by Amelia Mae
“I’m gonna come, sweetheart,” I groan, “Where do you want me?”
She keeps right on sucking. I don’t think she’s heard me. I try to pry her off me, but she grips my hips and keeps me in place. She pushes me down and gives my ass a firm spank.
I want to laugh and growl at the same time.
But before I can do anything, I come harder than I can ever remember, right down her throat. She whimpers as she swallows.
My vision blurs.
I see white.
I feel like I’ve been taken under by a strong wave and I’m slowly surfacing.
It takes a few minutes, but when I finally come to, it’s like I’ve just woken up from an amazing dream.
I hear a soft, feminine voice in my ear. “Shawn?”
“Mm-mhm?” I mumble.
“You okay?” Aya asks playfully, “Thought I lost you there for a second.”
“I’m great,” I answer, a stupid, sleepy smile spreading across my face. “I’m just not gonna be able to move for awhile.”
I guide her down on top of me and she nestles into my chest again. I like the way our bodies fit together.
“We should probably eat at some point,” Aya points out, “We’ve been in bed all day.”
“We will,” I tell her, in no hurry to get up. She got her post-orgasm nap, now I was getting mine. “Just give me half an hour.”
10
Aya
I get to the dance studio about twenty minutes before Johnny is scheduled to arrive and I’m nervous. I’ve never had a private student before.
While I pace around the lobby going over the moves I’ll show him, Zara sits at the reception desk working on the schedule. “I don’t know what kind of magic you’re working in those beginner classes, but keep it up,” she tells me.
“Thanks,” I reply, slightly confused.
“I mean, you definitely caught Johnny Diaz’s attention.”
“Yeah,” I nod. I notice she says his name like it has some weight to it. “I’m excited to work with him.”
“Aya, do you know who Johnny Diaz is?”
Clearly, I don’t.
“He’s some tech wunderkind who invented an interface or an operating system or something that makes computers easier to use,” Zara sort-of explains, “Made, like, a million dollars last year.”
“Cool,” I shrug. It’s cool, though personally I don’t care what Johnny does for a living or how much money he has.
He arrives on time and I lead him through a simple warmup and get him ready for the poles.
He stops me and pulls out his phone. “How long before I can do this?” he asks, queuing up a video of a professional male pole dancer in ten-inch platform boots performing flips and inversions that defy the laws of gravity.
I take a deep breath. This happens from time to time. Students find dancers doing these crazy cool moves on Instagram and get frustrated when they realize that we all have to start at the beginning.
“I don’t know, Johnny,” I tell him honestly, “I’ve been dancing almost six years and I can’t even do that.”
“Oh.” He looks disappointed. “Can I at least try some shoes?” he asks.
Interesting. Most guys, especially in the beginning, don’t want to even touch the shoes.
“Sure,” I tell him. Our lone male instructor sometimes leaves his practice heels in the closet and luckily enough, he and Johnny are the same size. I pull on my heels too, for good measure.
I try teaching Johnny a simple fireman spin. He slips a lot and quickly gets frustrated. We break it down even further, but he still struggles and loses his patience with himself.
“This is hard,” he says, toweling off his hands and applying another coat of liquid chalk.
I chuckle. “Yeah. Pole dancing is harder than most people think.”
He shakes his head. “I just don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to do the cool stuff if I can’t even do little spins.”
“Don’t think about it like that,” I tell him, “It’s a process. It’s your second lesson ever. Your hands have to get used to gripping the pole and you have to develop more strength for some of these moves. Trust me, no one is good at this right away.”
“Really?”
“Oh my God, yes,” I exclaim, “I wish someone had recorded my first class so I could play it for my students. I took to pole dancing like a fish to… I don’t know… ice skating.”
He laughs, his tension lessening. “Okay. Let’s try again.”
By the eighth or ninth attempt at the spin, he’s still fumbling, but he’s improving significantly, so I decide to show him how to work the few tricks he knows into a full combination.
I hand him my phone and show him my dance playlist. It’s mostly R&B songs with really strong, slow, sexy bass-lines. And maybe a few select alt-rock songs from a certain band that’s currently on my mind all the time.
“Pick something you like,” I tell him.
As he scrolls through my music selection, my phone dings with a text message alert.
“Holy blow-job, Batman,” Johnny exclaims, showing me the phone.
Sweet Jesus.
There’s a text from Shawn.
A shirtless selfie. From his chin to the towel around his waist. His chest, arms and abs on full display.
And those V-lines. God almighty, those V-lines.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” I stammer, “This is totally unprofessional. I’m so sorry, Johnny.”
“What I wouldn’t give to look like that,” Johnny says with a sigh as he hands the phone back. “Or to fuck someone who looks like that.”
“Don’t put yourself down like that,” I tell him, “You’re sweet and super smart…”
He cuts me off. “You’re hot, Aya. For a girl. You have no idea what it’s like to not be hot.”
“I’m not...”
“Aya, do you really think that there’s a world where someone who looks like me is going to end up in bed with someone who looks like that?” he asks. “You don’t know what it’s like to be small and nerdy and socially awkward and get judged for that.”
