A Real Goode Time

by Jasinda Wilder

  My cock had gone ramrod stiff in a split second, and the moment she’d put her hand down my pants, I’d shot my load. Embarrassing as hell. Shania had been sweet about it, though, and hadn’t made me feel bad. Instead, she’d let me play with her boobs until I was ready again, and that had been the real start of things.

  God, why was I thinking about Shania?

  Probably because I hadn’t felt about anyone the way I had about her. Until I met Torie.

  And my feelings for Torie, as early as it was to be thinking about feelings, were those of an adult, not a horny teenage boy with his first crush. What had me wigging out was how strong my feelings were, both my physical reactions and emotional connection.

  I wanted to see all of Torie in the worst fucking way, wanted to touch her, kiss her, make her scream my name. Get her on her hands and knees in my bed and fuck her from behind until we were both unable to come anymore.

  I wanted her mouth on my cock and her pussy under my tongue.

  I sat up on the bed and scrubbed my face, groaning in annoyance at myself.

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  She was going to Alaska.

  In all likelihood, I would never see her again.

  So I just needed to get her out of my system, and stop thinking about her.

  My cock did not agree. It was hard as a rock, and I’d been fighting this damned erection for hours. Trying to ignore it, to get it to subside. But every time I thought about Torie, I’d see her in that wet T-shirt with her fat little nipples poking against the sheer cotton and my cock would go aching and huge all over again.

  I had to get some kind of relief.

  Problem was, she was in the living room. My bathroom was in plain view of the pull-out couch, and if she woke up, she’d see me. There was nowhere in this loft I could go. And I was tired and exhausted—I’d been up since five the previous morning, and I didn’t want to get up and go down into the garage and deal with myself down there.

  Gahh.

  I tried again—closed my eyes, and focused on breathing slowly, steadily. Clear my mind. Picture a blank black nothingness in front of my eyes, blackness subsuming my view, blackness soft as velvet pulling me down…

  Torie was in bed with me, her tongue sliding down my abdomen, toward my throbbing cock. Her long black hair was loose and wild, a river of black cascading over her shoulder and onto my chest as she licked and kissed her way south to my pulsating, painfully hard cock.

  Her breasts rested on my thighs, her hard nipples dragging over my bunched quads, her hands grazing up my hips, nails raking down my chest and tickling my abs and finally wrapping around me…

  I woke up seconds from making a mess in my shorts.

  “Fuck,” I snarled.

  This one wasn’t going away. Not with the dregs of that dream rattling around in my skull. It was too early to get up, but I knew I would never get back to sleep.

  I grabbed my phone and tiptoed downstairs to the “office,” which was little more than an old truck hood resting on a pair of dented, ancient, three-drawer filing cabinets, with a desk chair I’d rescued from a curb on garbage day.

  I sat down at the desk, the lights in the garage turned off. I had a roll of TP at hand, a little tube of lotion I kept on hand—I got gnarly calluses, okay? They’d get torn open and painful if I didn’t lotion them once in a while. I didn’t go around rubbing lotion on my hands all day.

  I switched on my aging desktop computer, pulled up one of my favorite sites, and scrolled through images and gifs and video clips, looking for something that caught my interest.

  And what do you know? The thing that did catch my interest was an upload of a homemade video of a girl in a wet T-shirt. With long black hair. And tits that looked remarkably like Torie’s.

  Shit.

  I watched the whole video, which started with the girl and her wet shirt, and ended up with some pretty obviously scripted sex.

  I went back to the beginning, the part I really liked: her, in her wet shirt, looking sultry as she peeled it off.

  My imagination went haywire, and it was Torie I was seeing.

  Looking at me like that.

  Baring those beautiful tits for me, approaching me.

  I saw her as she’d been in my dream, eyes gazing up at me over my body as she slid down, down…

  I had my shorts down past my thighs, cock in hand, squeezing, sliding.

  I shouldn’t have Torie in mind as I did this, but…I did.

  The video lost its hold on me, my own mental image of Torie in her wet shirt was all I really needed to get me to the edge.

  I gritted my teeth and hissed low as I neared climax.

  The blood pounded in my ears, heart hammering loudly.

  “Fuck…” I growled, as the surge hit me in a hot wave, crashing through me.

  I exploded into a handful of TP.

  As my pulse slowed and I was able to hear properly again, I happened to glance to the side. To the doorway which led upstairs.

  Torie.

  Halfway out the door, hair loose around her shoulders, wafting in staticky black waves and kinks, eyes sleepy but shocked—fixed on me. On my still-hard cock, held in my fist, cum now leaking out of the tip and spilling over my fingers.

  She was less than fifteen feet away, and my computer was angled so she could clearly see the paused image of the girl with her shirt off and in hand, tits bared.

  She’d just watched me jerk off…and there was no way she could miss the resemblance between the girl on my computer screen and herself.

  I flapped my mouth open and closed, but my brain was blank.

  She looked at me—at my eyes, then down to my cock where her eyes lingered for…a very long, tense, odd, chemically combustible moment. To the phone, on the desk.

