Her mother makes a choking noise, but we both ignore it, our attention solely focused.
“Yes, I’m quite surprised,” she says. “Though I can’t attest personally to the fucking part…”
“Yet,” I say.
“Yet,” she echoes, with a slight nod of her head. She’s realized to some degree how derailed our conversation has become because her cheeks color and she looks quickly at her mother and sister in apology.
Her mother motions toward her. “This is Gwen,” she says wryly then holds her hand out to the other girl. “And Sophia.”
I’m entertained. Usually these meetings all go the same: I’m ushered into a large, affluent house, my hosts accommodating and well groomed. The conversation is a game of choreographed female entrapment—coy and polite. I’m asked question after question, the women pretending to be interested while counting down the minutes until they can lead me to their bedrooms. Where was I last? How did I like it? Be sure to eat at this and this restaurant—banal small talk. I think the exchange has come to an end and I almost feel disappointed when Gwen suddenly speaks up.
“Can I try them on?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Right now?”
“Yes, why not?”
I look around for somewhere to sit and spot a leather wingback chair near the door. Sitting, I begin to loosen the laces while Gwen’s mother and sister insist that I needn’t bother. I ignore them, watching her face until both boots are off and my socked feet rest on the wood floor. I hold out the boots to Gwen, who steps forward to take them. She sits directly on the stairs that lead up to the second floor, slipping off her own shoes and dropping her feet into mine. Her hair is even wilder than I thought, falling around her face and almost trailing the floor as she bends forward. Before I can say anything, she’s standing up and walking over to a large gilded mirror; the boots clomping as she walks, several sizes too large for her tiny feet. When she reaches the mirror, she turns from side to side admiring her reflection.
“They’re the best boots I’ve ever seen,” she says over her shoulder. “Can you design something for me?”
“Gwen,” her mother interrupts before I can answer. “That’s enough.”
She shoots her mother an apologetic look before returning to the stairs to take them off. I wink at her when she returns them, and she blushes and quickly looks away.
I know what it’s like to be shamed out of your real personality.
“We’ve prepared lunch, Folsom, if you’d like to follow me into the dining room,” her mother says. The perfect hostess smile has returned to her face and she’s walking toward a doorway expecting me to follow.
I don’t move. “Actually,” I say. “I’d like to get started. I’ll eat after the first appointment, that way I’ll be rested for the next.”
Gwen’s sister—what was her name again?—smiles in my direction. Gwen, having returned her shoes to her feet, stands up and bounces a few times on her toes.
“I’m ready if he is,” she says when her mother looks at her for approval.
“Well, there you go,” she says. “You two can head right upstairs.”
I follow Gwen up the winding staircase, thinking how cliché a winding staircase is. The End Men are told to read books, romance books are encouraged—a crash course in what women want. My personal favorite is Gone with the Wind, in which slowly winding staircases were a staple of Southern wealth. Rhett Butler’s plight in life rang true for me, always wanting something he couldn’t have. In Rhett’s case it was the spiky Scarlett O’Hara, in mine…freedom. We reach a hallway of doors, each one heavy and old, paneled in oak. Gwen rests her hand on the third door down the hallway and turns to look at me.
“Is this awkward for you?”
“No more than for you,” I say.
“I don’t feel awkward,” she says. “I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”
“You’ve been waiting for my dick your whole life, what an honor.” I place my hand over my heart to emphasize my sarcasm. She rolls her eyes, undeterred.
“For the baby, Folsom.”
She says my name like she’s known me for years. A little chill runs down my neck. Familiarity is something I crave, a grown man looking for a security blanket. I admitted it once to Jackal when we were both drunk, and he laughed so hard he fell off the couch he was lying on.
“How do you know you’ll get pregnant?” I challenge. It’s a ridiculous question, but I want to hear her answer. There’s nothing wrong with women’s fertility, there’s just nothing to fertilize them with.
“I just know,” she says. “Ready?”
She opens the door before I can answer either way, and we stand at the threshold of a large bedroom, its walls painted white. I’m surprised right away. The room is minimalistic and modern compared to the rest of the house. A simple bed faces us, low to the ground, with a white, rectangular headboard. On each side of the bed are two simple nightstands, also in white. A large oil painting of tree trunks hangs on one wall, the leaves and branches not visible, and on the opposite wall is a simple gas-burning fireplace. The only cozy thing in the room is the rug, which is plush and royal blue.
“Not what you were expecting?” she asks. She’s studying my face.
“Not what I’m used to.”
I stride into the room and she follows, shutting the door quietly behind us.
“My mother hates it,” she says. “But I find clutter distracting.” She scrunches up her nose.
“I agree,” I say.
She smiles and I notice there’s a dimple in her cheek.
She touches a space on the wall and two panels move away to reveal a bar. “What can I get you to drink, Folsom?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me.
This is not uncommon, a woman I’m about to fuck asking if I’d like a drink. They offer the type of things they drink: champagne, wine, vodka, and soda.
“Bourbon,” I try.
She smiles her biggest smile yet and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. She shakes it at me.
“You drink bourbon?” I ask, my eyebrows raised.