I have no idea what to say. I don’t want to be patronizing, but I don’t want to let him keep putting himself down either.
“Actually, Johnny,” I start, “I know a lot about what it’s like to experience judgement.”
“Sure,” he says, sarcastically.
“Maybe not for the same reasons, but I know what it’s like to have people look at me and assume… everything. I won’t go into too many details, but I had a scandal a few years ago. A video of me. It went viral. It might still be out there somewhere. I have no idea.”
Johnny gets suddenly serious.
“So, I may get called a nerd, but whore is hardly better.” I save the text for later and get to my music selection.
“I’ll look for it,” Johnny says.
“What?”
“I’m in tech, Aya,” he explains, “And I’m the best there is. If that video is out there, I’ll find it. And I can make sure no one ever sees it again.”
My eyes well up.
“It happened to a friend of mine at school. I know how destructive these things can be,” he says. He places a hand on my shoulder reassuringly.
“Oh my God. Thank you, Johnny.” My voice is barely a whisper. “And here I thought I was supposed to be the one helping you.”
“You are,” he confirms, “But we should go back to dancing now.”
I nod, collecting myself and put on a song I know he’ll recognize from the radio, and lead Johnny through a low-flow floor routine.
“It’s been a pleasure, Johnny,” I tell him as the lesson wraps.
“Thanks, Aya,” he says as he hugs me goodbye and heads out.
In the lobby, Zara is getting ready to lead the intermediate class inside.
“What was that about?” she asks as soon as we’re alone, “I heard blow-job and tried to eavesdrop, but I got a phone call.”
“The guy
I’m… dating sent me a selfie and Johnny saw it. I’m so sorry. I know it’s totally unprofessional. It won’t happen again,” I assure her.
“Send him one back,” she tells me, unfazed. “Or better yet, I’ll take your picture in the office.”
“Right now?”
“Sure. Aya, look around, you’re not going to find a lot of pearl-clutching around here.”
I’m relieved I’m not in trouble, but still… “I don’t do that, though,” I tell her, “Send nude pictures, I mean. Long story.”
She shrugs, not needing more of an explanation. “You two got along alright, I’m guessing?”
I nod. I like Johnny a lot.
“Well, good. Because he’s booked you for a private lesson at this time every week for the next three months,” she tells me.
“What?”
Whoa.
11
Aya
Shawn’s asked to meet him for dinner at an Irish pub which is good because I’m incredibly hungry and, after the day I’ve had, I could certainly use a pint.
It’s dark and a little dive-y, but warm. The walls are done in dark wood with memorabilia from Ireland scattered around. There’s a small band playing traditional acoustic Irish music in the corner, but they’re not so loud that you can’t have a conversation.
I immediately like this place. It’s… it’s very Shawn.
I find him tucked away at a booth in the back looking so fucking good that I stop behind a wooden support beam so that I can perv on him for a split second before going over there. He wears a plaid button-up shirt and dark jeans as he sips a pint of stout. His hair is still a little wet.
And… now I’m picturing him in the shower.
I approach Shawn and he rises to greet me, giving me a long hug and a hello kiss on the mouth. He tastes like toothpaste and the tiny sip of beer he’d just had.
I’m glad that I’d had enough time to clean up after my lesson with Johnny and put on a low-cut black sweater, jeans and ankle boots.
“You look beautiful,” he tells me.
“You look good too,” I say with a wide smile.
Despite the fact that that a mere few days ago, he’d tongue-fucked me six-ways-to-Sunday and then woken up with his dick in my mouth, I grin at the compliment like a teenager on her first date.
Because it’s weird. He looks like a nice boy. And I look like a nice girl.
The waitress approaches our table and I order a pint of cider.
“What do you have to say about cider?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Your thing where you assess someone’s personality by their drink order.”
He smiles. “Cider,” he muses, “Let’s see… refreshing, light, summery.”
“That’s the drink,” I tease, “Tell me about the person ordering it.”
He thinks seriously for a second. “Bubbly,” he answers, “Easy-going. Sweet.”
“Kind of the opposite of whiskey drinkers,” I comment.
He shrugs. “You can be both. You can know what you want and still be easy-going about it.”
I think about it and nod in agreement.
He gets a wicked look in his eyes. “And you taste sweet.”
I blush immediately.
“Tell me about stout drinkers, then,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice.
He studies his glass. “Hmm… intense,” he starts, “Dominant. Strong-willed.”
“Interesting,” I say, “I can’t really confirm strong-willed or dominant for you yet. Maybe a little bossy.”
“You didn’t seem to mind.”
I evade. “But you don’t strike me as intense. You’re pretty chill,” I tell him. “Nothing seems to get to you.”
He considers my statement. “Yes and no. I don’t get angry over every little thing, that much is true. It takes a lot to really get me riled up. But it happens,” he says, “And when it does, I’m not so chill anymore.”
Looking at him, I can’t picture it. But I let it go and we watch the band for a second.
“I like the drum,” he says.
“It’s called a bodhran,” I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow.
