by Aubrey Irons
“And you’re wondering what it would feel like for me to hold you right here bent over this counter and fuck you until you can’t stand anymore.”
Her pussy literally tightens around my finger as she shivers and moans. Her back tenses, her fingers claw at the counter.
I love being right.
I push her tank top up her back, slipping it over her bra-less tits and letting my palms slide over them. My lips find the back of her neck, pushing her hair out of the way and then grabbing it in a fist as I lick my way down her nape and down between her shoulder blades. She’s gasping loudly now, her pussy dripping her juices down my finger as I stroke it in and out of her. I add a second, curling them deep and letting my thumb brush over her clit.
Part of me wants to just pull my cock out, bury every inch of it inside of her, and just fuck her until we both collapse. But I’ve waited too long for this. I’ve dreamt too long of turning Anastasia Bell into a fucking puddle for me to jump right into it, as very tempting as that is.
Instead, I’m going to make her beg. Instead, I’m going to have her speaking in fucking tongues and coming apart at the seams first.
And then I’ll fuck her.
My lips drag down her back, teeth raking her skin and bringing a cry to her lips. I leave a trail of wet kisses and red marks as I trail further down, my fingers never stopping, my thumb still brushing her clit. I get down to her ass, and I don’t even take my hand away from between her legs as I use the other one and my fucking teeth to start to drag her panties over her ass.
I stop, somehow, my jaw tensing.
No. Like I said, I’ve waited too long for this. I’ve seen her in just her panties, that night on the boat. I’ve seen her touching herself, but from over a hundred feet away, and mostly with a sheet over her.
I want to see all of her.
She gasps as I suddenly turn her around, and press her ass against the counter - her panties halfway off and stretched across her hips. I glance up at her, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed pink as I hook my fingers into the sides.
Slowly, I pull them down, and the blood in my veins turns to fire as her absolutely perfect pussy is revealed at last.
Perfect.
Like, actual perfection - perfection like if you looked up “best pussy” in some sort of filthy dictionary, you’d get a picture of what’s in front of me right at this very moment.
I growl as I move in.
Her hands slide into my hair, mine push her legs apart as I lean in. I look up at her as I press my mouth to her and slowly drag my tongue over her slit.
Ana moans.
I repeat the same motion, dragging from the bottom to the top of her lips, parting them with my tongue and letting it swirl over her clit. She tastes like heaven and moans like a devil, and the more of her I get on my tongue and the more of her pleasure I hear in my ears, the more obsessed I am.
I growl as my hands slide to her ass, grabbing her and pulling her against my mouth. My tongue pushes deep, tasting her, devouring her, fucking her with my tongue until her moans and cries fill the kitchen.
And I want more.
My hands hold her tight, and she shrieks as I lift her up and plant that sweet ass on the countertop. I push her back across it as I move back between her legs, throwing them over my shoulders. I push my fingers deep inside of her, curling them against her spot as I wrap my lips around her clit and suck, flicking my tongue over it.
Ana explodes.
She’s screaming, her hands tugging my hair painfully, her moans making my cock hard as fucking steel as I eat her through another orgasm, and another, until she’s pushing me away and gasping for air.
I’m not waiting any longer.
I stand, pulling at my belt. Her hands move to my pants, tugging at them. The hungry look flashes across her face before she suddenly glances up at me.
“Do you have a condom?”
My teeth grind tighter.
No, of course I don’t.
Of course the second I’m about to finally fuck Anastasia Bell, I don’t.
She bites her lip, her brow furrowing at the look on my face.
Fuck it.
“Hang on, I’ll grab one.”
I yank her up, kissing her fiercely and letting her soft moan course through me.
“But don’t you fucking move from this—”
Headlights wash over the kitchen and we both freeze.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Ana yelps, bolting off the counter, pulling her tank top down and grabbing her shorts off the floor.
“I thought you said it was their night off!”
“They do live here,” I growl, seriously debating walking outside and either paying or threatening my two older employees to turn the fuck around and not come back for a week.
Ana swears as she yanks her shorts up.
“I—” she looks at me, her eyes wild and her face heated. “I should go. I must look—”
“Like you just came on my tongue about four times.”
She flushes.
“Thanks for getting me tonight,” she says quietly.
She leans up and quickly pecks me on the cheek before pulling away.
The cheek.
“I hope your shoulder feels better.”
And then she’s gone.
I decide it’s probably best not to greet my housekeeper and butler with pussy on my breath and a hard-on about to tear out of my pants. I grab two beers from the fridge and make myself scarce.
