by Xavier Neal
Tucker
The kitchen episode with June from three nights ago repeats for the hundredth time in my mind.
It was basically like having a living, breathing work of perfection in my arms. Between the curves and the sounds she was making, I could've came right along with her back to back. Never felt anything like that before. Never felt anything close to that before.
I run my hand a little faster up and down my shaft wishing her lips were wrapped around me.
Fuck, if her mouth can move even half as well on my cock as it did against mine, I'm gonna be coming like I'm back in summer camp after seeing my first real life topless female. She was a barely legal camp counselor whose tits, in comparison to June's, were like strawberries just over the edge of ripe.
The thought of what June looks like topless throbs my dick harder.
A sharp gasp lifts my eyelids to a very wide eyed June with her hands cupping her mouth in shock.
Did you hear the door open?
“Cock!” Alarm floods her eyes as she struggles to speak from behind her hands.
The sound of the word falling from her lips increases the ache.
“Yours...Um...” June huffs and finally questions, “What are you doing?!”
I continue to slowly stroke. “What does it look like?”
“But-but-but in the middle of the living room?!” She shrieks. “Don't you...don't you need privacy?!”
Tucking one hand behind my head while the other keeps a steady pace, I smirk. “I was in private. I was the only one here.”
“I should've knocked,” her voice waivers, though her eyes have pasted themselves onto my cock.
The expression on her face grows a groan in my chest and urges me to rub a little faster. A little harder. June's jaw slightly cracks at the change and I quietly ask, “Do you wanna help?”
She shifts her eyes to mine.
“You can say no, June Bug. You can always say no.”
Her tongue snakes out across her glossed lips. The subtle action creates another ache in my balls.
“It's okay to watch,” I whisper my encouragement. “It's okay to find pleasure in someone else's....”
As if some weight has been lifted off her shoulders, she tips her head a little for me to continue. I gently tug on my testicles to relieve the building pressure, but it only makes the need to come even worse. Wanting to give her a slightly longer show, I restrain the urge, shut my eyes and begin a licentious jerking. The small puffs of air leaving the greatest piece of unappreciated art I've ever come across, spiral me faster down the bawdy rabbit hole. Every stroke seems to spark a louder whimper and every attempt to resist surrendering to it seems to sever my inhibitions. Knowing her guard is down, knowing the art of her sexual discovery is being granted to me, and only me, releases feral grunts and groans. Without my consent, my entire body begins to shudder. Several sharp bursts sear my fingertips at the same time June lets out a long, enthralled moan.
I want her to clean up this mess with her tongue and then create a brand new one with me in its place.
Once I've calmed back down, I divert my attention to the only woman I've ever met who captures my attention in such a unique way.
It's hard to describe what it is about her. It could be that underneath the tightly wound fumbling exterior, is a creature with more passion and desire than I've ever known to exist. No, I haven't seen it, in full, but I know it's there. I can see behind those brown eyes that are terrified to relinquish control. That are so used to admiring life from a far they're not sure they can survive actually living in it. Maybe Fate knew I would recognize the look since I see it often in the mirror. I wanna be the one to break those chains for her. Show her how to color outside those lines before I leave this city again. Maybe she'll show me something I need to see too.
“Y-y-you should get dressed,” June politely states, taking a step back from the couch. “We don't wanna be late to dinner.”
I grumble my disapproval. “Maybe you don't. Frankly, I don't wanna go at all.” After cleaning up the mess with tissue, I toss them into the trash, pull up my shorts and sigh, “It's the reason I was masturbating in the first place.”
Confusion covers her face. “The idea of dinner with your family makes you horny? That's bizarre.”
Don't agree with her. That's not it.
Seeing her ready to back track to think of a classier way to call me crazy, I cut off her chance. “No. The idea of dinner with my family frustrates me. When I'm frustrated, I need endorphins to counter it. Creating something works equally as well as jerking off.”
The expression stays. “Creating art gets you off?”
“No, but both activities produce a natural high for me. The only thing I enjoy as much as art is sex. Both allow me to get lost in them. Devote myself to expressing what words often can't.”
“So when you masturbate-”
“I create a sexual scenario in which I surrender completely to.”
Her eyes fill with heat that rises my dick against my shorts. “Wh-What...what was the scenario you were playing out this time?”
I offer her a crooked smile and a wink before turning around to head for the bedroom. “I'm gonna rinse off and change. It'll only take a few minutes.”
