I sat upright and covered myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had gone on in that bedroom.
“Are you okay? Did I cross a line? I’m so sorry I thought-”
“No, um, you didn’t do anything wrong. You did that extremely, extremely right actually. I just, uh, I’m not sure if I’m ready to do this? I don’t want things to get weird, and I just got out of a really shitty relationship so I don’t really know if I, uh, really want to jump in bed with you, I don’t really know you… I’m sorry. I don’t not want to do this. I mean I did want to do this. But now that it’s happening, I don’t know. I feel kind of weird,” I interrupted.
Cash chuckled, “Yeah, no I get it. But just to be clear you are the one who suggested Netflix and Chill. This is what the ‘and chill’ means.”
“Yeah. I get that. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know. Won’t it be awkward if we hookup and then have to see each other every day. Because I feel like that would be kind of super awkward,” I stammered, pulling my shirt back over my head.
“There is no possible way it could ever be more awkward than this very conversation,” he sighed.
“I’m sorry, I just, I don’t know you. You could be some weird, pervy, serial killer. There’s actually more evidence for that than against it,” I blurted.
“What the fuck are you talking about? Why did you come over here if you think that? You invited yourself, remember,” he said with equal parts confusion and frustration.
“I don’t know. To prove myself wrong. Because I’m incredibly attracted to you…”
Annnnnd we’re kissing again.
“Stop,” I laugh, ‘’Seriously. I don’t think we should do this. I have some questions,” I insist.
“Then ask.”
Chapter Seven
I skirted around the issue as long as I could. I didn’t want this little fairytale to end. I wanted to keep flirting, to keep leading up to the fireworks without ever having to see them go off. I wanted to feel the anticipation, the excitement, without having to dive in and get real. I asked him why I heard screams coming from his guest bedroom late at night. He said, “fuck,” and buried his face in his hands. This is kind of the opposite of what I wanted to happen, what I wanted to hear. I wanted him to have a perfectly good explanation. “Oh, I’m moonlighting as a midwife and my spare bedroom is a black market birthing suite,” or “I do freelance tattoos and my clients are pussies.” Anything would be better than the sullen, “fuck,” like I had caught him doing something wrong that he didn’t have an explanation for.
“This is super embarrassing,” he said, almost choking on his words.
“What?” I asked, “What is super embarrassing?” My heart was racing. My anxiety was through the roof.
“Come on, I’ll show you. It’s not that big of a deal. Just kind of… embarrassing to get called out like that…” he stuttered.
“Why don’t you just tell me first? From what I heard coming out of there, I don’t think I want you to show me,” I said.
“I’m not going to hurt you, I don’t know, it’s hard to come out and say, you kind of put me on the spot,” he sighed.
Against my better judgment, I followed him to his spare bedroom. He ushered me through the door, and walked over to open the closet. Inside were whips and rods, canes and belts. There were various clamps, collars, and tools I didn’t recognize displayed in an over the door shoe organizer. He walked over to the dresser and opened the drawers to reveal giant dick shaped hunks of plastic and silicone, as well as plugs of various shapes and sizes. Vibrators that plugged into the wall. Restraints. More clamps. I was kind of horrified, but also a little impressed.
“Holy fuck balls, Cash. Do I have to sign a contract now? Do you want to do this to me?” I asked, genuinely concerned. I don’t know what kind of situation I got myself in. For all I know, it could be one of those “If you want to be with me, this is the only way you can be with me” deals. I’m super overwhelmed, still pretty drunk, but mostly relieved that at least what I heard coming through the wall was consensual. This was bondage gear, not torture gear, if there’s a difference. I’m pretty sure there is a difference.
“No, this isn’t Fifty Shades. I don’t want to do this to you. I’m not a kinky sex robot. I have established and well trained subs I don’t really like to take on new, inexperienced ones. I’m not vetting you as a sub. I’m genuinely interested in you,” he asserted.
“Do you fuck these women?” I ask, convinced that this is somehow relevant.
“Does that matter? Yes, I fuck them. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t. It depends on my mood and the scene,” he explains.
“I don’t know. Does it matter? I kind of feel like it matters. Maybe it doesn’t. Anyway, what makes you think I’m inexperienced, that’s really rude of you to assume actually, you don’t know me,” I scold.
“Your face when I showed you my gear kind of gave you away,” he laughed.
“Ok. You got me. Maybe I’ve never done any of this stuff. But I think I’m into it. What if I wanted you to do this to me?” I prod. He grabbed me and pinned me on the bed.
“Do what exactly? It’s not a blanket thing. There’s specific acts, specific kinks. Not all of my girls get the same experience. It’s a very personal and tailored to your likes and dislikes,” he whispered.
“I don’t know. I’ll do some research and get back to you,” I stammered. He laughed and let go of my arms. While it may be true that I do not have in depth knowledge of the inner workings of the BDSM lifestyle, I do find myself in enough weird porn cycles to know that it’s something I’d probably be into. You know the drill; you’re watching porn and it starts out innocent enough. Then you start clicking on more and more depraved shit until you end up coming to some bitch getting choked out while someone pours pancake batter into her ass with a funnel. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.
