by Danica Avet
“Shaun,” she whispers, voice all shaky.
Shifting slightly, I kiss her swollen clit. Lick it. This time her flavor explodes on my taste buds. She gives a little gasp of arousal, her body twitching at the contact, and it breaks the restraints I’ve put on myself. There’s no holding back as I lash her with my tongue, circling and flicking her clit, dipping down to fuck into her channel. I can’t seem to get enough, kissing her pussy the way I had her mouth, utilizing every tool at my disposal to wring more of those high-pitched moans and cries out of her.
She tastes… Perfect. She tastes like she’s mine and I’m branding myself on her. I nip at her mound until she’s writhing against the sofa, her feet propped on my shoulders, opening herself up for more. Opening my eyes—which I hadn’t realized were even closed—I look at her to see she’s pulling and tugging at her nipples, her face tight with arousal. Wrapping my lips around her clit, at the same time as I slide my finger into the snug grasp of her pussy, I suckle.
“Shaun!” She screams my name with abandon, her hips bucking up to take more of my finger, fucking herself on me. “God, oh God,” she moans, twisting her nipples and drenching my hand. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”
She wails and her pussy clamps down on my finger, more of her juices flooding my hand and mouth. I growl into her folds, reaching down with my opposite hand to press on my dick through my jeans. The pressure’s uncomfortable, but it saves me from coming in my pants like a teenager. She’s so tight, so wet. I squeeze my eyes shut, because if I watch her anymore I’ll go off like a rocket and I really, really want to be inside her when I come; want this tight pussy wrapped around my dick.
Tremors still rock her body as I pump my finger inside her, curving it to find that spot I discovered at the ripe age of nineteen. She shudders hard, my name leaving her mouth on a gasp, as her muscles flutter all around me. She’s so wet now it’s easy to slide two fingers inside her. I need her a little looser if I’m going to fuck her. Not to brag, but I’m not exactly average. And I’m operating on a hair trigger. Once I get my dick inside her, it’ll be a hard, fast ride.
“Mmm,” she moans, the slick sounds of my fingers moving in her punctuating her purr of approval. “More.”
I open my eyes again, looking from the pink flesh my fingers are fucking to her face. Her glasses are a little askew, her cheeks rosy with her orgasm. She’s… “Perfect,” I rumble, my throat hoarse and tight with need. “Need to fuck you, Katie.”
Her hands are still on her tits, lightly plucking at the nipples as she watches me. “Then fuck me, Shaun.”
With permission given, I turn into a bumbling fool. Or at least that’s what it feels like, as I jump up from my crouched position between her legs and start tearing at my jeans. Condom. Right, I need a condom. I know I have some in my wallet. I’d put them in there the last time Denise and I went on a trip to Hawaii. I thought we’d have some fun on the private beach of the house we rented, but I’d ended up surfing and watching TV the entire time while she went shopping.
I find the foil packet right where I’d left it and rip it open. It’s hard to concentrate. I want my dick out, the condom on, and inside Katie. But she’s there, watching me, that pussy glistening for me, waiting for me. I get the latex out of the foil before I even get my cock out of my pants. When I finally get the rubber on my dick, I realize I’m billowing for air like a horse in the final leg of the Kentucky Derby.
Gripping myself at my base, giving my cock a squeeze of warning, because this has to be good for Katie too, I look at her to see her watching my latex-covered shaft near her pussy. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, and if I wasn’t so desperate to be inside her, I’d have enjoyed that look a lot more. As it was, it just made me wonder if she liked to give blow jobs. My balls tighten at the thought of that mouth anywhere near them.
“This is gonna be rough,” I warn her in a voice I barely recognize as my own. “I’ll apologize later, I promise.”
She opens her mouth, probably to give me some smart ass comment, but I place my tip at her entrance and press inside. My head kicks back and she lets out this low ooh sound that I wish I was deaf to. Tight. Tight. Oh fuck, she’s tight. I need to go slow. I know this, yet the minute all that heat surrounds me, I lose it.
