by Billie Dale
I want to stare into her forest eyes but can’t. The minuscule control I’ve managed hangs on a thread, if I look it will escape on a puff of manufactured fog. Her dress rustles, signaling if I don’t react, she’ll touch me again due to my lack of response. To stop the vicious blue ball inducing cycle from beginning again, I pry one lid open, taking pleasure in the checkerboard pattern blocking her image. It lasts a millisecond then there she is. Poised on the edge of the table, still gorgeous, still draped in a curtain of black hair, though thank you Jesus she’s covered her underwear.
Her curvy thighs aren’t helping my control but it’s better than it was. Fuck me, even her knees are sexy. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m turned on by knees? The same forever skinned, knobby and covered in grass stains bends are now a magnificent accent to a fanfuckingtastic pair of legs.
Her fingers reach for me. “Stop, please if you so much as breathe on me, I will come in my pants like a virgin. We need to stop.” I take a full step back, fisting my hands in my hair, praying more space will cool me off.
“You’re wrong. I don’t want to stop and from the size of the front of your pants, not continuing will be painful tomorrow. I’m not an expert here, and while I’m not ready for the full penile penetration, I’m thinking I’d enjoy a little violation from other body parts before this dream bubble we’ve got going pops.”
Her offer tempts and it’d be a huge lie if I didn’t admit I ponder it more than I should. Hell, I’ve got so much blood pumping to my groin, I’d settle for any orifice available for satisfaction. Mouth, hand, ear. I’m desperate for a cold shower and release, but this train is coming off the rails.
“That you can use penile penetration and I get more turned on is a sure sign we need a break. As much as you adore those John Hughes films, we are not reenacting one right now. I will force my blood flow back to the brain capable of logical reasoning, we’ll eat what food we didn’t destroy, and then we’re calling it a night with your virginity still intact.”
She glances from my crotch to my face. A predatory glint widens her pupils but the animal isn’t what worries me. No, I’ve fallen victim to this coercive look too many times.
“We have tonight before it turns all Cinderella. Tomorrow you’ll return to being you, and I’ll go back to me, then all of this will be a masturbatory dream I’ll relive with vivid detail. Before we reach pumpkin-time, I’d appreciate a little more spank bank material for my late-night fantasies. I’m done standing on the sidelines watching the fire. This is me jumping into the flames, willing to get burned, because one night with you is worth whatever the morning brings.”
My brain stutters, flooded with images of her pleasuring herself. I watch mute as she lowers the glittering straps of her dress, exposing her full round tits. My mouth drops open. Her nipples harden to pointed nubs under the heat of my stare.
She raises her skirt, blinking her long lashes and nibbling on the corner of her lip. Fisting the material, she flips the length behind her waist, rising an inch to remove her panties before spreading her legs. “I can do this myself,” her husky voice teases. “Or...” her fingers slip down rubbing a slow torturing circle around her clit. “You can step forward and lend a girl a hand, literally.”
I have reasons, great viable arguments about what she said. Questions, there should be tons, but I can’t formulate one. I’m a teenage man with a sexy as fuck woman smorgasbord ripe for eating. In the immortal words of an actor I can’t think of, “My resistance is futile.”
Rainbow disco lights flash over her flesh; the wetness builds around where she plays, glistening in vibrant hues with the juncture of her thighs offering the pot of gold. The fishing line thread tethering me to reality snaps, along with any control I mustered.
The hell train is off the tracks, careening into a ravine, and I don’t give one damn. No thought, no restraint, my pop-up timer pops, and I’m roasted. In one large step I lunge forward, wrapping a chunk of her hair around my hand to pull her to my mouth, as my other jerks hers away from her heat, replacing it with my own. I run a finger up her seam, stopping to massage her hardened bundle, knowing I won’t stop until she screams my name. My thumb takes over, allowing my index finger to test her tightness. She’s so turned on the digit slips inside without friction.
Her soft, sweet skin erupts in goosebumps under my mouth tasting a path down her neck, across her collarbone, my hand draws mewling moans while I praise the valley of her tits before paying homage to each nipple in the fashion it deserves. She’s bucking her hips, grinding up and down my hand. Her exquisite taste and scent turn me wild. I continue down, skipping where her dress puddles I drop to my knees, palming her thighs to drag her to the edge of the table on to my waiting mouth.
