Reckless Point (BBW New Adult)

by Brent, Cora

  Fred was big and blonde and got off with more grunting than a feral pig. He and Judith would pretend to chastely fall asleep across the room on top of Judith’s covers until they figured I had nodded off and then they would hammer away like a pair of jackrabbits.

  But Fred, bless him, had legions of hot friends and on the eve of my departure from college life I was damned determined to find the collegiate action so fabled and yet so lost to me.

  Oh, there had been a few awkward outings complete with some tongues and boob rubbing. And then junior year a three week relationship got me into a pants-off position which seemed promising until Brad (I forgot his last name) ejaculated all over my left thigh and then was too embarrassed to call me again.

  There were several dozen of us in the mountainous woods. There was also a lot of beer and as night fell those who hadn’t paired off had either passed out by the fire or were nervously weighing their options.

  I sipped a beer, trying not to grimace over the taste. It had never really appealed to me. A friend of Fred’s sat on the other side of the crackling fire, idly strumming a guitar. I knew him to be a moodily quiet philosophy major with a good body.

  “You play very well,” I lied.

  “Hmmm,” he examined his fingering and didn’t look up. After a few moments Amber, a leggy brunette, sidled up to him and whispered in his ear. He grinned and they disappeared into the darkness together.

  I sighed and returned to my beer, figuring if I wasn’t going to have any success I could at least get piss drunk and see what that was like.

  “You can stay in my tent, Angela.”

  Matthew was a fellow history major with an eerily intense passion for ancient Greece. The eager way he surveyed me was a little depressing since although he seemed a nice sort, behind his green eyes there wasn’t much passionate fire. But at that point I settled for smoke.

  “Sure,” I smiled prettily and let him lead me back to a very low tent like structure which looked like it was meant for a child.

  Once we got inside things got interesting. Matthew rolled backwards out of the tent when he tried to wrestle my jeans down my hips. And then he battled with the little foil pouch for a while before tearing a corner with his teeth and unrolling the damn condom, looking perplexed.

  The earth didn’t move. It didn’t even twitch.

  Still, I was rather pleased to have finally divested myself of my vaunted virginity. Never mind the fact that I still didn’t have a clue what all the fuss was about. Matthew and I screwed exactly three more times that week until he ran out of condoms. And on the last time I felt the vaguest twinges of what might have been the precursor to actual pleasure.

  Despite the vague sting I felt when Matthew found an eager art history major offering to give him head, I congratulated myself on my success. Until I finally returned to my bleak dorm room and sat on the edge of the narrow bed. Then the memory of Matthew’s awkward fumbling and my quiet acceptance revolted me.

  As I tore off my clothes and bundled myself into the terrycloth robe which had been a Christmas present from my parents, I padded down the hall to the bathroom. I was grateful the showers were empty and as I stepped under the steamy spray my mind wandered.

  I thought about full crotches and tight asses, of broad shoulders and tanned muscles, of all the varied male specimens I had ever encountered who coaxed that peculiar pull of want in my belly.

  And I knew, with certainty, that there was more to it all than that sorry pup tent humping.

  As the steam rose around me in clouds I let the water run through my hair, closing my eyes and thinking about the silver glint of handlebars over black wheels, of hard legs straddling either side as man and motorcycle rode on by, bristling with sexual energy. The rider paused long enough to glance back with a knowing stare and with a jolt I knew him. He looked exactly like my half-forgotten childhood neighbor, Marco Bendetti.

  And that was how I discovered that my own hand, and a wild daydream, could be extraordinarily satisfying.

  ***

  The house was quiet. I expected my father would be down at the store. There was a note on the kitchen chalkboard in my mother’s plump handwriting.

  Angie,

  Gone for a walk.

  I’ll be home by 4 to make dinner.

  X0X0X0X0, Mama

  My stomach burbled with loud neglect and so I began poking around in the cabinets for something to eat. After considering for several moments I finally sat down with a simple bowl of cornflakes. I chewed slowly, trying not to think. The kitchen was rather dim so I opened the thick indoor shutters to let in the light.