“I'll just...um..wait here then,” she rushes to say. Just moments after I close the door there's a small thud and faint, “Ou...”
I chuckle quietly to myself.
Believe it or not, I find her lack of grace kinda sweet. It's like watching a kid who has finger painted all his life try to use a fine brush. The determination is endearing. I won't mind letting my paintbrush be in June's hands as soon as she lets me. I just find myself praying it's sooner rather than later. Not sure how much more masturbating to thoughts of her I can handle. It's bad enough she's the muse for all the artwork I create to pass our time apart. I'm not used to being this engulfed by another being and I'm not certain even sexually connecting will help it pass. Makes me wonder what will....
**
Anxiety begins to broil in the pit of my stomach as the mansion I actively avoid begins to come into view. Between the lush lawn décor shaped to resemble zoo animals and the fountain big enough to easily be mistaken for a pool, a familiar sadness seeps throughout me to join the other feeling of discomfort.
The tree shaped animals were my dad's definition of art. He liked to go out when they were being maintained and convince the gardeners to show him how to cut the new growth as well as how to trim one to resemble an actual object. Used to drive my mother crazy to have strange shapes all around the yard, but she never had them fixed because she knew how proud he was to be helping take care of her. Of their home. Of their family. That's the type of man he was. All about us.
“There's not like an actual zoo behind your home is there?”
I don't bother glancing her direction. “It's not my home, June Bug. It's my mother's.”
“You grow up in it?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it's yours.” My eyes drift her direction at the same time she parks around the curve for the valet to take her car. “Whether or not you still live here, doesn't matter. It's where you were raised. It's where you learned to walk, talk, and most likely painted your first portrait.”
Proudly, I smirk. “It was a Ninja Turtle eating a slice of pizza.”
She kills the engine. “That makes this place your home.”
Her logic would be easy to argue with, but I have enough problems to face with adding to it.
I prepare to open the door when she grabs me by the arm to stop me. “Wait. Were you serious? Your first portrait was a Ninja Turtle?”
“Age five. Michelangelo eating a slice of hot pizza. It's framed outside of the bedroom that used to be mine.”
Not even sure what's in it now. Could an obnoxious collection of floppy hats for all I know.
A bit of mirth joins the impressed glint in her eyes. “I can't believe you were a Ninja Turtles fan.”
A
lmost instantly appears the realization I've exposed more of myself, yet I don't fight it. The mental nudge to keep talking starts my mouth again. “I was a five-year old boy, of course I was a Ninja Turtles fan. What, you think just because I'm the son of a billionaire I can't appreciate the fine quality of the cartoon? I mean, come on. It was highly sophisticated.”
“They were crime fighting turtles who ate pizza!”
I wink. “Named after artists.”
The response gets a giggle right before we get out of the car.
She offers her keys to the valet at the same time I stick my arm out for her to take. “My early obsession with Michelangelo the Ninja Turtle is what persuaded my parents to take me to Italy when I was ten.”
June wraps her arms around mine and continues to beam.
“Seeing the actual Michelangelo's work in the flesh curved my interest away from basic adolescent impulses to dig slightly deeper. Explore art from emotions inside rather than just mimic what I had ingested.” We travel up the outside stairs slowly. “What about you? How'd your love of art get ignited?”
“Class field trip,” she casually answers. “Funny thing is, I almost didn't even get to go. It was one of the only times, my father reminded me I was forgetting my permission slip.”
“I call that the work of Fate.”
June lifts her eyebrows in curiosity.
“You said it yourself. Something out of the ordinary happened and lead you to something extraordinary. To me, that's the essence of Fate. She has this way of cosmically clashing you into something and ultimately it always ends up working out for your best interest.”
“Hm. Looking back at it now, I guess I can see that. Somehow my permission slip had been hidden under a newspaper and normally my father checked the paper at night, but he had called in sick. Allergies were kicking his ass so he just wanted to curl up and yell at the scores, which is when he discovered my slip.”
“Fate.”
She's an equally cruel mistress as she is a giving one. No need to ruin that for June right now.
“I did learn all about Monet that day and how he influenced many artists throughout history. Also learned after the trip no matter how hard I tried, nothing I created would ever look as beautiful as a Monet painting.”
“Ah. Slip of your favorite classic painter.”
June bumps into me again at the same time we enter the residence. “You should show me your turtle after dinner.”