“I don’t think I want to go down that road with you. I mean, we can do rough shit in bed if you’re into that. We can get kinky. But I don’t want to put you in a scene. I don’t want to make you a sub. That would add a really weird dynamic that I don’t like, but, Jesus. We haven’t even fucked yet. Can we just like… hang out? Get to know each other?” he said with a hint of frustration.
I get that. I guess. He wants to keep his romantic life separate from his- whatever the fuck this is. So he is a weird sex freak, but it’s not like he’s a rapist or murderer. He does weird shit with other equally weird, consenting adults. I can deal with that, right? I should probably be flattered that he sees me as a person, and not an object to attend to his sexual gratification. Or fetch him his slippers or whatever the fuck he is into. I’m only a little shocked. I mean, this is kind of a normal thing, right? There is weirder shit out there. He could be a Brony. This is a much more acceptable deep, dark secret than being a Brony. Overall, I decide I’m just relieved. I deal with the rest of these emotions later. Relief. Relief is what I am going to feel.
I roll to the side of the queen size bed and stand.
“Are you leaving? On that note?” he asks, with a small catch in his throat.
“No. I’m not leaving. It’s not… It’s not that big of a deal. Come on,” I reach to him and beckon him to follow me out. He grabs my outstretched hand, and I lead him back into the darkened hallway.
“Are we going back to the couch?” he asks. I lace my fingers into his and pull him down the hall.
“No. Take me to your bed. We can start back where you left off.” I sit eagerly on the edge of his bed, biting my lip. He smiles at me and licks his lips as he pulls off his t-shirt. I follow suit, pulling my shirt back over my head and letting it drop to the floor. He clumsily undoes his belt buckle, and lets his jeans fall. I scoot back on the bed and lie down on my back as he climbs on top of me. He kisses me sweetly as he slides his fingers past my elastic waistband, and finds me slick and ready. He slides his middle and index finger across my clit, making my back arch.
“Th
at’s not where you left off.” I place my hands on his shoulders and push him down, between my legs. He chuckles as he loops his thumbs through the sides of my panties. I lift my ass to help him slide them off. He rises back to kiss me one more time before retreating back to gently nip my clit with his teeth. I let out an exasperated gasp, not expecting this sensation. My pelvis jolts upwards, and he presses it back into the mattress with his palm. With two fingers he spreads me open and presses his tongue into my flesh. I squirm as he transitions from back and forth to up and down, taking breaks to lightly suck, gently prod. I can feel this building. There’s a small ball of light inside of me, it’s pulsating, expanding and contracting with each stroke of his tongue. I can feel it illuminating my insides, growing brighter and retreating as my muscles tense and release. He slides two fingers inside of me, and they’re bathed in the light. His motions change to little circles, and the ball of light keeps growing. My hips pulse in time with the rhythm of his fingers, skillfully pressing and releasing my little clump of nerves behind a wall of swollen tissue. I’m gasping for air and drowning in bright white light. I’m on the brink… I’m building and building and so close to falling. He pulls away and everything goes black and unfulfilled.
“Why in the fuck did you stop?” I ask, instinctively reaching for my clit to calm the painful pulsating and finish the job. He grabs my hands and holds them above my head. He kisses me, forcing his tongue into my mouth, making me taste myself on his lips.
“I was so close…” I beg through his kiss.
“I know,” he replied playfully, “I don’t want you to come yet. The closer you get, the better it will be.” You don’t need to get me as close as possible without going over. This isn’t The Price is Right, motherfucker. I roll my eyes, and kiss him back. He lets go of my hands. Determined to get back on track, I reach down to stroke him through his boxers. Now this; this is a dick to write home about. In fact, I’m probably going to call my mom tomorrow like, “Yo ma, so this dick…”
He pulled his boxers past his hips, making his erection spring out in a way that was almost comical. I breathed deeply, looking from his eyes to his cock as I took him in my hands. He climbed back over me, kissing my neck and gently tugging my hair. He placed his hand beneath mine on his cock and pressed it into my clit. His breath is hot in my ear as he asks, “Do we need protection?” Yeah, probably. I should definitely say, “Yes.” But instead I say, “I’m on Depo…” My drink was strong. I’m incredibly turned on and was deprived a well-deserved orgasm. I don’t want this to stop. I want to keep going. He slides his head up and down across my clit. He circles the entrance to my pussy, almost, but not quite entering me. I thrust upwards, begging him with my lips and my body. He teases me with his cock as he runs his free hand through my hair.