  He was in his garage with the door wide open. His shirt was off and he kneeled next to a motorcycle, appearing to tinker with one of the wheels.

  I slowly closed the shutter so it was only open a crack. I didn’t want to stop watching him, but I didn’t want him to see me watching either.

  Marco leaned back on his heels and seemed to be thoughtfully regarding the hulking vehicle. Finally he took a long drink from the open bottle at his side and selected something out of a tool box, returning to work. I stared at the muscles rippling across the ‘Seventeen’ tattoo on his back as his strong hands fought to turn the gears.

  Marco dropped the tool abruptly and stood. He turned, looked directly across the street, and waved.

  “Shit,” I said, hastily closing the shutters all the way. I looked down, realizing I was still wearing the oversized t-shirt I had slept in.

  After quickly rinsing off my dishes, I ran back to my bedroom and rifled through my suitcase. I’d been unsure about packing the stonewash denim dress; it was a little short for my taste, falling a full three inches above my knees, but the color and the full bust line were flattering.

  I paused by the bathroom vanity mirror, generously spraying my thick hair and crunching the curls. That hair had been the bane of my existence when Charlie’s Angels flat waves were in. Fortunately a wilder look had come into vogue and my thick dark locks were well suited to Aqua Net heights. After carefully applying a touch of mascara and a dash of lip gloss, I took a deep breath and opened the front door.

  The garage was still open but I didn’t see Marco anywhere. As I walked slowly across the quiet street the echo of a child’s carefree summer laugh reached my ears. And under that, a radio in the Gilliams’ driveway was playing Cheap Trick.

  The can Marco had been drinking from was still on the concrete floor next to the bike. Not beer, but ginger ale. I stood next to the bike. Slowly I ran my hands over the gleaming handlebars. It was different, larger, than the one I recalled him riding in high school. It was painted red, with silver coils which looked like strange lightning bolts. The long seat was smooth and gray on the surface, black on the sides.

  “You can sit on it.”

  I didn’t turn around at the sound of his voice. The pounding of my heart was enough.

  He crept close. “Sorry,” he whispered, rather theatrically. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Again.”

  I shook my head. “You didn’t.”

  Marco seemed to be waiting for me to do something. I swung a leg over and straddled the bike. The leather felt cool between my thighs. “What do you think?”

  His eyes swept over me with a ferocity which made me shudder.

  “Good look for you,” he said hoarsely. Marco was still bare chested. It was a struggle not to stare at the breadth of tanned muscle right in front of me. I swallowed, already knowing how this would go.

  “Stop,” I gasped, looking around nervously as his hands dove unapologetically underneath my dress. The garage door was still wide open but that didn’t stop Marco from reaching between my legs. Weakly I pushed his hands away. “People will see.”

  He mocked me. “People will see.” His thumbs traveled underneath my panties and then were crudely inside of the instantly slippery core.

  I heard my own small whimper as he massaged with expert precision and my hips bucked in response. The rise of the rapidly approaching
orgasm was threatening to engulf me and I gripped his strong shoulders to keep steady. I trembled, biting my lip, worrying about our visibility and then not caring if the whole of Polaris Lane was standing by the curb ogling us.

  Marco pulled his hands back suddenly and reached up, yanking the garage closed. I started to climb down from the bike but Marco shook his head, firmly holding me in place. In a single fluid motion he unsnapped his jeans and unleashed his whole hot length. He straddled the bike, facing me, and pushed my dress up over my hips, kissing me with urgent savagery.

  “Wait,” I said, as his rough hands began to impatiently tear my panties away. “I’m running out of underwear.”

  He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Do you care?”

  I considered. “No.”

  “Good.” And with that he ripped the flimsy satin barrier aside and pulled me up as he eased himself inside.

  My knees collided with the handlebars as we rocked together. He leaned back slightly, allowing me to set the rhythm this time. I opened my dress, kneading my heavy breasts in my hands and enjoying Marco’s sharp intake of breath as he watched.

