by Daryl Banner
Unable to reach the camera, I simply look down at the beauty resting on me and reflect on the words she said. “You don’t need your big flashy device. If you didn’t have your phone, you’d take pics with your mind.” I smile, remembering that night and comparing it to the night we just had. She breathes peacefully, evenly, as she sleeps on my chest. “Take my picture, Brant.”
I blink, burning the sight of her into my memory. I feel like I don’t have it burned deep enough, so I blink again, harder. I’m determined to keep this moment locked in my brain forever.
Then she stirs, lifting her head off of me. It almost hurts, feeling the sudden departure of her warmth. Propping herself up, she glances around my room slowly, her hair cascading beautifully down her bare backside.
The moment she turns, I close my eyes, pretending to still be asleep. I listen, desperate for her touch as I lie there, my right hand still grazing her lower back. The unmoving silence tells me she’s watching me. A smidge of doubt tickles me, wondering if I’ve been caught and daring me to open my eyes.
Then I feel her move. A warmth draws close, close, closer, and then her lips touch mine.
I smile into those lips, returning the kiss, and then I open my eyes.
“Hey,” Nell murmurs croakily.
I bring my hands around her back, locking my fingers behind her. “Mornin’, babe.”
She sighs, smiling, and rolls her eyes.
“You really don’t like pet names?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why not?”
She offers me a tiny shrug, turning her head.
“You look so cute when you don’t want to tell me something.”
She glares at me through her sleepy morning eyes, which makes her look even cuter, but I refrain from pointing that out for fear of her smacking my face or giving me a titty twister. Or both.
On second thought, maybe I should point it out.
“I just prefer my name,” she says evasively.
“You had someone in the past call you cute names,” I predict, squinting in thought. “Someone called you Nelly-Poo and now you’ve sworn off pet names for all eternity.”
She shrugs. “I guess. Something like that.”
I smile, satisfied with the answer. “Want some breakfast?” I ask, giving her a few playful humps with my hips, which has the unintended effect of making her boobs bounce, bringing my full focus right to them. “Shit, I better do that again.”
She laughs, bringing an arm up to cover her breasts. Wow, really? She goes all shy on me now, after all we did last night?
Also, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard her laugh more in the past ten minutes than I have during my whole time knowing her.
“I’m seeing a whole different side of you this morning,” I remark.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. I think I know why, too.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s because of the mind-blowing sex we had last night.”
She snorts, swallowing another laugh that dared to escape her lips.
“We should definitely have sex more often,” I decide.
“Breakfast sounds good,” she says, smirking at me as she slips off my body and scavenges my floor for her clothes.
I turn onto my side, propping my head up. I watch her as she finds her panties and slides them up her sexy legs. Then she fishes her top out from under mine near the door, but can’t seem to find her bra. It’s right by the bed, so I snatch it off the floor and hide it behind my back just as she turns around. She’s onto me right away, crossing her arms and lifting a challenging eyebrow.
“Give it back.”
“What?” I blink innocently.
“My bra. Hand it over.”
“I prefer you with your clothes off.”
“I’m not walking out there half-naked with your roommates here.”
“They’re not home. Y’know, you didn’t give me a choice of clothing when you cuffed me and turned me into your showpiece.”
“Oh yeah? Is that what I am now? Your showpiece?”
I grin for an answer.
She plays along, sauntering slowly across the room, then bending over to line up her face with mine. I melt instantly, reaching for her lips, when in a flash of light she reaches around, grabs the bra from behind my back, and retreats from me to put it on, smirking victoriously at me from over her shoulder.
I sit up, shaking my head at her. “You think you got some tricks up your sleeve,” I mutter at her sexy backside, watching as she puts her bra back on. “But you haven’t seen my tricks. Hope you enjoy spending all that effort putting your clothes on when I’m gonna be taking you right back out of them.”
“I’m hungry,” she says briskly. “Show me what’s in your kitchen and I’ll see what I can do.” Then, in just her panties and that sexy top, she strolls out of my room like she owns the place.
Not gonna lie. I’m hard as fuck right now.
I step into my closet and grab a prop I took from a show Dessie and Clayton did back in the spring. Tying it to me, I swing out of my room, chasing Nell into my kitchen where she rummages through my fridge.
“Sit back, sweet cheeks,” I tell her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her onto a barstool, inspiring a hoot of protest and a laugh, “and let me make you my infamous spicy egg scramble.”
“Spicy egg—? Brant.” She laughs when she sees what I’m wearing. “Is that an eggplant?”
“You don’t like my eggplant?” I face her proudly wearing only the purple apron I’ve donned with an assortment of vegetables decorating the front—namely, a big ol’ swollen eggplant with two tomatoes suggestively placed. “It certainly likes you. You allergic to cayenne or garlic?”
“Nope.”
“Like grated pepper jack cheese?”
“Delish.”
“Prefer your spicy scramble wrapped in a tortilla or … with toast?”
She licks her lips, deciding. My eyes flick to them, my mind flicking somewhere else entirely at the sight of them.
“Tortilla,” she decides, biting her lip as her eyes trail down to my … eggplant.