I can’t take it. I need him inside me. I ache with longing, as if I am only just now aware of the empty space inside me that needs to be filled with his dick. I grab his hips and pull him towards me. I bite my lip as I look into his eyes with pure, unashamed need. He finally gives in, and penetrates. I’m overwhelmed with sensation as I stretch to accommodate him. Breathing gets harder as we ebb and flow. My hips rise as his fall. The light inside me ignites again, and this time, he doesn’t douse it. I dig my nails into the flesh of his shoulders as he hastens his pace. Our bodies grow slick with sweat, every muscle on my body becomes tense, awaiting the impending release. My little ball of light was burning bright, blazing through me in waves. Blinding me, pushing me over the edge. I gripped him tight as I lost control. I fell off the cliff of arousal into the sea of orgasm fast and hard. A guttural, primal sound escaped my lips. He rode it out, catching all my shock waves, pumping in time to the pulse of my body.
I came back to reality, slowly and then all at once. I met Cash’s gaze as I caught my breath.
“Are you ok?” he asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m… awesome,” I giggled, “Did you not finish?”
“No, I wanted to make sure you got yours first,” he replied. He started moving inside me again.
“I expected it to be a little kinkier, given the conversation we just had,” I teased. He stopped.
“Yeah?” he challenged.
“Yeah,” I replied. He laughed. He gathered my hair in his hand and pulled, hard. I let out an involuntary moan. He grabbed my hip and flipped me onto my stomach. He pulled my ass up to meet him, and used his hold on my hair to push my face into the mattress. With one hand entwined in my hair, pinning my head in place, and the other holding my hands behind my back, he entered me from behind. The mattress muffled my screams as he rammed into me, grazing my cervix with every other stroke. He let go of my hair to free a hand to smack me hard on my ass. He grabbed my hair again, using it to yank me upright. He wrapped his hand around my throat, squeezing hard enough to labor my breathing and elicit a gasp as I choked for air.
“How’s this?” he whispered wetly in my ear.
“Hit me again,” I begged, “Harder.” He threw me back to the mattress, pressing on the back of my head to stifle the sounds I made. He reared back and struck me again, jolting my entire frame.
“Like that? Is that hard enough for you?” he leaned down to breathe into my ear.
“Harder,” I choked. I don’t think I meant this. I think it was quite hard enough. I was certain I would have handprints on my ass in the morning. Tears welled in my eyes, not from sadness, disappointment, or pain, but purely from being overwhelmed by sensation. He rubbed my ass where he had smacked me, increasing the speed of his thrusts. I could feel his dick behind my belly button, and was certain I wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow. Surely he had perforated some vital tissues and rendered me invalid. His thrust sped up as he laid another strike across my backside. Suddenly he slowed, and I felt him exit me. Warmth spurted across my back.
“Don’t move, I’ll be right back,” he said sternly.
He cleaned me up gently and said, “Ok, you’re good.” I collapsed into the mattress. He stroked my hair and asked if I was ok.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I echoed. I think I was good. Like really, really good. I can’t remember the last time I was so fully and completely satisfied. I flipped to my back, wincing as my tender backside brushed the comforter.
“Really, are you ok? Was that too much?” his eyes reflected genuine concern. Kind, and caring eyes showed worry that he had scared or hurt me.
“No. Really. I’m good. I was super into it. I begged for it,” I muttered.
I kissed him deeply and sank my head into his shoulder. He nuzzled into my hair and held me as he stroked my arm.
“Can I have some water?” I asked meekly.
“Of course,” he said as he stood. I slipped under the covers, taking in his smell on the sheets. I was out before he returned. The last thing I remember was the light flicking on in the hall. I sunk sweetly into sleep, surrounded by musty sex and stale cologne. I didn’t dream. I slipped into inky blackness without a second thought or a single objection.
Chapter Eight
You know how in movies the morning after a wild romp the female lead wakes up sweetly and gently with perfect hair and make up that not only survived the wild sex but also a full nights sleep? The main characters smile coyly at each other, kiss, maybe have more sex, and then go about their day? That’s not what’s happening here. Daylight is piercing in through the blinds unwelcome. My head is pounding. My mouth is dry. I’m nauseated. My hair is matted and tangled and my scalp is tender where my hair was pulled. I can’t see my face, but I’m certain that mascara and eyeliner are caked around my eyes. Maybe I could sneak out of bed, back to my place and shower and sneak back into bed without him waking up. I gently lifted Cash’s arm and sat up. No such luck.
“Hey. Good morning,” he beamed.
“If you say so,” I replied, bitterly. I sighed as I remembered that my clothing was scattered through the apartment.
“Do you have to work today?” he asked.
“Yeah. I have to work ev
ery day. But I think I’m going to take a sick day and go home and nurse this hangover. I owe you a bottle of whiskey,” I groaned.
“You get sick days at the Gap?” he teased.
“I don’t actually work at the Gap, asshole. I’m an activities coordinator for a residential care facility. And yes, I get like, eight, sick days every year, that I never use,” I was being kind of bitchy, but it’s hard to be flirty and sweet when you feel like you’re going to vomit. I stood up and looked around for my shirt, trying to cover myself. This felt kind of ridiculous, to be self-conscious about him seeing me nude. Things feel different in the light of day.
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