  “Jesus, Angela,” he swore, urging me to drive him harder.

  He came with a mighty shudder and a loud groan, crushing me against his chest. I felt the pulse of his release and squeezed my muscles together, causing him to groan louder and my own internal spasm to tremble again.

  “Marco,” I whispered, resting my damp forehead against his.

  He stroked my hair, breathing thickly. “I know, baby, I know.”

  I raised my head and pulled my dress down, feeling suddenly nervous but trying to keep my voice light. “By the way, my parents want to know if you’ll come to dinner tonight.”

  Marco Bendetti grinned mischievously. “I’ll come anywhere with you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Polaris Lane was an afterthought, an outgrowth of CPV proper when all the servicemen returned from their overseas trauma and poured into a newly optimistic nation which gladly made room for them.

  Building was on everyone’s mind. It seemed the likeliest solution to years of war and deprivation, of loss and grief. Build homes. Build businesses. Build families.

  Alan Durant was only sixteen years old when the conflict known as World War II came to its bloody finality. His elder brother, Anthony, the winning golden boy who was to inherit Durant’s Drugstore and marry the prettiest girl in Berkshire County, died along with most of his platoon trying to storm a French beach in the midst of unimaginable chaos.

  Several years later, the moment he was legally able, Alan married Grace Franco, the pretty middle daughter of a local house painter. It made my heart hurt to consider the hopeful wonder with which they must have regarded the future. Things had been bad. Having sent an unusually high percentage of sons off in uniform, not a family in Cross Point Village had been spared some level of direct or indirect tragedy. But ahead lay a high road of happiness. They had only to travel it.

  My parents lived in my father’s boyhood bedroom for the first three years of their marriage as they saved for a home of their own. It must have been rather uncomfortable for a pair of ardent newlyweds to exist under the nose of my nosy grandmother, Fay Durant. And I’d always known there was a minor disagreement regarding religion. The Francos were deeply Catholic, attending the modest church at the far south end of Main Street from the day it opened its doors.

  The Durants, on the other hand, were shrugging Congregationalists who remembered to attend services on Christmas and sometimes Easter. Clayton Durant stood behind the counter of Durant’s Drug Store like his father before him, expecting his son would follow. He never really got over the loss of his eldest, favored boy, keeping a large framed picture of Anthony Durant behind the sandwich counter. It was still there and throughout my childhood I remembered looking into the handsome, serious face under his serviceman’s cap as I sipped endless fountain sodas, not realizing until much later how young he was, how tragic it was.

  Clayton suffered a major stroke in 1951. One moment he was polishing the new chrome-embellished stools, whistling Sixteen Tons, and then next he was on the floor, never to stand again. It might have been easier if he died then but he did not. Instead he remained in a largely vegetable state for another six years in the house on Elm Street under the weary care of my grandmother.

  The custom built houses all went up within a nine month period, but my parents were the first official inhabitants of Polaris Lane. It was on the far south end of town, though still less than a mile from Main Street. Grace sewed curtains and pillow shams. She embroidered dish towels and crocheted doilies. Alan of course became the proprietor of Durant’s Drug Store. It wasn’t like what people think of today when they visit the drug store. It wasn’t just aisles of shampoo and antacid. The merchandise ranged from children’s aspirin to hand quilted toaster covers. The counter served a short list of sandwiches and the soda fountain was a popular hangout for the high school crowd.

  I assumed my parents were happy. The albums I idly paged through as a child were full of black and white pictures with small date stamps.

  May 1952: Alan and Grace in front of their new home, still bare of any landscaping. They grinned radiantly, Alan’s arm hung lightly around his wife’s shoulders. Grace wore the knee length sort of I Love Lucy dress I’d always coveted.

  September 1954: Alan and Grace in the backyard of 16 Polaris Lane. They were clad in worn gardening clothes and bubbled over with laughter as they regarded the meager rose garden at their feet.