I ran to other coastlines
With the cold lies I had learned.
Westbound on a Greyhound
But the sun, it left me burned.
8 Years Ago:
Well, it’s done.
I wince as I sit on the toilet - more sore than I thought I’d be, though not necessarily in a bad way I guess. I stand, flushing and padding naked to the sink, where I wash my hands, then my face. I stand there a minute, faucet still on, water dripping down my cheeks and off my chin as I meet my own stare in the mirror.
You finally got that out of the way.
I’m not sure if I expected to see someone different in the mirror or feel something different after. Maybe older. Maybe more mature. Maybe more removed from the boy I should have done this with months before, even if I would have regretted it the rest of my life.
Oh, right - as of ten minutes ago, I’m no longer a virgin.
I’ve been dating Jason for two weeks now, and I’ve been having a harder and harder time coming up with reasons why we’re not having sex, surrounded by a college environment where everyone is having sex, all the time. It’s also hard because I haven’t actually told him that I’ve never done it before, which is weird, I get it. Part of it is that awkward pressure of thinking I should have done this before college - that no one shows up to four years of exploring your sexuality with zero experience on the table already.
The other part of it is harder to explain, even to myself. The other part is that while I finally made up my mind that I would sleep with Jason, I did so with the decision that “being my first” wasn’t a title I’d let him claim. Because I know despite the rage and the hatred, and the fury and the humiliation - and despite his being the worst thing that ever happened to me, there’s another boy that title should have gone to. But it didn’t, and so in my own weird little way, it won’t to anyone.
I may have mentioned this before, but there might be something wrong with me.
I do like Jason Landry, a lot actually. He’s the RA on my dorm floor. He’s sweet, and he’s quiet and cute, and he likes great, interesting music and watches super cool French black and white films without the subtitles on.
Love doesn’t have to be a word right now. After all, this is college, and this is all about experimenting and trying new things. But I like Jason a lot. Enough, at least, that I finally stopped coming up with excuses and said yes tonight when he asked me to come back to his room. Enough that I pretended I’d done this a
hundred times before, enough that I squeezed my eyes shut and buried the painful yelp in my knuckles over his shoulder, at the first penetration.
It wasn’t bad.
It wasn’t anything earth shattering or life-defining like a movie or something. But it was nice.
Nice, like Jason. Deep down, I’m fairly certain I’m not destined for nice, though.
I finish drying my face and open the door of his private bathroom. Being a residence assistance does have its privileges - besides deflowering freshman, apparently.
“Hey, babe?”
I smile, suddenly feeling self-conscious at still being naked and grabbing a towel off the back of the bathroom door to wrap myself in.
“Are you on your period?”
My stomach drops, the smile vanishing from my face in horror as my eyes dart to Jason’s bed, and the little smear of red on the sheets.
I catch myself out of the free-fall somehow, swallowing back the mortifying heat on my face.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” I make a face. “I didn’t think—”
“Naw, it’s cool babe.” Jason shrugs. “I’m cool with that.”
“Cool,” I say, not sure what the heck else to say.
“Hey so, you can definitely stay for a while, but, you know…”
I do know.
Jason’s the RA. Technically speaking, he’s not supposed to have students in his room past a certain hour. Which means I’m not staying here tonight.
Which suits me fine.
“I- I should go anyway.”
I say it casually like I’m one of those girls who fucks her RA and then dips out all the time.
Like I’ve done this before.
Like every single part of me isn’t wondering how this might have been different, that night, on the boat, with the smell of the ocean the taste of tequila and lime, and the fiercest, most brooding eyes I’ve ever seen looking into me as he made me his.
I get dressed with my back to Jason, who’s on his laptop now after stripping his virginity-stained sheets off.
“See ya tomorrow.” I think I say it casually.
“Hey.”
Jason stops me, pulling me into a hug, and then kissing the top of my head.
“I had fun tonight.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He nods, smiling a crooked smile as he looks at me.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
I chew on my lip. “What did you have in mind?”
Jason and I last two months. It’s never passionate, but it’s comforting. And mostly fun. And fairly easy.
And nice.
Two months later though, I find out I’m not the only freshman sneaking into Jason’s room at night. I find that out the day he tells me she and him are transferring to Colorado State together.
And that’s the end of that.
I cry after - just a little though. I’m not shattered.
I’m not broken hearted.
I’m just a little empty.
But in a way, I’m glad. I’m glad because it happened, and in a certain way, it let me get over him - the boy who should have shattered me before.
The one who only half broke my heart.
So in a way, this helps.
And that’s nice.