I grab her hips to hold her for my thrusts and fuck her like a man fresh out of prison. We’re both making sounds—pants, gasps, groans and shouts—but it only adds to the madness filling me. I can’t look down. I can’t watch my cock fucking into her tight pussy. If I do, I’ll come. I can’t do much more than grit my teeth and stare at the ceiling and fuck her. It’s either this or come too soon.
I have to be leaving bruises on her pale skin and that’s the only thing that draws my attention down to her. Concern that I’m hurting her overcomes my pleasure, clearing it from my mind just enough to check on her. She isn’t looking at me. She’s watching my cock and her face is slack with pleasure. Her glasses are even more askew than they were when I ate her out. Her lips are all swollen, as though she’s been biting at them.
Our gazes meet; her eyes are almost black with arousal.
“Shaun,” she pants, her white teeth snagging on her bottom lip as she tilts her head back. “Yes!”
The scream comes a split second before my dick is gripped by tight muscles that pull and pulse around it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I pant as I thrust faster, my body no longer operating under my control.
“Yes, yes!” She’s screaming it to the ceiling, her thighs clamping around my hips, pulling me closer. “Give me…”
The tingling at the base of my spine had been there as I took her but now, at her demand, it releases. This guttural, inarticulate sound leaves my throat as I pound into her, slamming my hips into the cradle of hers as I come harder than I have in years. White spots explode in my eyes, nearly obscuring the gorgeous sight of Katie coming all over me. I wanted to savor it, beat my chest and all that shit, but she drains me. Sucks me dry, leaving me a heaving, shuddering, husk of a man.
And it was the best feeling in the whole fucking world.
Kate
I’ve never been more exhausted in my whole life. Four times in one night was……a lot of hard work. Smiling at the thought, I nuzzle deeper into Shaun’s side, the scent of sex and man filling my senses, the crinkle of condom wrappers sounding when I shift.
We’d been too tired to go to the bedroom, instead stretching out on the sofa. I think I love this sofa. Maybe I’ll get one in my new house when I move. Early morning light filters through the window, the dawning of a new day much brighter than it’s been in a few weeks.
Shaun’s breathing deeply, his warmth chasing away the chill from the AC, and I’m content for the first time since The Scandal broke. Is this going anywhere? No. Which is a shame, because the chemistry we have is comparable to a nuclear bomb detonating. I hope the suites on either side of his are vacant, otherwise we provided his neighbors with lots of porn-worthy sound effects.
I huff out a laugh at the thought.
I hear a beep nearby. Thinking it’s my phone, I reach out to the tangle of clothes we’d piled on the coffee table. Folding laundry isn’t Shaun’s strong suit I think, as I separate the denim with my free arm, the other resting on his chest. I don’t want to give up my spot to answer my phone.
Finally finding the buzzing phone, I pull it out of the pile only to realize it’s Shaun’s. I bite my lip, wondering if I should wake him up. It buzzes again and again, like a pissed off timer. I turn it in my hand, intending to pass it over to him, but he has a picture contact that catches my attention.
It’s of a beautiful woman with jet black hair and pale eyes. My stomach cramps and without meaning to, I read the last message that comes up.
Denise: How could u do this to me?! Someone saw you!
Cold sweat gathers along my hairline and I stare at the phone in my hand as though it’s a snake.
Denise: 11 yrs of marriage and this is how…
I drop the phon
e on the floor, my stomach rebelling. Rolling off the sofa, I hit the carpet with a soft thud. Shaun doesn’t awaken, although he does roll over so his back is to the room. Careful to make as little noise as possible, I dress, not giving a shit that my shirt’s inside out or that I didn’t put my panties on before my jeans. I just want to get the fuck out of here.
His phone buzzes again and again, his wife obviously furious at his infidelity. How she knew about it, I don’t know and I don’t care. The only thing I know is that I’d been played the fool. Again. Tears, stupid and useless, because apparently I have a big, fat target on me that screams, “I fuck married men”, slide down my cheeks.