“Tortilla,” I echo, suppressing a groan of desire. I could take her once or twice on the kitchen counter before starting up the eggs, if she’d let me. “I believe in full disclosure, so I’m just gonna come out with it: I’m hard as fuck under my apron.”
“Noted.” She props her chin up on a hand, watching me.
“And I’ve never cooked my spicy egg scramble with a hard-on.”
“Also noted.”
After giving her a very tense narrowing of my eyes, I surrender to making breakfast, pulling out a bowl from the cabinet and the carton of eggs from the fridge, along with my secret spices. After tossing a pad of butter into a pan, I go to work cracking the eggs and whisking them in the bowl as the butter starts to melt.
Then there’s a person at my back. A voluptuous, cruel, cock-teasing vixen of the best and worst kind. A woman with darkness in her eyes and talents beyond measure in her unassuming hands. A woman … who is pulling up the front of my apron.
“Nell …”
“Pay attention to your eggs,” she orders me as she works her hands under the front of my apron, my own occupied with whisking a bowl of eggs. “Don’t want to mess up and scramble your nuts instead.”
I moan when her hand reaches my swollen, sensitive cock. “This is so wrong …”
“Shh.”
“So, so wrong.”
And then she starts stroking me.
I shudder, my hand movements frozen in place by her own. I clench shut my eyes, enjoying every push and pull of her skillful grip as she works me from behind.
“Keep cooking,” she orders. “Don’t stop.”
“Nell …”
“Don’t stop.”
I resume whisking, my cock so fucking hard that I feel my butthole clench up. She senses all the tension that’s entered my body because her free hand slaps against my exposed as
s, squeezing it greedily. The sting makes me even harder.
“Damn, woman.”
“I like my eggs extra spicy,” she whispers into the back of my neck, leaning forward and helping herself to a nibble of my earlobe.
Her hand runs up my side, sliding over my skin smoothly and causing goose bumps to chase her, then slipping under the upper part of my apron. Her fingers find my left nipple, grazing over it and causing it to harden in an instant. I growl in response.
“You stopped again.”
“This is so wrong,” I moan. “You’re corrupting my sweet, innocent eggs.”
She starts stroking faster.
“Oh god.”
“Your fault,” she tells me, “coming out here wearing nothing but this dumb apron. You expect me to keep my hands off you now?”
“This is our relationship dynamic, is it?” I ask, out of breath from what she’s doing to me. “Me, always your object, always your plaything? Am I just a piece of meat to you?”
“Yep.” Her other hand pinches my nipple, sending bolts of electricity down my body. “And hopefully more.”
“I like being your object.” I pour the egg mix into the pan, then stop with the bowl hovering midair. “Wait, what? … More?”
And then she jerks harder.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moan, the bowl slamming down on the counter as I breathe heavily, trying to control my orgasm from exploding from me as she speeds up. I’m so close already, my cock a hundred times more sensitive in the morning, and every single slip and stroke and movement of her hand is driving me insane.
The eggs sizzle furiously. The agitated noise of breakfast being born fills the kitchen, combating with the tiny huffs of breath Nell emits into my ear and my own heavy breathing.
It’s inevitable. I’m going to come.
“Oh god. Careful where you aim the cannon,” I warn.
“What?” murmurs Nell.
And then I come, moaning out loud as I spill all over the inside of my apron, wave after wave. Just when I think I’ve finished coming, I come some more, and she jerks me dry, continuing to jerk long past my time of spilling over the edge.
When she finally stops, I look down at the huge wet spot in the apron. Then I turn my head, peering at her over my shoulder. “Look at what you did,” I accuse her.
She pulls her hand out, gives my exposed ass a hearty slap, then slinks over to the bathroom and runs the faucet.
I will never get used to this. And I don’t want to. She surprises me. Her moves are impossible to predict.
So I have to keep up with her.
By the time she returns from cleaning up, I’ve ditched the soiled apron, finishing breakfast in the nude. A pinch of spice here. A sprinkle of spice there. I lay out the tortillas on a plate, then offer two more plates for the eggs with a glass of orange juice each.
She sits at the barstool, eyeing the plates, then she glances up at me in all my naked, exposed, objectified glory.
I grin at her, lean against the counter opposite of her and start rolling up a tortilla with my spicy eggs, bring it to my lips—my eyes never leaving hers—then I give the whole length of the breakfast taco a demonstrative sniffing, like a wolf scoping a meal, then bite off the end with due ferocity.
Following the best night and the best morning I’ve ever had, this may be the best breakfast I’ve ever shared with anyone. I can’t stop staring at her face as we eat. She is gorgeous. Yeah, sure, I’ve had a one-night thing with many gorgeous girls, some of them a two- or three-night thing, but Nell has a special something that transcends beauty. I’m not even sure I know what it is yet. Maybe it’s the puzzle of that that intrigues me.
When I take the plates, a thing she said floats into my mind. “All in.”
Nell stirs out of some thought she was having. “Hmm?”
“You said you’re all in.” I set the plates in the sink, then run the faucet and look back at her. “About us. Last night. You said you’re all in, right before we left the Throng. What’d you mean?”
