed as my orgasm tore through my body, from the bottom of my toes to the top of my head, pure and utter satisfaction collided in my very core, sending my brain into a fit of black. From a distance, I could hear Henry call out my name in undeniable ecstasy.
There was nothing I enjoyed more than hearing Henry say my name in the throes of passion. I knew he was in love with me, that I was his girl, but there was something about having sex with the love of my life, and pleasing him to the point of completion that put a smile on my face.
I did that; I was able to turn on this sexy man to the point that he lost all self-control.
Sex to me wasn’t just about poking each other with private parts, trying to see who could seek out an orgasm first. Sex, to me, was a moment in time where I could truly share the same space, the same air, with the one person I would bet my entire life on. And, let’s be honest, having my clit scream its little four-inch head off—yes, four inches long—was always a bonus.
Resting his head on my shoulder, Henry breathed out a long sigh before lying down on the floor next to me and cradling my body into his. “See, nothing wrong with missionary, love.”
“I guess not,” I laughed into his shoulder.
His hands lightly ran across my skin as he spoke. “As much as I want to just stay here with you all night, Delaney and Derk are coming over, so we should be good hosts and put some clothes on.”
I was about to answer when our front door opened and Delaney’s voice rang through our apartment. “Hey, hooker, I brought margarita mix; you better have tequila.”
“Shit,” Henry breathed, quickly lifting us both up off the floor.
“Ugh, are you two doing it?” Delaney called out, her voice now booming through the bedroom door.
I was just quick enough to grab the rug that’d once cocooned me off the floor to drape over my body and stand in front of Henry before Delaney walked in. She had zero personal space awareness.
Shaking her head and pointing at our naked bodies, barely covered by a rug, she said, “Should have known. You horn dogs are at it again. The first time was cute when I walked in, Rosie with her pink nipples in the air, shining for all the street youths to see, but the twentieth time is starting to get old.” Delaney looked over at the office chair and then back at us. “Did you try The Titanic?”
Shifting in place, I nodded my head. “Yeah, didn’t work very well.”
“Did Henry plant his feet? That’s important, you have to plant your feet.”
“My feet were planted!” Henry answered, exasperated, hands in the air.
Glancing down, Delaney surveyed Henry’s legs. “Hmm, your calves actually are kind of small. I never noticed that. Derk has some pretty strong calves, so I think that’s why he was so successful.”
“You were able to do The Titanic?” I asked with jealousy.
Delaney leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed. “Of course, it was simple. I Kate Winsleted Derk’s penis like it was my job. And when I came, I screamed, ‘I’m flying.’ It was a raw and emotional moment.”
Derk came jogging up behind Delaney, breathing heavily with an annoyed look on his face. “Seriously, babe, what is your obsession with catching them in the middle of having sex?” Derk took in the scene and shook his head.
“They tried to do The Titanic,” Delaney said, ignoring Derk’s question.
Derk looked up at Henry and asked, “Did you plant your feet?”
“Yes!” Henry practically yelled before stomping off toward the bathroom, giving both Delaney and Derk a beautiful look at his bare butt.
“Man, he’s sensitive,” Delaney said. Nodding at the rug, Delaney asked, “You going to wear a tapestry while we discuss wedding plans or are you going to get changed?”
“If you give me some privacy, I’ll get changed, but I’m not about to give you a naked lady show.”
“Suit yourself. You have five minutes; the bridezilla has spoken.”
With that, Delaney turned on her heel and shut the door. I walked over to Henry, who was combing his hair in the mirror, and kissed his shoulder.
He gave me a defeated smile before saying, “My feet were fucking planted.”
Laughing and patting his shoulder, I said, “I know, Henry. I know.”
***
PLOP!
Henry and I were sitting across from Delaney and Derk just as she slammed a giant folder on the table. The four-inch binder was busting from the seams, pamphlets poking out from every direction, dividers clearly labeling each section, and page protectors guarding what I could only assume were her favorite ideas for the wedding.
The bridezilla had awakened.
The last two months, Delaney and Derk haven’t even talked about the wedding; they’ve enjoyed their engagement, actually . . . they’ve enjoyed each other’s bodies. They decided to give in and finally move in together. Let’s just say we haven’t seen much of them, but then again, Henry and I have been in the same kind of fornication fog.
The other night, after I took great notes on a sex scene I was thinking about writing—thank you, Henry for riding out the falling-off-the-bed mishap—Delaney called me and demanded a wedding meeting. We were both to be present, clothed, and excited to help plan.