  Her mouth flapped, like mine had. “Sorry, I—”

  “No, I’m sorry, I—” I said it at the same time, over top of her words.

  She whirled around, her face in her hands. “I’m just…I’m gonna…”

  And she was gone, running up the stairs.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I cleaned up, clicked out of the website, yanked up the gym shorts I slept in, and went to the stairs. I couldn’t bring myself past the threshold into the loft. What was I supposed to say? Sorry you caught me masturbating to a girl who looked a hell of a lot like you?

  I just had to deal with it. No sense putting it off.

  I entered the loft, went to the kitchen sink and washed my hands. Set about making coffee. Torie was making up the pull-out.

  The tension in the loft was so thick and hot you could scoop it out of the air with a spoon.

  I felt her behind me as I started the burr grinder; she waited until I shut the grinder off and dumped the grounds into the filter basket, poured water from the Brita into the reservoir, and started the machine.

  I pivoted, put my butt against the counter, facing Torie, who was a few feet away, a hair tie in her teeth, braiding her hair. She paused, took the hair tie and slid it over her wrist, and continued braiding.

  “Torie, I—”

  She cut in. “Rhys, this is your home. You don’t need to apologize or explain.” She wouldn’t quite look at me. “I thought you’d be still asleep, so I was going to check and see if my clothes were dry.”

  I had no idea what to say, or how to broach the elephant in the room. Of if I even should.

  The coffeemaker gurgled, splurted, chuffed into the tense, awkward silence.

  Her eyes met mine. “I, um…is that, like, your thing? Skinny girls with black hair in wet T-shirts?”

  “No…not till yesterday.”

  She blushed, her pale skin going pink over her cheeks. “Wait…were you—were you thinking about…me?”

  I swallowed, not able to look right at her. “Um. Yeah. I was trying not to, thus the video.”

  “Trying not to?”

  I shrugged. “I guess…it felt like maybe it’d be disrespectful or something. To you. To do…
that…thinking about…you.”

  She shrugged, and I was starting to decipher her language of shrugs. She had a shrug that meant, I can’t be bothered to formulate a response because none is technically required but social mores say I have to at least indicate I heard you; she had a shrug that meant, I really don’t care one way or another, whatever; she had a shrug that was something like there are a shitload of possible responses to that, so here’s a shrug, you pick what it means, I don’t care; she had a shrug that was meant as yeah, sure, why not; and then there was a shrug along the lines of it would be rude to agree with you verbally, so I’m not agreeing with you but nor am I disagreeing. There were others with more nuanced meanings which I had yet to sort out, but those were the basic essentials as I had translated them thus far. The one she’d just given me meant something like, I have absolutely no fucking clue how to respond to that.

  Her eyes lifted, and our gazes met for a split second of sexual tension and molasses-thick awkwardness. “I don’t feel disrespected.” A brief but powerful pause, her eyes meeting mine. “Flattered, if anything. I…I would never have imagined a guy as…as hot and successful as you would want to…to jerk off to me.”

  “I’d like to do a hell of a lot more than jerk off,” I heard myself say, and not exactly under my breath.

  Her blush turned from pink to red, and she shifted, her eyes dropping. “Rhys, I—I can’t. I can’t start anything. I have to get to my sister’s wedding.” Her eyes widened. “Shit! What time is it?”

  I turned to glance at the clock on my range. “Six forty-five.” Understanding dawned. “Fuck. Your bus left fifteen minutes ago.”

  She slumped backward against the counter beside me, her face in her hands. “God…dammit. Again. Why am I such a fuckup?”

  “I’m sorry, Torie. It’s my fault. I’m normally up way earlier than this even without an alarm, but I just…I had trouble falling asleep last night, and I…” I let out sound that was more growl than sigh. “Fuck that—I’m not going to make excuses. I told you I’d get you on that bus, and I didn’t.”

  “It’s Saturday. There are no more busses till Monday now, probably.” She groaned. “It’s not your fault. You’re not responsible for me. I should be responsible for myself.” She looked at me, and it was clear she was battling tears of frustration. “I’m sorry you had trouble sleeping. It’s probably weird having someone else in the loft.”

  “It wasn’t that.”

  She frowned. “But you said you had trouble falling asleep.”

  “Yeah, just not because of the bed.” I chewed on my upper lip, considering what to say. “I had…things on my mind.”

  Her eyes flicked to me—to my hands, as if remembering what she’d seen. “Things on your mind, huh?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got an overactive mind. It’s always going, you know?”

  She wanted to say something, I could tell, but she made a face like nope, not going there, and looked away. “So I have to figure out what to do now. I can’t just stay with you all weekend.”

  “Sure you can,” I said, before I could stop myself. “We could work on the Nova together. I could use the help getting it done. Plus, later, I have to get to the build site and finish up some stuff.”

  She gave me a quizzical look. “Build site?”