“My mother’s family is Irish,” I explain.
His eyebrows hit the damn ceiling with surprise. I decide to put him out of his misery.
“My adopted mother’s family is Irish,” I clarify, “I was born in South Korea. I was adopted when I was less than a year old.”
“So, you’re Korean?” he asks.
I hesitate. “I mean… yes,” I start, “My birth-parents are Korean. I’ve never met them. But, I don’t… I don’t know. It’s a hard thing to try and explain. I don’t feel Korean.”
He narrows his eyes.
I get it. It’s confusing. But it’s a thing that kids adopted from other countries go through.
“I don’t speak Korean and I don’t really know Korean culture. I don’t even actually like kimchi,” I tell him. “Yes, it’s part of my identity, but I was raised by a white woman in America. So…”
The waitress reappears and we order dinner.
“I don’t mean to go into such a heavy topic,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. I take a sip of cider. “This isn’t a topic for friends-with-benefits to tackle.”
Shawn takes a sip of his dark beer. “You don’t have to shy away from talking about anything with me. I know that our arrangement is only temporary, but I like you. And I want to know you.”
I smile. “I want to know you too.”
“Then tell me something,” he says, playfully, “Something I don’t know yet.”
I take a deep breath. “I’ve always wanted to go to Korea, actually,” I admit. “I’m going to do it one day.”
“To find your parents?” he asks.
“Not really,” I say, “I don’t have a whole lot of desire the meet the people who abandoned me to an orphanage literally a month after I was born. But it is where I’m from. And I feel like I should go and just… get a sense of it. I mean, I know the word bodhran, but I can’t even name a K-Pop star.”
Shawn doesn’t say anything. He just listens.
“I’m trying to go by my next birthday,” I tell him, “It’s really expensive, but I’m saving so that my mom and I can go together.” I don’t often talk about this, so I’m fiddling with my hands a bit. “It’s just something I need to do.”
Shawn still doesn’t say anything, but he reaches under the table and takes my hand. I close my eyes a little as he strokes my palm with his thumb.
It feels good, talking to him.
After a night of good food, dancing and a couple of drinks, I’m pleasantly buzzed and ready to pounce on Shawn the second I get him home. He assures me that Jack is gone for the night and we have his apartment to ourselves, but I’m so wound up that I don’t think I’d care if Jack were here and wanted to watch.
He shuts the door behind us and I launch myself at him. He lifts me so that I can wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him the way I want to. Hard and deep. With my hands messing up his hair.
He kisses me back just as eagerly and steers us towards the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and I pull him on top of me.
I unbutton his shirt, push it off his shoulders and throw it to the floor. I run my hands over his chest and stomach. Maybe I’m a weirdo, but I love just touching him. His torso is a goddamn work of art, all hard muscle and soft skin and deep grooves. While his other bandmates are pretty covered in ink, Shawn only has two tattoos, a Celtic knot on his left forearm and a black rose on his right shoulder.
“Better than the picture?” he asks.
I nod, my hands traveling up to his shoulders. I fight the urge to trace the lines of that rose tattoo with my tongue.
“Sorry I didn’t send one back,” I say.
“I didn’t send you that because I expected anything in return,” he says. He leans in close. “I wanted to get you all hot and bothered and then make you wait hours until you could do anythin
g about it.”
“Mean,” I hiss as he grinds his hips into mine, letting my feel how hard he is.
Fuck that’s going to feel so good without clothes.
I open his jeans and reach for his cock. He’s so thick and pulsing and huge. Not that I didn’t already know, but I’m starting to wonder how the hell that’s going to fit inside me. I massage the swollen head and Shawn moans as I smear precum down his shaft.
His eyes close. “Tell me you want this,” he murmurs.
“I want this. I want you.” I give him another squeeze which gets him moaning louder. “So bad it fucking hurts.”
He unceremoniously sheds the rest of his own clothes, but he’s slow and reverent in undressing me.
He hovers over me, completely naked, staring. He’s not doing anything.
Just looking.
I shiver and try to cover myself, but he gently guides my hands over my head and holds them there.
“You’re so fucking pretty, Aya,” he whispers softly in my ear. “Please let me look. I want to remember this.”
His fingertips skim over my arms, my neck, my sides, as he pulls back.
I try to relax as Shawn’s eyes roam over my body.
A lot of people have seen me naked. Not my fault, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.
But with Shawn, it feels okay.
I mean, I still feel vulnerable. But I like the way he looks at me. Like it means something. Not like I’m some random girl whose private video got sent to everyone. He looks at me like it’s a privilege to get to see me like this.
He sees me.
Like, the me I had before everything happened.
The me that was just mine. That I shared with someone because I wanted to. Not the me that I now cover up with blue hair dye and a couple dozen tattoos.
And suddenly, I feel something wet and warm and salty rolling down my cheek.
Fuck, I’m crying.
“Hey,” Shawn says softly, reaching out to wipe away my tear. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
I take in a deep, shaky breath. “Nothing.”
His eyes close. He drops a little, reassuring kiss to my lips.