“Yes, and I like your boots.” She uncorks the bourbon and pours two generous portions into glasses. “Are all the women you meet the same?”
She hands me a glass and drinks hers down in seconds, flinching when she comes up for air.
“Nervous?”
She shrugs. “I’ve heard that it hurts—the first time.”
“Many women prepare for this with toys to avoid the pain.”
She scrunches up her nose. “I didn’t.”
“Then have another drink,” I suggest. She moves back to the bar hiccupping.
To the left of the bed and near the large bay window are three armchairs set in a semicircle around a table. I take a seat in one, sipping my drink slowly while I watch her. In every other woman’s bedroom I’ve been inside there have been fresh flowers in vases. The absence of them gives the room a stark, cold feel.
“You don’t like flowers?” I ask.
She laughs as she comes to sit in a chair near me, shaking her head.
“What makes you think that?”
I motion around the room. She sits forward in her seat suddenly fascinated.
“Tell me about the other women,” she says. “Do they give you gifts, do they all have flowers in their bedrooms? What are they like?”
I laugh. “Don’t you have friends?”
She slumps back in her chair. “No, I don’t. I’m busy with work mostly. My sister does, but I hate her friends.”
“What do you do for work?” I ask. The bourbon is relaxing me. I lean my head back against the chair as I watch her, my free hand drumming my knee. This is the first time I’ve accepted a drink for an early appointment. I like to be in control of myself, my mind clear, unlike Jackal who drinks both his breakfast and dinner. I save liquor for my free time, nights when I’m alone and I tend to think too much.
“I work for Genome Y,” she says, plucking a
stray hair from her dress. “We do research to find out—”
“—Why there is a lack of the Y chromosome in male sperm.”
“Yes,” she says, glancing up at me.
I take a sip of my drink. Normally women in her social position don’t work. Not until they’re past their childbearing age. “How’s research going?” I’m goading her and she knows it. She looks at me, tight-lipped, an annoyed expression on her face.
“I’m sure you’d be the first to know if there were any breakthroughs,” she says curtly. “You keep asking me questions, but you haven’t answered any.”
“I get a shit ton of gifts,” I say. “Clothes, watches, money clips, money…and flowers—women love flowers. They’re everywhere. Once a woman even wove them into her pubic hair before I fucked her.”
“Do you keep the gifts?”
I shrug. “Some.”
“You sound bored,” she says, surprised. “It’s an honor to do what you do. You’re helping society. You’re—”
“A sex slave,” I answer for her. She looks away.
“I’m sure not all of you think that way,” she says, uncertain. “Men have always been known to seek out sex above everything else.”
“Maybe I’m not like them.” I set my empty glass on the table and begin unbuttoning my shirt. Gwen’s eyes move to my hands as they work at the buttons.
“So you don’t want to be here?” Her eyes are intense, narrowed in what I take as shock.
“Would you?” I stand up to shrug off my suit jacket. My shirt is unbuttoned all the way down to my waist and I pull the tails of it from my pants as I watch her.
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it like that. The other men, they seem to enjoy what they do. I just assumed…”
“Take off your clothes,” I tell her.
I slide my belt from the loops, suddenly done with the conversation. I’ve never in sixteen years said these things to any woman and I don’t like that I just said them to her. Gwen stands, her eyes locked on mine. Her dress is easy to get off, no zippers or buttons; she simply slides it down her shoulders and it falls around her ankles in a puddle. She’s wearing a simple lace bra and panties in a pale pink. The color is attractive against her olive skin tone and dark hair. She’s not trying to play the seduction games the others are taught to do, and there’s no excited lust in her eyes. She’s waiting to be told what comes next. This is a business transaction and she’s treating it as such. She wants my sperm, not me, and that’s what bothers me most. Jackal would be hysterical if he could hear my thoughts. I’d never fucking hear the end of it.
I kick off the boots she loves so much and step out of my pants. She’s watching with curiosity, studying my body, not in a sexual way but with genuine interest. I mean to shock her when I pull down my boxers, the pill I took in the car having just taken effect. I feel a sick satisfaction when her eyes grow wide and her lips part as she stares at my cock.
“It won’t fit,” she says, shaking her head. She slides her hand up and down her forearm, looking worried.
“Oh, yes, it will.”
I take a step toward her and all of a sudden she seems self-conscious of her body, crossing her arms over her chest. The bourbon has fully reached my head and I feel irrationally angry with her for making me say things I never intended to say.
“Turn around,” I tell her. She does as she’s told, spinning until her back is to me. I unstrap her bra, though she holds it there with her hands. Reaching my head down, I kiss the dip in her neck and work my way toward her ear. I like kissing her. I like the way she smells. She shivers and I see the gooseflesh break out across her arms. When I spin her back around to face me, her eyes are closed and her lips are open and wet. I kiss her, moving her hands away from her chest. Her bra drops to the ground and I reach up, skimming my hand over the cleft in her panties. She jumps but I move on, quickly taking her breast in my hand. She’s kissing me back, mirroring the movement my lips make. When I suck on her lip, she sucks on mine. When I slide my tongue into her mouth, she slides hers back. A good student. I move us over to the bed until the back of her calves hit the bed and tell her we’re there. Her knees buckle and she lands, sitting directly at eye level with my cock. I move my hand to her head and push her face toward it. Sucking my cock is optional, I never push the issue unless they offer, but I want to see what she’ll do. She opens her mouth instinctively and now it’s my turn to jump, my muscles clenching as she lets me slide into her mouth. She watches my face as I arch my back, sliding back and forth between her lips. Then she grabs my thighs to still me and moves her mouth over it without my help, surprising me with how good she is. The little novice has skill. I relax as I let her touch me with her tongue. When I want to be inside her, I push her onto her back.