Nell presses her lips together, her eyes disconnecting. I’m just about to tell her never mind when she says, “You and I.”
I lift my eyebrows. “You and I?”
“Us.” She nods finally, as if making a decision. “I want to try it.”
I study her, making absolutely sure I know what she means. My heart rate is accelerating all over again. “You mean … this thing between us? This thing we didn’t want to name or label or box up or call anything? This nameless work of art we got going on?”
“Yes,” she answers right away. “This … thing … between us. I want it to be a thing. A real, acknowledged, certain thing. I … I don’t want to see other guys.”
“I don’t want to see other girls.”
She bites her lip. Then a smile creeps into it. “I want to call you my boyfriend. I haven’t … I haven’t really had one. Not a real one.”
“Me neither,” I say back, drawn in by the sudden seriousness in her voice. “I mean, a girlfriend. Like, a real one.”
She circumvents the counter. I slip my hands around the small of her back, pulling her against my naked body. Our eyes are so close, I see flecks of green in hers that I hadn’t noticed before.
We lean into each other and our foreheads touch. I smile at her, puckering my lips goofily. She bites her lip to fight off a grin.
“Girlfriend,” I murmur, tasting the word.
“Boyfriend,” she says, doing the same. “I’m super wet right now.”
“Noted,” I grunt.
Then I lift her onto the counter, earning a shriek of delight from her, before gripping her panties, yanking them down, and bringing my face in for an early brunch.
Chapter 18
Nell
Don’t mistake my submission to Brant as some kind of sign that I’ve lost my mind.
I haven’t gone all noodles in the knees and butterflies in my brain. Please. Have we met?
No, I didn’t go soft and stupid.
I know precisely what I’m doing.
And if I’m being blunt, I think it takes a certain amount of bravery, in fact, to engage in any semblance of a relationship with a person like Brant who is known campus-wide for being a man of fleeting pleasures (that’s putting it kindly, isn’t it?) and opening myself up for potential heartache.
Sure. There is a risk that he will do to me what he’s done to countless lustful ladies before. And that’s a consequence that I’m half-expecting, even walking into this as brazenly as I am. So if it happens, I simply won’t be surprised; I’ll accept the time I had with him, huff at the inconsequence of letting anyone into my heart at all, then put it all into some tortured art piece I’ll pass off as my means of “getting over it”. Reluctant praise and dark, concerned glances will be my reward.
And if it does happen to work out … well, then I suppose it was worth leaping in headfirst.
And face first.
And cock-into-pussy first.
And hands-all-over-my-tits first.
It may seem counterproductive when building a sustaining, deeply meaningful relationship to have sex all of the time like a pair of high schoolers who just discovered their private parts, but that’s precisely what Brant and I seem to be doing.
And unapologetically, at that.
Sometimes when Eric and Dmitri are out, I come over for an innocent after-class dinner which gets half-eaten, the rest forgotten as Brant and I lose our clothes on the couch and make a meal out of something else instead.
After my Tuesday studio class, we’ll rendezvous by the grassy knoll of the psychology building and have lunch, which very quickly becomes a gross display of affection against some outside wall, under a tree, in a closet, or at our table in plain sight.
Simply put: we cannot keep our hands off each other.
I’ve never been this wild and reckless with anyone before. The feeling is indescribable, but here I go trying to describe it: I feel free to do whatever I want, oddly terrified a
ll the time, and insatiably hungry for his taste. It doesn’t matter if we fuck eight times in one night; I’ll need a ninth and a tenth.
I can’t get enough of Brant Rudawski.
One time, I surprised him outside of one of his digital media classes, pulled him into the women’s bathroom, then assaulted him in one of the stalls. The look of fear in his eyes was both an extreme turn-on and highly amusing. I may be stooping to all-time lows with him.
And all-time highs.
Then, on an unassuming Thursday, he comes into a condom inside me with a taut arm on either side of my head while his face hovers over mine, eyes scrunched up in that painful ecstasy-riddled expression that happens at the precise time of orgasm. When his eyes open, he’s out of breath, staring down at me like he can’t believe he’s still alive after an experience like that.
I love that bright, beautiful, almost terrified look in his eyes.
“What are you doing to me, Nell?” he breathes.
The question is rhetorical, but I feel compelled to answer anyway. “Same thing you’re doing to me.” I raise my face to his, sucking his lips into my mouth, then nipping his bottom one playfully before I drop back to the pillow. “I’m kind of addicted to tormenting you.”
“You tease me all the time,” he murmurs, and it would sound like a complaint if it weren’t for the lustful look in his eyes, even after coming. “You always leave me wanting more. You make me sweat. You consume every fucking thought I have. You make me work … make me slave for every little morsel that you give me.”
“Do I?” I ask innocently.
He licks his lips, as if to taste me on them. Then, in a deep voice that causes his abs to flex, he adds, “And I love it.”
A week after that, Minnie tells me she’s swinging by the campus and wants to meet up for some coffee. Since Brant’s been asked to photograph something at the School of Theatre for Clayton, I take her up on the spontaneous offer. Minnie has avoided Klangburg ever since her departure from it, so I was curious what inspired her to meet up with me.