She claws at my hair, whimpering with each suck, spreading her wider with my nose I devour every drop she’s offering. I work her with my tongue, nibbling on the tight bundle of nerves. Her thighs shake next to my ears; she’s close. Her body, strung tighter than a violin string, and I know the exact note to hit. With flicks and flat tongue licks, I curl my finger, stroking her inner walls then add another stretching her. Sweat glistens on her chest as I work her spongy spot inside and in seconds she detonates. Her head tips back with a pleasure-filled call to God rasping free as her eyes roll back and her insides clench. A rush of liquid hits my tongue and her holy pleas become my name falling from her lips. I continue to lap at her until she’s laughing and thrashing from sensitivity.
Gripping hard on the strands of my hair, she drags me up her body, slamming her mouth on mine. Her hands make quick work of my strangling dress pants. Thanks to all the want and build up, five quick jerks from her warm small hand on my aching cock and I shoot my load all over the smooth skin of her thighs. I’m embarrassed but too relieved to care.
The silence between us hangs heavy. We use a handful of napkins to clean up. Stupid satisfied grins mask our faces, but awkward punctuates the space between us. With the brain in my skull back in control, all the words she spoke repeat through my mind. I could accept her offer and leave all this right here like the soiled pile of tissue, or we can use the next few months to work this out of our system.
We share the love of best friends and I refuse to lose her. She’s had a crush on me for years and I’ve had more than one impure thought about her. I won’t be able to go back to the way we were knowing what she tastes like, but I won’t let her leave for college hanging on to a false hope either.
Yes, it’s a dickish thing to take her firsts, but I’m okay spending my years wandering the earth as a phallic-shaped human.
Booya to my caveman ways.
Twenty-Seven
SAMANTHA
YEARS AGO, I TUCKED my fairy-taleish hopes in a dark cave. Yes, I live life with a rosy shade of John Hughes’s teenage angst setting the tone of my sad young times, but believing one man rides in on a glorious white steed, kisses me, and poof animals dance, sing, and life turns all flowers and bows is pure insanity. If I were living my own twisted movie, prom night would’ve been the pinnacle of my future. But like we never see what happens after that mythical magic kiss, we don’t know what comes after the happy ending of a cheesy 80s movie.
Did Molly Ringwald and Judd Nelson continue being friends?
Did Jake and Samantha marry and have well-rounded children?
Did Blaine’s parents ever accept his love for Andi and what the hell happened to Duckie?
Did Watts and Keith live forever gleeful in poverty?
I didn’t lose my virginity on prom night. After a pleasure explosion I’m sure ranked higher on the Richter scale than the shaking of the San Andreas fault would cause, he walked me to my room on the second floor of Casa Carmichael and stripped down to his boxers while helping me out of my dress. He insisted I at least wear his shirt to keep our parts separated before we snuggled in the shape of a spoon on a king-size bed.
The answers to these wonders of the eighties is pure speculation, but spending a summer exploring
Mazric’s body, this I will know. Morning-after weirdness ensued for about the length of eating a stack of pancakes, while being under the curious eyes of Preslee and Vivianne. Joey’s attention stayed on his food. Those two bounced more in their seats than an ADHD kid trying to take a test. Maz offered to drive me home, before I could agree Pres convoluted several crazy needs to keep me. I agreed with the promise of a shower and yoga pants, much to the displeasure of my best friend who also demanded we talk when I get home.
Last night was pure magic and my recount resulted with deafening squeals from Viv and Preslee, which may leave permanent damage to my ear drums. They wanted to know where we planned to go from here, for which I had to remind them they halted our ‘what becomes of us’ chat by keeping me at the plantation.
I’m a realist with a photographic memory. Why does this matter? Mazric taking my body higher than it’s ever gone will forever be my favorite movie replaying in my head, but he’s off to California way out there on the West Coast, while I will be on the East. Ensuring we keep expectations real.