  February 1957: Alan and Grace bundled up in front of Durant’s Drug Store, celebrating the new store sign, which was illuminated at night, a triumph of modernity. Again, Alan’s arm circled his wife’s shoulders and her gloved hand reached across his chest, resting over his heart.

  Only one thing was missing from their early smiling photos. The thing which was ever present in everyone else’s, even securing a generational moniker celebrating the abundance. Babies.

  I was about nine years when I got around to puzzling through the math and asked my mother, “Why did you and Daddy wait so long to have kids?”

  Her eyes clouded over for a moment as she paused from the task of shaping hamburger patties between her rosy palms. But her voice was light.

  “We were enjoying just being married, I suppose.”

  I frowned. “But didn’t it get boring?”

  Grace squinted a little too intently at a round patty as she slid it onto a waiting plate.

  “No,” she finally said.

  I was haughty, still so young I thought there was only one path. In play, my dolls always spawned very large families and were great company for one another. “Well I would be bored!”

  My mother’s face flashed with irritation, confusing me.

  “Sometimes babies will surprise you,” she said softly. “Or not.” Then she righted herself, brightening. “Besides, everything turned out okay.” She kissed the top of my head. “I’ve got two perfect darlings.”

  I snorted, rolling my eyes toward the window as Tony ran past down the middle of the street, hooting and howling and raising general hell with the pack of prepubescent hoodlums he was always leading around. “Tony? Perfect??”

  My mother frowned slightly and looked out the window to see her son wrestling Marco Bendetti on the sidewalk. “Tony is Tony,” she finally said.

  I stared out the window, watching with fascination this rough male play as Tony wrenched Marco in a headlock and was pushing him cruelly into the concrete. The rest of the boys looked on, elbowing one another and laughing.

  “Give!” Tony demanded. “Give!”

  It seemed Marco would have no choice. He was in my class at school but I wasn’t sorry to see my older brother getting the better of him. My cousin Krista and I agreed Marco was a flat out jerk, always rolling spitballs between his teeth and checking out girls’ underpants on the jungle gym.

  “Give!” Tony growled, tightening his hold with a knowing grin.


  And then, with a suddenness which made me gasp, Marco tucked his head low and rolled into Tony’s abdomen, flipping my brother onto his back there on our front lawn.

  I couldn’t see Tony’s eyes as he lay there flat for an astonished second but I knew his anger would already be stewing. Reluctantly, I allowed a flash of admiration for scrappy Marco, who peered at Tony casually and finally stretched out a hand, a ‘Hey, we’re still friends’ gesture which Tony rewarded by springing to his feet and popping Marco in the mouth.

  My mother had seen enough. She slammed the plate of hamburgers on the counter and tore out of the screen side door, with me close at her heels.

  “Anthony Durant!” she screamed with her hands on her hips. “You apologize to that boy and get in here this instant!”

  Tony, age eleven, glared at our mother with utter contempt. He spit into the grass and stalked away.

  My mother was beside herself. “Goddammit, Tony!” she screamed with an uncommon display of temper. Tony did that to people. “You just wait until your father gets home!”

  It was futile. Tony had already rounded the corner. There was no justice which could be meted out which he was frightened of.

  Grace Durant’s head dropped and she stared at the spot at the end of the driveway where she and my father had scraped their initials in wet cement eons ago. “Shit,” she said softly, and then, with her hand at her mouth, brushed past me and back into the kitchen.

  The other boys had followed Tony, as they always did. All but Marco, who wiped away the blood trailing from his lip and stared at me. We regarded one another for a long silent moment before he gave his mouth one final swipe with the back of his hand and slowly walked across the street to his own house.

  I watched him as my mother slammed her way angrily around the kitchen, taking out her parental frustrations on the dinner preparations. I knew there was likely no one home at Marco’s house. His brother, Damien, was a whole five years older and off following his own mysteries. His mother would of course be slaving away at the bar she owned. A twinge of pity touched me and I briefly considered asking my mother if maybe we should invite Marco to dinner. It would be the sort of thing she would usually think of herself.