Engaged (The ABCs of Erotica)

by Maxxwell, Lexi

  “Disappeared into his soul? That’s sappy, Liza. And you know I like sappy.”

  “It’s not sappy, it’s how I feel.”

  “That doesn’t make it not sappy.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Maybe it is sappy. But it’s honest. I can tell you the story from my heart, or stick to the sex. I thought you wanted the whole story.”

  “I do,” Zoe says. “But you’ve stopped rubbing my pussy. So, go back to that, and stick mostly to sex.”

  “OK,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine,” Zoe moans. “Faster.”

  I flick her as I ease into the story’s end.

  “Sex was amazing, what can I say? Richard sucked my tits for a while, I remember that, and I remember being clamped to his mouth. I remember the first orgasm taking forever, and that right before the crash I heard our slapping skin and smelled my ripe pussy. I exploded like something had burst from my center. I was truly, fully alive. My cunt and thighs were soaking. I finished shaking, and Richard ordered me to get on the bed with my ass in the air. He said, ‘I want to eat the mess you’ve made.’ I climbed up onto the bed.”

  Zoe squeezed her thighs together, and wiggled her ass in short, little circles.

  “What’s amazing about fucking Richard is that you never know what to expect. He’s slow, methodical, and surprising. He kneeled below me, looking up at my dripping pussy, as if studying me. He ran his thumb between my folds, then eyed the glaze. He nodded as if in approval, said nothing, came up behind me, gripped me hard at the side with his left hand, positioned his dick at my entrance, and rammed himself inside me.”

  I put pressure on Zoe’s pussy, for exclamation.

  She whimpers.

  “He pounded so hard it would have hurt if I hadn’t been so primed. I screamed, and he did it again. I fell forward, and crashed to the bed. I had to plant my hands on the mattress for balance. He did it again. I came hard, then spent minutes near sobs as he sent me through more. I stopped. Richard pulled out, spread my cheeks, and used the tip of his dick to keep me in trembles, running it up and down my folds until I was begging him to put it back in me. I looked up at him, holding my eyes as he heaved and thrusted with perfect control.”

  Zoe took my hand from her pussy, practically threw it, then tugged her pants to her knees, followed by her panties, then started digging between her legs, swimming in and out of her swollen lips while loudly moaning.

  “Richard held his dick while I slid back and forth on the shaft, easing myself slowly down from another string of orgasms. He came up behind me, buried himself to the hilt, and started thrusting in and out as he turned me to kiss him.”

  Zoe was inches from cumming.

  “He lifted my leg and thrusted again, sending me into another orgasm. Our sounds and scents held me inside it. Our fingers clung to each other. I felt like my middle would break as he plowed deeply into my center. I couldn’t make thoughts. I remember thinking, ‘PLEASE PUT YOUR MOUTH ON MINE!’ then he did, and I came harder than I ever had before. I felt Richard’s release, his body erupting, exploding inside me as my own detonation finished its echo.”

  Zoe cums in time with the story. I kiss her as she does.

  I wait through her shaking, then finish.

  “He pulled himself out as I slowly stopped shaking. Cum poured from my pussy. I lay there, trying to piece things together. We kissed, tasting each other. I couldn’t believe how happy I felt, how much I needed and wanted him. Despite Richard’s age or anything else, more of that was what I wanted most from life.”

  In a voice so low I must strain to hear it, Zoe says, “Could we have ever made it work, Liza? You know, you and me?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Probably.”

  “But not now?”

  “No,” I shake my head. “Not now.”

  “Make love to me?”

  “Of course,” I say, then lean into kiss her.

  When in Paris

  I was supposed to leave Zoe’s that night, but stayed another week instead. I called Richard twice before saying goodbye.

  The first time was Zoe’s idea, and I fought it.

  “You need to call him,” she said, about the same time each day for a week. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t explain why, except that I felt like it would somehow be breaking some unspoken pact. Like I was only supposed to return once done with the adventure and ready to say “I do.” But I wasn’t finished. As much as I missed Richard, Zoe was a rare comfort, and felt so cool against my skin. This was the last time I’d feel her, and couldn’t bear to let go.

  “Why won’t you call him?” she is pressing me. She sets the cell in my hand. “You’re being stubborn for no reason. You already told me that Richard never said you couldn’t call. Can’t change your story now.”

  “I’m not changing my story. He didn’t have to say it, I know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “What are you afraid of, that he’ll be disappointed? That’s ridiculous, Liza. You did everything you were supposed to. You’re calling your fiancé after being away for, what’s it been now, a couple of weeks?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Call him,” she insists for what sounds like the final time. “Or I’m making you leave.”

  “You’re serious?” I scoot up on the couch and stare into her sincerity. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you have to call him, Liza. It’s time. You’re wandering, and as much as I want you, I don’t want this. It’s not right for you, and it hurts too much for me.” She gives me one last smile and leaves.

  I wait for my heart to stop pounding, then dial the phone and wait for Richard to answer. My heart feels like it’s gained 1,000 pounds.

  “Lily,” he says on the second ring.

  His voice melts my heart as it moistens my center.