His idea to open the flood gates and see what survives at the end of the summer I countered with staying friends foremost, adding benefits so when the time comes to part ways, neither of us experiences the pinch of heartache and our closeness stays intact. We negotiate using hands, tongues, teeth, and fondling as sway points until we reach a compromise. I found the litigation quite titillating—pun intended.
We are beyond stupid to believe we can go back to chumming pals after we gave each other a piece of our souls. He agreed to my friends with more, adding the stipulation of exclusivity, and making me promise to keep sexual relations NC-17 until I turned sixteen in July.
My birthday began the same as always: groggy, disoriented, and in need of coffee. Okay, so the addition of caffeine is recent but the rest remains true. July in Kentucky smolders hotter than Fabio grabbing a heaving breast. I dress in a white tank top I pilfered from Mazric, sans bra for the moment, and a stretchy pair of shorts reminiscent of yoga pants minus the legs. A quick sweep and twist to my unruly locks pins them to the top of my head. I curse my dad once again for never installing an air conditioner.
Blurry eyed and barefoot I trod down the stairs, following my nose to the java I assume my pops made before he went to the barn. A chuckle works its way up my throat as last night’s discussion about today replays in my head.
Trying to make Carrie’s favored pot roast, Mazric helps me chop vegetables to add to the Crockpot. Pulling on images from my head, I put the slab of beef in while he cut carrots, potatoes, and onions. After watching him hack uneven chunks, my compelling need for perfection kicks in and I tell him he’s doing it wrong. He laughs mumbling how it’s only wrong in my crazy head. “Nope,” I pop the P, “Not a drop of insanity. My father had me tested.”
“Splinter, you are but it’s craz-tastic with a heavy dose of accuracy neurosis. You’ve proven this by demonstrating the proper way to slice vegetables. These said veggies will be piled on top of a slab of raw meat, only to get mushy as the hours pass, proving no one will notice or care how they’re diced because when its scooped out it will all fall apart and look like a delicious mistake.”
“While your diagnosis of my condition is mildly amusing and again wrong, if you don’t do those the way I said, they won’t all fit in the slow cooker. I refuse to feel guilty because children out there are starving and we’re tossing edible veggies in the compost bucket.”
“For fuck’s sake, Splinter,” he huffs. “Fine, I shall small slice the carrots, cube the taters, and keep the onion chunks big enough to pick out. Happy?”
“Ecstatic. Now how about we discuss when and where you will use your dipstick to check my oil. Because it is happening tomorrow.”
“Jesus Christ, you need to stop spending so much time working on cars. Dipstick? Oil? Crude, Splint. Not even I would use that euphemism.”
“You are such a girl sometimes.” I scoop up handfuls of his hard work, Jenga stacking them on the rump roast, ignoring the blushing heat I’m sure turns my burning ears red, while I sprinkle the ranch mix on top. “When and where are we going to consummate us, take my virginity, make lurve?” The last one laughs off my tongue, licked with heavy sarcasm and Southern charm.
“I am still the guy here, right?” he asks drolly.
A guilty grin tips my lips, I slip around the island, wrapping my arms around his middle, splaying my fingers on his tight pecs. “Forgive me.” On the tip of my toes I kiss his neck. “For infringing on your soft manly morals.” I lick along his earlobe. “I like a plan. Plans make life easier.” His tightened posture loosens as his back melts against my front.
He twists in my embrace, laying his hands on my cheeks. “My soft manly morals take offense to being soft. Maybe I should wave a club and claim I found fire to prove my masculinity.” I open my mouth to attempt an apology. His lips meet mine. “The plan is for you to be wet, satisfied, and maybe a tad sore,” he offers between kisses.
“That’s not a plan,” I muffle against his mouth, wanting to continue but he licks my bottom lip and I can’t resist going after more.
A chuckling smooch to my forehead and a lick up my cheek, he swats my ass. “Welp, it’s all you’re getting.”