“Lift your hips,” I say. She obeys me and I slide off her panties. She’s hairless; no flowers, only smooth olive skin.
“I read that you don’t like hair,” she says. “So I had it taken off.” She’s watching my face intently to see what I think. I decide to show her.
I dip my head down and kiss her right there, sucking. Her skin is soft. She buckles underneath me and I slip my tongue between her lips for added effect. The noise she makes is surprised, between a scream and a yell. This is not something I do, this is something women pay me extra for, but I want to taste her, and so I yank her thighs open and lick away the wet. She’s loud, she’s very loud. From experience I know that her sister is eavesdropping at the door, jealous that she’s not the first one. I suck on her clit to make her yell louder, smiling when she does. It doesn’t take me long to make her come, especially when I slide a finger inside of her. She grabs my hair and clenches my head between her thighs so that I can’t breathe and then her body freezes and shudders. When I crawl up her body, her eyes are open and she’s breathless.
“I didn’t know,” she says. “—That it would feel like that.”
“Now comes the part that’s going to hurt,” I tell her. “Try to relax.”
“It’s not going to fit,” she says again, lifting her head to get another look at it.
“I know how to make it fit, Gwen,” I say, closing my eyes.
She’s drenched and I find her without trying, pushing myself slowly into her. She moans, lifting her hips. I take one of her nipples in my mouth and suck hard.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask.
Her eyes open. “Yeah, but it’s a good hurt.”
That’s all it takes. I work my way into her, thrusting a little bit at a time, breaking through her virginity. Her insides grip me and it’s like sliding over warm silk. Normally, I can last a long time, I give them their money’s worth, but this time I feel myself hardening the way I do before I finally come.
“I want a son,” she says, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me closer. “Give me your son.”
And then I explode inside of her and the heat is almost unbearable.
SIX
GWEN
My eyes are squeezed shut, savoring this content, sky-high rush. When I hear Folsom roar as he spills into me, I regret not watching him. What does it feel like for him? Is he glad to be finished or did he take pleasure from my body? I open my eyes and watch as the storm crosses his face and eventually winds down. I think he liked it. I place my hand on his cheek and smile…grateful. He looks almost shy, his guard down for seconds; then he blinks and I think I imagined it. He pulls out slowly, placing a pillow under my hips to keep his seed inside me for as long as possible.
“It fit!” My attempt at humor.
“Yes, it did.” He half smiles.
He’s on his back now, looking distracted. Something monumental for me was just another day in his life. I’m surprised by how much it stings.
I look him over. Beads of sweat are on his chest and his waist tapers into a perfect V. He’s still hard and wet from being inside me; his cock pulses a few times, like it enjoys my attention. My entire body flushes and I want nothing more than to star
t over from the beginning with him, instead of this experience already being over.
My mother often talks about how difficult life is now because she knows exactly what she’s missing. She hopes it’s easier for us girls to never have known the way it used to be. My mother went to a sperm bank for my sister and me, but she grew up with both a mother and a father. She was made in the traditional way. I’ve always loved hearing her stories despite not being able to relate.
Suddenly he’s up and on his feet. “Keep lying there and I’ll get a shower.” He walks toward the bathroom and I lean up on my elbows to watch him. The muscles in his back roll as he stretches his arms above his head.
Where I am all soft curves, he is sculpted muscle. I want more time to study the intricacies of his body, more time to explore. I didn’t expect him to make me feel so good. I push that thought aside and focus on the life that I hope is in the process of forming.
When the shower turns off, I sit up and put my bra back on. I’d like to shower too, but instead I keep still and squeeze, trying to keep every trickle of him inside me. He walks out minutes later, body dripping, and hands me a warm washcloth.
“Thanks.”
His jaw ticks and he doesn’t say anything. I run the cloth over my body and clean up as best I can, while he stands there and watches. I expect to feel embarrassed, but it never comes. Every nerve ending sparks under his gaze, my nipples tighten until they hurt, and I get lightheaded.
He bites the inside of his jaw and his eyes darken. I can’t look away, but eventually he does, picking up my dress and handing it to me. I murmur my thanks again, but he still doesn’t respond. I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable with me, or if I’ve done something to upset him. I glance down at his cock—that seems to be an indicator of what he’s thinking. It’s standing at attention, swollen and angry. He gives it a few tugs.
I know I should look away, but it’s too fascinating. “It just sort of bobs around,” I say. “I’d play with it all the time if I had one.”
He lifts his eyebrows, his lips twitching. “If you had one of these you wouldn’t have time to play with it yourself.”
Folsom (The End of Men Book 1) Page 3