  “I didn’t know if we weren’t supposed to call?”

  I can hear Richard’s smile. “You know how it is, Liza. No rules. You’re calling because you thought it was the right thing to do. That means it is so.”

  “Are you disappointed in me?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”

  “I missed you too much not to call. And Zoe said I should.”

  “Ah,” he says. “Zoe. Is that where you are now?” My heart hammers once, then, “Wait, don’t say. You are where you are, until you’re back where you’ll be.”

  “I’m with Zoe.”

  “Say no more, Lily. Please. Save it for later. We’ll have the rest of our lives.”

  “Tell me you miss me.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Do you really?” I ask, feeling suddenly hollow. I’m alone on Zoe’s porch, missing Richard deeply and wondering why I can’t just come home.

  “Of course. I missed you before you were gone.”

  “Then why don’t you want me home? Why did you send me away?”

  “Of course, I want you home, Liza. And I didn’t send you away. You left so you wouldn’t leave again.”

  “Can I come home now?”

  “I don’t know, Liza. Can you? Does your heart beat without query? Imagine I’m beside you, Liza, our cheeks pressed together. I look in your eyes and ask you if you’re ready to come home. I ask you if your heart is empty of questions. What do you say, Liza?”

  A second of silence. Then, “No.” I shake my head though Richard can’t see me. “I could come home anyway.” I mask my feelings with a laugh.

  “As you wish, Liza. If you’re ready, come home. Are you ready?”

  “You know I’m not,” I say, trying not to get mad at a rejection that isn’t supposed to be a rejection. “Say that you want me home.”

  “Of course I want you home.”

  “Are you disappointed that I called?”

  “Not at all. I’m glad you did. But I do think that’s probably making it harder on you. Is it, Liza?”

  “No,” I say. “It makes it easier. I feel less alone.”

  He laughs and
it’s sweet.

  “I wouldn’t really describe your most recent state as alone.”

  “The people don’t matter,” I tell him. I stop caring whether I sound needy and say, “Tell me you miss me.”

  His voice, still soft and patient: “I miss you, Lily.”

  “Tell me you’re jealous.”

  A slight pause, then an even softer Richard returns. “I’m very, jealous. I hate the idea of another man with you when I cannot be.”

  “Then why do you want me away from you?”

  “I don’t want you away from me. I want you to grow, and for that to happen, at least in this instance, you need sunshine from another garden.”

  “But I don’t.”

  I feel myself starting to cry.

  “Are you better for having gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you done?”

  “No.”

  “This is our engagement, Liza. It may not be like the fairy tales sold in magazines, but our engagement is honest, a settling of loose ends before we thread our lives with permanence.”

  “If only more couples were this responsible,” I say, trying not to sound bitter.

  Richard laughs. “You are the sweetest thing, Liza. Please know I’m jealous. Terribly. I’ve thought of you every moment since you’ve left. My envy is awful, but mine to deal with. I must grow, as you do. Apart, we are together. What we have is remarkable, that we’ve found one another while neither was looking is a tremendous feat. It must be honored. We must be strong to build the lives we want. I’m jealous, yes, but not worried. Sex is only sex. I’m not your last partner, because that’s not who we are, or how we are wired. I’m not seeking your body, for I know that vessel is temporary, and can merely borrow it at best. But I seek your heart, and commitment. If I’m giving mine to you, I must know I have yours in return. Less will kill me.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve been talking about you.” I tease. “You know, telling stories.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, all sorts. People get curious when their ex-lovers knock, offering to fuck them.

  “What do you say?”

  “That my husband to be loves me so much that he wants me to rub pussy all over my past.”

  “It’s not quite like that,” Richard says. “What sorts of stories have you been telling? Nothing too embarrassing, I hope.”

  “They’re all embarrassing,” I laugh. “I told the one about when we had sex in the stairwell at The Conquistador, and I told the one about the opera. Today, I told Zoe about the time after stretching.”

  Richard laughs. “I did quite like that one.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, missing him enough to actually hurt. “That was great.”

  “But you don’t care about those stories,” I say. “You already know them because they happened to you. I’m sure you want to hear new ones. Like about Leigh and Jenny, and how they shared my body for days, or Cooper … ”

  “Stop it, Liza.” Richard’s voice is soft. “Save those for later.”

  “You don’t want to hear my stories? You don’t want to hear about all the nasty things I let my old boyfriend and girlfriends do to me?”

  “I want to hear every word, but not until you’re back in my arms and whispering. Until then, they are your stories to sift through, stretch apart, and stare into their center. Those stories are still live and happening. They must be over to be told.”

  “OK,” I say, feeling rejected, and again unsatisfied. I’ll have to hang up with Richard, then go upstairs, and take care of myself. Zoe’s not home. She went out for groceries, to take a break from our two-girl orgy, and give me privacy. Instead, he says, “I want to hear a story. But it can’t be one from after you left. Tell me something old, something I already know. Something from Europe.”

  I smile, feeling myself get wetter.

  “Oh, I have plenty of those. Can you be a little more specific?”

  “How about Paris?”