Now the day is here. I will no longer be among the card-carrying virgins. Before you get all huffy and judgmental about my laissez-faire attitude, let’s remember my maturity has never matched my age. While I’ve been on this earth for a mere sixteen years, my mind is so old it deserves Social Security. If you ask me in ten years if I regret giving my first time to my best friend, I will tell you never. The average young woman is seventeen point two years old when they punch their card; living in a small town—with minimal entertainment options—makes still being pure at sixteen an act of divine intervention.
What else is there to do on a Friday night when the one-stoplight main drag rolls up the streets other than bump uglies with the neighbor boy? Though after becoming well acquainted with Mazric’s ‘ugly’ I must say his is kind of a beautiful mushroom head. I’m not an expert but after ample porn comparison, strictly for educational purposes, should his career in basketball not pan out, he could make a fine living in the adult entertainment industry.
The man exhibits pure steel will in denying my advances. He stuck to his guns with this whole must wait thing. Don’t get me wrong; he ferreted out erogenous zones on my body with the explorer skills of Christopher Columbus. If my body were an undiscovered mass of water, then the spots to get me off and turn me on are land ho and he stole each for himself. I mean the palm of my hand, the back of my knee, deep tissue massaging of my calves—each helps his endeavor to drop me off the cliff so orgasmically high I can’t think about anything except never touching the ground. But no matter how much whining and begging ensued, which there’d been too much to admit on my part, he stayed true to his word. If there were a trophy for foreplay with a crowned king and toy surprise, he’d own that bad boy.
Maz and I started with seven weeks. Because of his stubborn waiting period we are down to three. After extensive calendar work, I’ve deduced we’ll manage around thirty-six couplings. No make it thirty-seven, including tonight. I figure two or three days to heal after the initial intrusion. Factored with Mazric being at the peak of his sexual prime, we should be able to achieve two a day status once the pain fades; provided I don’t start my period. Now Mother Nature brings a whole new set of numbers to the equation where a cosine and square root work together in harmonious goodwill to give me a satisfactory conclusion. Thus giving me over thirty chances for us to have sex. I left a variable open for incidentals and concessions, but overall the math is sound.
Intrusion? Oh God, maybe I have spent too much time trying to be a boy.
I’m stalling, nervous, and while the devil polluting my soul does cheers each step I descend, on this the morning of the event, the truth and consequences of today infiltrates my sleepy head. A panic party begins in my stomach until I turn the co
rner and find the kitchen awash in morning light. Multicolored cupcakes line the counters, each decorated with a plastic ring. A large spread on the island draws me to the center of the room. Twenty treats line up creating the number sixteen. Nestled in the swirling blue, pink, and yellow creamy sweet tops shine the smiling face of every one of my teen idols: Molly, Judd, Anthony, Demi, along with many more decorate the ring faces dressed as the character they played.
Enamored by the cheeky grins of Duckie and friends, the strike of a lighter startles me pulling my eyes to the darkened pantry. A tiny golden flame flickers, inching closer until Mazric appears in the doorway. He’s sin wrapped in sunlight. Sleep mussed hair, tanned muscles glistening on his shirtless torso, and nylon basketball shorts low on his hips tell me he stumbled across the meadow straight from bed. His eyes burn a slow tortured path up my bare legs, pausing on my braless chest. My nipples perk under his perusal and I swear his pupils dilate, which I thought was a romance novel myth. I mean eyelids can relay many emotions, but eyeballs are impossible to read, however, right now his irises promise pleasure.
The nervous jitters in my stomach somersault as it registers how all this deliciousness is mine. He’s as tasty as the treat in his hand, sparking a serious carnal need to drag him up the stairs and have my wicked way. Vivid images of flexed biceps, rolling abs, and sweaty skin River Dance in my head. The slam of the screen door and appearance of Dad thwarts my dirty thoughts, dousing them with a healthy dose of ice water.
“What the hell is all this?” he grumbles, working his way to the coffeepot he glances from Maz to me. Johnny Gentry is not an observant man, meaning the anomaly of the sexual tension hanging in the air is questionable because he doesn’t know we’ve progressed beyond our normal friendship. Knowing this thing we’re doing will end soon, I didn’t see the need to tell my father, plus if Johnny stays out of it, he won’t have a heart attack if he catches Mazric in my bed.