Henry was ready to dig his claws into some wedding cake and tuxedos, but me, on the other hand, I knew nothing when it came to wedding planning. I wasn’t sure how I was going to be much of a help other than emotional support, and I guess by the sounds of her frantic voice on the phone the other night, she was going to need a lot of
that.
“Nice binder,” Henry complimented Delaney with a smile, as his hand grazed my inner thigh.
“Stop stroking her!” Delaney shouted. “You think because you’re at a table I can’t see you moving your hand up and down her thigh? This is neither the time nor the place.” Under her breath, she mumbled, “Pervert.”
“Babe, calm down,” Derk soothed, visibly relaxing Delaney with a touch of his hand to her shoulder.
Delaney placed her hands on the table and stared us down. “The time has come. Rosie and Henry, you two are the most important people in our lives, and we would love for you to be our maid of honor and best man.”
“Man, that’s awesome. Thank you for asking,” Henry replied, but Delaney held up her hand to silence him.
“We’re not asking, Henry. You have no choice in the matter. You will be the bridal party.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “Gee, thanks.”
“Are you going to not fulfill your best friend responsibilities?”
“No, I will. It’s just nice to have the option.”
“There is no option in this wedding dictatorship.” Delaney flipped her hair to the side and grabbed the binder. “Now that you both have been told your roles, we must get down to business. Yesterday, Derk and I put down the deposit for a wedding venue out in Long Island . . .”
“Long Island?” Henry mocked.
Instinctively, I slapped Henry on the stomach without even thinking.
“Do you have a problem with Long Island?” Delaney asked, her eyes looking a little wild. “Your girlfriend is from Long Island, you can find the best bagels in the world on Long Island, and you know what, Henry? It’s where the Long Island Median resides, and that’s just cool shit. Plus, it’s cheaper to have a wedding there than in the city, and unless you’re planning on trading in your stylish penny loafers for a deposit on some overly processed banquet meat and an open bar, then your opinion on the location can be found at the intersection of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ and ‘shut the hell up, you whore’.”
“She paints a lovely picture, doesn’t she?” Derk added.
Henry rubbed the side of his face. “I think I was just bitch-slapped by the English language.”
“I’m glad you realized that.” Delaney folded her hands together and continued. “Like I said before I was rudely insulted by Mr. I-Think-I-Look-Like-A-Young-Bradley-Cooper, we booked the venue and now have two months until the wedding to plan.”
“Two months?” I shouted. “How are you going to plan a wedding in two months?”
“Wedding?” Delaney laughed right before she flipped the binder open to a pop-up display of a massive pink penis. “I don’t care about the wedding. I’m concerned about the bachelorette party. Our parents are taking care of the wedding, what I need you to plan is the party of a lifetime, full of penises, strippers, more penises, COCK-tails, and did I mention penises?” Delaney looked off into a faraway place as she spoke. “Let me paint you a picture, Rosie. This is my last and only night to experience the feel of a man’s dick flopping against my face while cheesy stripper music blasts through my ears in the background. This needs to be the most drunkenly epic night full of male genitalia, sex music, praise for my breasts, and inappropriate pelvic thrusting of strangers.”
I gulped. I was so not ready for the challenge.
“Sounds like a good time,” Henry said.
“It will be a good time! Think of the possibilities. We can wear penises on our shirts, drink from penis cups, with penis straws, while eating penis cookies decorated with penis candies. We can carry around sashes that look like penises, blow penis whistles, and play pin the balls on the giant penis. We can wear penis headbands that bounce around on springs, gyrating to the beat flowing through our bodies. We can have a penis piñata full of little penis eggs that when you open them up, there is a macaroni penis inside. We can hire men to wear penis costumes who follow us around, poking from behind every so often, begging for a good stroke . . .”
“I get it,” I held up my hand. “You want penises at the party. Seems like you have that all covered.”
A maniacal laugh popped out of Delaney’s mouth as she shook her head. “Oh, dear and sweet Rosie. I don’t have this all covered . . . you do.” She pointed her manicured finger at me.
“Excuse me?” I asked, sweat starting to form on my upper lip.
Inspecting her nails, she sat back in her chair and laughed as she spoke. “Rosie, as my maid of honor, you are in charge of the bachelorette party. I don’t want a bridal shower, and I really don’t care what my bouquet looks like as I walk down the aisle, but I do care about the bachelorette party and the penis count that will be attending. It is your responsibility to deliver.” She pushed the binder toward me. “This is your reference book; use it. Let it be your guiding light as you sift through cheap and crappy penis memorabilia and the high quality kind that shows every vein. I’m depending on you to make this happen for me. I need this, Rosie. I need veins!” She gripped her fist to her chest in desperation.