  “Which time?”

  “The first time.”

  “OK,” I say, sinking into Zoe’s large living room chair. “I love this story.”

  “I know, and you tell it well.”

  I switch my cell from one hand to the other, then slip my freed hand down my panties and press two fingers softly to my clit. I gently rub as I start my story.

  “It was my last night in Paris. The first time I’d been to the city since I was a little girl and went with my family.” I laugh. “We always joke that it was that trip that turned Mark gay. None of us really thinks that, but he did seem different once he was home. Me, too. I was 9, but I wanted to go back to Paris the second we left. It took a decade and a half to get there. I’d been in the city for two weeks, and couldn’t have been more in love. It’s as beautiful as everyone says, though of course you know that. France is made for fucking, Richard. And Paris is the G-spot. I spent long days sitting by the Seine, walking the tree-lined streets beside the Champ de Mars. I got lost in the Le Quartier Pigalle, and when I eventually found my way out, I practically crashed into the two girls who would occupy the next while of my life: Hope and Sasha.”

  “Describe them.”

  “Sasha is overwhelming. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever been with, and one of the most stunning I’ve seen. People pay her very well to take pictures, clothed and unclothed. She’s flawless either way. Worth every American dollar. She has tiny features. A small nose, not pixie-small like mine, but perfectly shaped and pointy. The rest of her is equally delicate, with tiny, perfect breasts, perfectly swollen nipples, slender fingers, and the most mischievous smile I’ve ever seen. Hope is gorgeous. She would be the most beautiful woman in any room, as long as that room didn’t have Sasha. She’s tall, with light-brown hair that spills perfectly over her shoulders. She has a small mouth and a shapely nose. Perfect arched eyebrows and a well-arranged face, as if painted by an artist in lust.”

  “What did you think the first time you saw them together?”

  Richard knows the answer. He laughed the first time I told him. He wants to hear it again. I know his cock is getting hard, if it isn’t hard already.

  “I saw them walking down the street together, toward me. They were holding hands and practically skipping. I wondered if etiquette was really so different in France, and if it really was the city of love.”

  “What did you think, exactly?”

  “I was thinking of Hope first, since Sasha seemed almost too pretty to talk to. In my mind I walked straight up to Hope, asked, “Can I lick your pussy?” then turned to Sasha and added, “after hers.”

  “What did you actually say?”

  “I asked them if they spoke French. I took French starting when I was 4, so it’s even stronger than my Spanish, but that’s textbook. I never, and I mean never, get to practice. I’d mostly kept to myself that first couple of weeks, so I’d not really said anything much beyond the conversational exchanges that get you a room or meal. The language still felt slightly odd on my tongue.”

  “What did they say?”

  Richard’s breath has fallen an octave. His voice is slightly ragged. He’s stroking himself, softly.

  “They both spoke French, but neither was from France. Both were in Paris for a week of shooting — fashion models who had arrived in the city that night. They we’re out having fun. It was Hope’s idea to hit the red light district since they’d been to Paris together three times before and had always talked about going, but never had.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Nothing and everything. Though all three of us were speaking in what wasn’t our native tongue — Sasha’s was Russian, and Hope’s was English like me — the things we said and laughed about were universal. Conversation was easy. In no time I was joining them for dinner, and then, of course, dessert.”

  “Get to that part,” Richard breathed. “What happened in your room?”

  “Do you want to know what happened that night, or my last night in
Paris?”

  I can feel Richard’s smile. “Your last night in Paris, please.”

  “The first night, dessert wasn’t much of anything. We fooled around with lot of kissing and petting, maybe we will and maybe we wonts, but none of our pussies came out to play. I suspected that Hope and Sasha went off behind a closed door after I fell asleep that first night, and a few nights after. But when they were ready to leave on that last night, things got serious between us.”

  “By serious you mean playful. Were things ever really serious?”

  “No,” I laughed. “They weren’t. But that night was different. We’d hung out a lot, and in only a week the girls had started to feel like my sisters, except for the part where I really, really wanted to fuck them, and I didn’t hate them at all like I sometimes do with Samantha. Sasha said, ‘Tonight is our last night in Paris together. We make it unforgettable, yes?’ I knew what she meant by the music in her voice, and the way her lip curled in a mischievous smile.”

  I paused a few beats, listening to Richard breathing.

  “Their shoot finished late. I had to wait in the room. I wasn’t allowed on set. There was a wrap party afterwards. Both girls returned to our room slightly drunk.”

  I purr, “Are you stroking your cock?”

  “Of course.”

  I love how measured he sounds. So much control.

  “The three of us had planned to say goodbye in style. That style started immediately. I was already showered, though sticky from waiting. Sasha and Hope had spent a long day in makeup, and wanted to clean themselves. I waited on the bed, topless in panties. Sasha emerged from her bathroom first — the room had two — and crawled onto the bed beside me, also naked except for her panties. She pulled out her phone showed me several pictures of the day’s shoot, until reaching her favorite: a nude shot with her spread pussy, pressed against a sheet of glass, with a world of color exploding behind her. Her naughty bits were covered with smears of paint.