  “Oh, yeah, I work for a home builder on the weekends. I do finishing stuff, small jobs. Put in electrical outlet plates and light switch covers, install cabinet and drawer pulls, basically just button things up so it can be turned over to the owners or the listing agents.” A thought occurred to me, then, and I snapped my fingers. “Actually, Jeremy, my boss who owns the company, he’s always looking for people to help clean up once the bulk of the build is done, and we’re at that stage now. I have about six or so hours of work to do, and there’s about that much to do in cleaning. Vacuum rugs, sweep up sawdust and shit, mop, wipe down walls and counters, all that shit. He’d pay you fifteen an hour cash to get it sparkly for the new owners. You interested?”

  She blinked. “Wait, what? Like, a job?”

  I tipped my head to one side. “Not really a job, just an afternoon or so of work for cash under the table. Whatever we don’t finish today, we go back and finish tomorrow. He just wants to turn over keys Monday. You need the money, and he needs someone reliable and hardworking to get it done.”

  She eyed me, smirking. “How do you know I’m hardworking and reliable? I smoke pot and I missed my bus not once, but twice.”

  I laughed. “I’m pretty good at getting a sense for people. And I overslept too, so it’s just as much on me. And I mean, you wouldn’t be able to support yourself at twenty years old waiting tables if you weren’t hardworking and reliable. Trust me, I know. My mom waited tables for most of my life, so I know exactly how hard it is to make ends meet as a server.”

  She grinned. “Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence. And yeah, I’d love a chance to make some cash.”

  I waffled on another thought, and then blurted it out. “I also could really use an extra pair of hands getting this Nova done. I could slide you some cash for that, too.”

  She shook her head. “Working on the car I’ll do for free, for the nostalgia of getting engine grease on my hands again. And for the hospitality.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. If all goes well, we’ll have the Nova done by noon, I’ll cash out that account, and we’ll head over to start work at the Setters Road house.”

  “Coffee first?” She sounded so eager, so excited for coffee that I laughed, and grabbed a mug, poured her a hit of thick black caffeine. “Hope you like your coffee black and strong, because I don’t have milk or sugar.”

  “Would you think less of me if I did like it milky and sweet?”

  “A little bit, yes,” I said, laughing.

  Her skin looked milky and sweet is what I was thinking—her pulse was throbbing in the delicate vein of her throat, and I wanted to put my mouth there, feel her pulse under my tongue as I tasted her skin.

  I blinked and looked away. I’d never found a throat sexy before, but hers was elegant and delicate and…sexy, and it was wreaking havoc on me.

  I turned away, poured myself some coffee, and we stood in the kitchen in companionable silence.

  She spoke again. “I had trouble falling asleep last night, too,” she murmured.

  “Oh?” My mouth was dry, the aftertaste of my coffee souring on my tongue.

  She held the mug in both hands in front of her mouth, eyes on mine over the rim, her voice muffled behind the ceramic mug. “Yeah. I have an overactive imagination, too. Had…things on my mind.”

  “Things on your mind,” I echoed. And then it dawned on me what she was getting at—repeating my words about why I couldn’t sleep, which had led to the little scene this morning, downstairs.

  “Yeah. You asked about…certain habits of mine.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek, a shoulder lifting, lowering, demure. “Sometimes, that’s the only way I can fall asleep. I get…tense, and worked up, and my brain keeps feeding me these images and ridiculous scenarios, you know? Things that will clearly never happen, and I can’t shut my brain off, can’t stop the scenarios—the fantasies, I guess you could call them—from running through my head, until I’m so frustrated and worked up…” Her eyes dropped. “You know.”

  I swallowed hard. “And you…had trouble falling asleep last night?”

  “Uh-huh.” She laughed, embarrassed, blushing, the mug now fully obscuring her face. “God, why am I telling you this?”

  “Well, it can’t top the fact that you saw me.”

  “I didn’t mean to. And I know I should have gone back upstairs, but I was so…not expecting to see…that, that I just…froze.”

  I held her gaze. “It happens, Torie. I ain’t mad about it.”

  She looked back, a moment of boldness. “And, if you want the truth, I didn’t…mind what I saw.”

  “Even though I was watching porn? And the girl in the video looked like you?” />
  “I did notice a resemblance.” God, this moment was tricky. The sexual tension was through the roof. “I watch porn sometimes, too.”

  Well…that was hot. And unexpected.

  “You ever watch with anyone?”

  A long hesitation. She looked away. “God no. No way.” As if the very thought was utterly alien.

  “Me either. I always thought it would be fun, though. With the right person.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that would be…fun—hot…with the right person.”

  The undertones were clear as day. She saw and felt them as much as I did—I saw as much in her eyes, the way she shifted, would meet my eyes, and then look away.

  But then, she’d just said she couldn’t start anything. Not unexpected. But part of me wished I was asshole enough to push for a little messing around before she had to go. Take what I could get.

  I couldn’t, though. I’m not that guy. I wanted more than to just mess around with this girl. And if I couldn’t get everything with her, it was best for her and me both if we just didn’t even dip our toes in that pond.

  I cleared my throat. “I, um. I’ll get your things. So you can change. Be right back.”

  I bolted before my libido ran away with my sense. Her clothes were in the dryer, and I dumped them into a plastic laundry basket. Brought them up to her. “Here. I’m gonna go get started on the Nova. Join me whenever. I’m not much of a breakfast person, but help yourself to whatever, if you’re hungry.”