Think it'll convince her to shed more of her shell for me?
“Oh! I didn't mean that to be sexual!”
I lightly laugh and mumble, “Of course you didn't, June Bug.”
Two steps in and a male politely greets, “Master Tucker, it's a pleasure to see you. It's been a very long time.”
I try to politely smile.
He's not exaggerating.
“June Bailey meet Byron. He's head of the loyal servants who maintain this home.”
The older white haired gentleman gives me a stern expression. “You may say butler, master Tucker. It is an honor not an insult to wait on this family.”
“You are family,” I correct. “So stop with the master stuff.”
“May I take your jacket?” June drops her arm and allows me to remove it. Once it's draped over his arm he asks, “May I take your purse as well, Miss Bailey?”
She hands him the object, wraps her arm back around mine, and politely nods. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he gives her a polite nod himself. With a wave of his hand he says, “Everyone has already settled in the dining room.”
The two of us give him one final smile before he takes a left as we take a right.
Gawk all you want. You don't have to tell me how much you feel lost in a Disney princess' castle. I grew up in this monstrosity. Keep in mind when my father was alive there was a lot less crystal and glass. His tastes were less extravagant. Just add that to the list of ways my mother changed after he died. Should we have June start us one?
In a low voice, she asks, “Exactly how long has it been since you were last here?”
Her question causes me to tense. “About five years.”
“Five years?!” She shrieks only a tad bit louder. “You haven't been home in five years!”
“I haven't been to this house in five years. Home is where the art is, so I'm always home.”
“You mean heart.”
“Can't spell heart without art.”
She stifles the obvious urge to snap. “Why haven't you been back?”
“Does it matter?”
She rushes to stand in front of me. “Of course it matters! You haven't been here in five years yet tonight, all of a sudden, you're willing to come back?”
I correct her with a pointed finger. “No. No. Not willing at all. You're the one who came to collect me. If you recall I tried to persuade you to do a number of other things.”
Like allow me to have another round of making her come from my fingers or tongue. Would've been receiver’s choice.
“Tucker.”
A heavy sigh escapes and I shove my hands into my dress pants pockets. “Fine. You're right. I more or less willingly came as a favor to my aunt. She doesn't usually ask for much, so when she does, I try to do my best to fulfill the request.”
It's the least I can do for the woman who lets me secretly crash in her guest house when I come to town. Though the requests for me to attend the wedding reception isn't one I'm sure I can stomach, no matter how many times she's let me sneak in and out of town without alerting any one.
June lifts her eyebrows in suspicion. “When's the last time you actually talked to your mother?”
“We talk every year on her birthday, my birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
She calls on the anniversary of my dad's death, but I never answer.
“This is going to be awkward.”
“Most likely.”
Her head falls backwards on a defeated whine. “Why me?”
I whisper and give her ass a small squeeze as I pass her. “Bet you wish you would've taken me up on my offer to let me make you come instead.”
Most women would've jumped at the chance, especially if they had already received a sample. June only looked slightly excited. Her lack of instant submission to a naughty look and dirty wink is refreshing. And challenging. Almost like marble that refuses to conform to the carving. How is it one woman continues to grow more attractive?
As I enter the formal dining room used for smaller dinners, I force a smile onto my face.
To no surprise my mother is complaining, “Of course he's not going to bother showing up, Brandi. He hates me.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
My argument turns her head and grabs the attention of my aunt, my uncle, and a strange man I can only assume is going to attempt to take my father's place.
It's not something he should bother trying.
“Oh my,” her voice cracks while her eyes watch June and I travel to seats opposite of my aunt and uncle.
June bumps into the chair I'm trying to pull out for her. “Ou...”
I quietly whisper, “You okay?”
She nods away her embarrassment.
My mother shifts in her seat, her quivering hand slightly blocking her scarlet painted lips.
She looks like a high class escort with all that make up. She should wear less. She used to wear less. Dad liked her natural look. He loved to see the actual elegance of her without the false and unnecessary coating from layers of makeup. He taught me to appreciate the true grace in a woman's vulnerable exposure. Dad used to say when a woman lets you see what she naturally looks like in the morning, she's given herself completely to you. I've had many women in my expeditions, many claim they're all mine, many willing to marry me and offer their life to me, yet I was never given the simplest chance to admire them in their most bare beauty.
After she draws in a calming breath, she states, “You're...you're...you're actually here.”
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