Again, I gulped . . . big time. A bachelorette party, under Delaney’s demands. Pretty sure losing my virginity was easier than what Delaney was demanding.
I flipped through the pages, scanning through her collection of strip clubs in the city, her suggestions for logoed tchotchkes, or shall I say . . . dick-chkes. Page after page read like a horny woman on a plastic-coated penis bender.
“You want all of this?”
“Rosie, I want an epic night.” She waved and smoothed out the air above her with her hands, trying to paint a picture for me. “A night that I can look back on when I’m talking to my grandchildren and tell them that yes, grand-mammy celebrated her one last night as a single woman in total erotically charged freedom, that she allowed man bushes to grind against her leg and flaccid penises to be aroused by the mere sight of my pert breasts—because they will be on display that night, nipples barely covered. I’m counting on you to make this night the most memorable night of my entire life.”
No pressure or anything.
Henry cut in before I could say anything. “Poker, pizza, and beers for you?” he asked Derk.
“You know how we do,” Derk nodded.
Ugh, men. They make it so easy.
“Better get planning, Rosie. You only have a few months to make my cock-filled dreams come true.”
“Lucky me.”
Chapter Two
Fungal Cock
HENRY
“Dude, why are you walking like that?” Freddy asked me.
I stirred my coffee before turning to face him. Last night Rosie was a beast; straight up, it was the first time I was genuinely concerned that she might bite my penis off. After Delaney and Derk left the apartment, Rosie paced the apartment in a fit of panic, wondering how she was going to plan Delaney’s dream bachelorette party when she knew nothing about party planning, let alone male strippers, or penis party games. Her nerves turned into animalistic instincts, and before I could react, she had me pinned to the floor, pantless and attacking my dick like there was a hidden treasure under the layers of tubed skin.
It wasn’t until I felt the piercing of my thigh that I cried, “Uncle,” and begged her to stop. You would think, since her nail dug deeply into my inner thigh, that I would be the one coddled—considering the too-close-to-my-dick part—but that wasn’t the case. I spent the rest of the night coddling her as she cried uncontrollably in my arms.
Not our best night, but then again, I couldn’t imagine spending a night without her, even if it meant watching her tear-encrusted mascara eyes look up at me while snot dripped from her nose. The stress seemed to tumble down on top of her, and she lost it completely.
Looking Freddy dead in the eyes, I answered him. “Rosie punctured me in the thigh last night with her lady claws.”
“While doing the dirty?”
I just nodded.
Covering his mouth, he said, “Dude! That shit’s crazy. Was she sucking you off?”
Just a heads up, Freddy is the biggest tool bag one could be unfortunate enough to meet. Just think if you took a meathead from the gym, combined him with a frat boy—make that three frat boys—and all the original cast members from The Jersey Shore, mixed them up into a melting pot of “Black Ice” car freshener, and you’ve got Freddy Roma.
“That’s none of your business, dickhead. Seriously, you really think I’m going to stand here and talk about my relationship with you? I value and respect my girl way too much to belittle her in front of you.”
Freddy tilted his head to the side and studied me like a dog looks when you talk to them but they can’t quite figure out what you’re trying to convey. “Wait, so you don’t want to talk about the sex you had?”
“No, I really don’t,” I stated matter-of-factly.
Still confused, he smiled and then slapped his hand against my chest, sending me back a few steps so I bumped against the counter. “That good, huh? I get it, man-brony, too speechless from a good fuck.” The douche canoe wiggled his eyebrows at me, causing a little puke to gather in my mouth. He stretched his giant gym arms over his head and said, “Had one of those nights myself. Met this pair of luscious tits at the gym yesterday; she was working her inner thighs on the machine and staring me down as I pumped a cool three-fifty on the bench. She was one of those gym hos that wears a sports bra and a pair of spandex shorts. When she bent over, I could practically see the meat of her pussy begging for me to play around with it. So, what did I do? I went up behind her as she bent over and pelvic thrusted her ass.”
I wanted nothing to do with this conversation. I had zero incentive to see where the dumbbell dumbass was going with this, but I couldn’t help but ask one question. “You shot your junk into her backside? Did you even know her?”
“No, never met her before.”
“But you humped her ass at the gym? How is that even something people do?”
Freddy threw his head back and laughed. “Bro-seph, you’ve been out of the circuit for too long. That’s how you pick up ladies now.”