Present:
Hey,
So, I’ve been thinking about us meeting. A lot, actually. I guess it’s a big step, for me at least. I’m not saying no, I just wanted to let you know it’s been on my mind so you didn’t think I was ignoring it completely. Anyway, let’s talk soon.
Love,
Jill.
Almost instantly, the chat feature on my email blinks and a message pops up.
From Jack.
Been busy?
Well, this is interesting. We’ve chatted like this before on occasion, but it’s mostly just emails with Jack.
Yeah, been busy.
What’s his name?
I smile, but I chew on it, mulling over a response.
This is new territory with us. We’ve never gone into relationships - in fact, we stay as far away from discussing it as we can. Not because of some mutually decided on agreement, we just don’t, at all. It’s crossed my mind before, but at this point, I’m one-hundred percent sure Jack is straight, just based off conversations and the way we converse. But it’s like he and I have built this purposely vague anonymous friendship, without the worry of romance or it even coming into conversation.
Until right now, fifteen minutes after Bastian made me come with his tongue on his freaking kitchen counter.
Jack must sense my trepidation. Or at least realize my lack of instant response - even a “haha” or something.
Big steps for us, I know.
No, it’s just…
I sit there staring at the screen for a minute before deleting it and retyping.
What are we?
Space dust, spinning through the universe.
Lol, you know what I mean.
Friends.
I blink, confused why I might feel, well, confused by that. And a little sad.
What do you want us to be?
Friends is great.
I type it back instantly.
Little tough to be more than that seeing as we’ve spent seven years never physically meeting face-to-face or actually speaking.
Is that why you want to meet?
Jack takes his time on that one.
Maybe.
Maybe. I need more than maybe. I also need to come clean about the very, very physical, very real and face-to-face thing going on with Bastian right now.
We’re about to leap over that line of not talking about our love lives.
I need to tell you something.
This sounds ominous.
I just need to tell you something, before we keep going with this whole ‘lets meet’ thing.
You met someone.
The three little words might as well be neon and flashing, sitting there in the chat window.
It’s weird how bad I feel. It’s weird that I somehow feel like I’ve wronged Jack somehow by falling into this very confusing, very consuming thing with Bastian.
Yes.
He’s a lucky guy.
It’s my boss.
The asshole?
I chew on my lip.
The very one.
Well shit, here I was being nice all these years.
Lol, honestly, it’s not like that. Believe me, I’m not that girl who’s into assholes.
Or am I.
“I’m fairly certain my dirty mouth only makes you wetter than you’ve ever been before.”
The proof there is the tingling, pulsing, alive feeling still thundering through my body after earlier.
Jack says nothing for a full minute.
I should have told you about this sooner.
Sorry, had a phone call. You don’t owe me anything. Seriously. I’m happy for you.
There’s a pause.
We still friends?
Of course.
Then I still want to meet.
I grin.
I think I’d like that.
As long as your asshole boss/boyfriend won’t mind.
I start to type “not my boyfriend,” but I delete it instead.
This was fun.
I grin at his words.
Same.
Who knows, Jill. We might even talk someday.
Night, Jack.
Night.
Somehow, with the mix of guilt, excitement, confusion, and lust still swirling through my head, I sleep.
Eventually.
The wood is smooth and the knobs and strings cool under my fingers. I feel the weight of it tug on the strap over my shoulder — the electric guitar heavier than the acoustics I’m used to.
I breathe slowly, excitement humming through me as I plug the Fender Esquire — the Born to Run guitar — into the amplifier and turn it on. The dull crackle of electricity buzzes through the big speaker, and my excite
ment only spikes.
This guitar has to be worth an absolute fortune. And under any other circumstances, there’s no way I’d ever be touching it. But then, Bastian did say I could use whatever I wanted in his dad’s old music room. So here I am, playing the guitar from the cover of a record I’ve listened to more times than I could possibly count.
My fingers strum over the strings, and a visceral shiver runs through my body as the deep, velvety tone thrums from the amplifier.
Oh this is going to be fun.
I start with a Bruce song – “Born to Run” off of Born to Run - because of course I do. I’ve got a stripped down cover I play live a lot, and so that’s exactly what I do. The words come smooth and easy, the chords patterns like familiar friends as I close my eyes and lose myself in the song to an audience of no one.
…Or at least, that’s what I think.
My eyes are still closed as the last notes trail off, and so the slow clap that echoes through the room scares the living shit out of me. I gasp, jumping as I whirl to see Bastian leaning against the doorframe.
“You’re good, you know.”
I raise a brow, and he sighs.
“I am capable of compliments.”