Shaun makes a half-snore, half-groan and twitches, prodding me to move faster. Picking up my socks and shoes, unsure where my panties are, I scurry from his suite. The hallway is empty—thank God—and I manage to get on the elevator without any problems. I’ll check out of the hotel early to avoid him coming look for me, although I doubt it’ll happen. He’d gotten what he wanted from me, but I don’t… I just can’t handle the thought of even seeing him again.
Klauss’ driver is going to be here at nine-thirty, which is only two hours away. Plenty of time for me to get my shit and get the fuck out of this hotel and away from the man who’d rocked my world, in more ways than one.
Kate
July
I never truly appreciated air conditioning until I moved to Louisiana. I stare out over the field as the Spartan Band goes through the pre-game set and try not to look as though I’m melting. Which I totally am.
But I wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world. Despite the screw-up with Shaun, the interview with Klauss went so well I hadn’t even made it back home before he called to let me know the position was mine if I wanted it. Any day now I expect to see a Youtube video taken from surveillance at O’Hare showing me jumping up and down screaming, but I couldn’t help myself.
The move had been hard. Not for me, but for Mom. I ended up renting a three-bedroom townhouse ten blocks from campus because I know she’s going to want to come stay with me. I miss having her just a few bus stops away, but, on the other hand, I also liked it. Being away from the side looks and incessant phone calls from my ex was a blessing. Besides, I find I like it down here. Well, except for the heat.
And since the morning of the job offer I hadn’t had a single minute to think about Shaun. Much. Okay, I still think about him and that night. Mostly in the context of me beating myself up over it, although I may have had a few dreams about him that would be considered wet if I were a guy.
Someone calls my name and I jump, the blush on my cheeks having nothing to do with the heat.
“They’re a talented group,” Mark says, as he comes to stand next to me. He’s Mark now, not Dr. Klauss, since I’m no longer a student of his but a colleague. “You’re going to need to work with the drumline though.”
I follow his gaze to the guys that make up my line. They don’t think they belong to me, but they do. To say my reception as Assistant Director hasn’t gone over that well would be an understatement. As enlightened as society has become, there’s still a chauvinistic vibe in the music community. Women and men who play non-traditional instruments are seen as strange, homosexual or both. I’ve experienced it a million times as a student, a performer and an instructor.
The Spartan drumline, consisting of eight snares, three quads, two tri’s, a full battery of bass drums and cymbals, is no different. The section leader, a good-looking tattooed guy named Levi, sets the tone. In the three weeks since I was introduced to the band and began working with them on pre-game and half-time formations, he hasn’t been outright rude or sexist, but he’s insolent and arrogant.
He has every right to be arrogant. He’s an amazing drummer, especially for someone who isn’t planning to major in Music. He’s also attractive, going by the way all the dancers and girls in the band act around him, but his insolence pisses me off. When I work with the line he does as asked, but not without a smirk on his face and a survey of my body.
I’m not all that and a bag of chips, I know that. But when Levi gives me those looks, it makes me very conscious of myself. With band camp—and summer—firmly underway, I’ve taken to wearing shorts and T-shirts to keep cool, except Levi makes me feel as though I’m wearing a bikini, or nothing at all. It’s unnerving. I know he’s only doing it because he wants to get a rise out of me and I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does and I think Mark knows this.
“You’re also going to have to assert your authority with them,” he says now, as though reading my mind. “They’re like wolves. The first sign of weakness and they go for the jugular.”
I glance over at him, his balding head is starting to turn red from our outdoor marching practices. “Should I buy some Scooby Snacks and wish for the best?” I ask him half-joking, although I’d be tempted to lace them with a laxative and I’m pretty sure that’d get me fired.
Mark snorts. “Do what you do best, Katherine,” he says with a pat on my shoulder. “Outplay them.”
He walks away to yell at the saxophones, leaving me with food for thought.
I close my eyes behind my sunglasses and take a deep breath. The drum major, a Music Education student named Walker, calls for a break and the students disperse, heading for the shade of the massive oak trees that line our practice field. Set in the shadow of the Callais Memorial Stadium, this field has everything we need to work on smoothing out the rough edges of our performances. With only six weeks before the first game, the pre-game show is mostly complete. It was the half-time show that’s giving me fits.
By all reports, the Spartan football team could be heading to a bowl game this year. There’s a new assistant coach who has the entire band buzzing with excitement and, while I don’t care much for football, it’s exciting to think of our band performing for one of those coveted bowl games. Sure, a lot of the games are televised, but a regular season game half-time show doesn’t get the same coverage as a bowl game half-time show and it would be great for these kids to be a part of that. Except for one thing: the field shows.
I admire Mark, always have, but he’s very traditional in terms of what kind of shows he puts on, with a lot of challenging, classical music choices, which is great if you want to wow the audience with technical beauty. The first six games, we’re doing a selection of a patriotic songs. It’s a beautiful score with a well-planned drill set, but it’s traditional and expected. Boring. I’ve been given the job of choosing the stand music and I’ve created a few arrangements from the current Billboard charts, although it doesn’t feel like enough to bring the band into the twenty-first century.
What I really want to do is arrange and plot the field show for the second half of the season. The meetings I’ve had with Mark have been focused on the current show, pre-game, and the gearing up of the winter concert band performance, but what I’ve seen so far leads me to believe the second half of the season will be more of the same. Unless I do something about it. I just need to put thought into action, arrange the show and drill set and present it to him. All he can do is reject the idea, which would suck, but at least I’ll be showing some initiative, right?
“She can be my frosted mini-wheat any time she wants,” a familiar voice drawls, drawing me out of my thoughts of the show and what it could mean for my career.
I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Levi, just like I don’t need to ask what he meant by that remark, or who it was addressed to. My last name is Frost and the puns have been coming for three weeks. Just little things here and there that I laugh off because it’s better than getting offended, but Mark’s words remind me that if I don’t take control of this situation now, they’ll end up running me off the field permanently. Since there’s no way I’m going back to Chicago—and not just because I’m locked into a three year contract with Sauvage or a one year contract with my townhouse—I need to take the bull by the horns.
Or the snare by the strap, I think as I s
lowly turn to face my line. They’re lounging under a tree, guzzling water, shirts off and laughing. At me. Levi’s at the center of his crew, tattoos on display. I’m almost twelve years older than him, but even I have to admit he’s hot. Which only makes his attention that much more awkward. The last thing I need is to show any physical appreciation towards a student. I’ve already fucked up my life twice over with married men; adding a cougar status to my resume isn’t on my list of things to do.
Since the night with Shaun—which I do my best not to think about at all—I’ve kept my shit together and concentrated on the move from Chicago to LaSalle, settling into my townhouse and work. This is what life is for me and I’m not letting Levi Cracchiolo destroy it with his attitude.
Pasting a smile on my face, I saunter over to the drumline and do my best to ignore the way he scopes out my legs. I’m thirty-six years old, not some easily impressed coed away from home the first time. Besides, if I had to pit Levi against Shaun, he’d lose easily. Not that I think Levi’s actually serious about all the shit I overhear him saying. I think he just says it because he’s a twenty-two year old badass with a reputation to uphold.
“Break ends in five for you,” I tell the line a few feet away from them. “You need to work on the cadence.”
Levi speaks up, of course. “We’ve been practicing since eight, Frostop.”
Some of the guys chuckle and a few of the dancers hanging around the line giggle. I can feel a blush wanting to start and hope it comes off as looking like a heat stroke instead. The Frostop is a chain of fast food restaurants in south Louisiana, sort of a smaller scale 50’s style diner. They have really great root beer floats, but that’s beside the point.
You are not twenty years old, Katherine Frost.
So I grin. “How about we play for it,” I suggest, aware we’re starting to gain the attention of the other band members. I can feel them staring at us, weighing my acceptability.
