When Melina comes out, I’ve got a performance area set up, but she starts the show right in the middle of the floor when she drops to her knees in front of me and unzips my leathers. My cock springs into view, and I stroke the back of her head as she licks her lips. “Listen up, little one. All the way down, and I’ll stop when I please, so be prepared.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll do as you’ve ordered, Sir.” As soon as the words are out, I replace them with my rod and go to town on that pretty pink mouth of hers.
In a few minutes, I grab her hair and pull her back. As I zip up my leathers, I march up to the platform of one of the performance areas and point to her. “Down on your knees again.” As soon as I see her drop appropriately, I pull out a set of clover clamps from one drawer in the chest and then I root around in another drawer until I find a steripak. I rip it open and her eyes go wide.
It’s a Whitehead gag. Some people call them spider gags because they look like two legs attached to two more by a long strap. Two go on one side, two on the other, and the strap around the back of the head fastens to the metal legs which hold the mouth open. When she sees it, Melina’s face goes white. “A little worried, are we?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. You’re so damn crazy for a fucking that I thought I’d add a little unfamiliar element to your performance. Open wide, slut.” I put the metal legs inside her mouth, then start tightening the strap behind her head until it’s tight enough that she really can’t do much of anything but loll her tongue around. “Look at that. Beautiful.” I enjoy pinching her nipples hard enough to get them tightened and the clover clamps attached, and I give them a yank, partly to make sure they’ll stay on and partly to hear her scream through the gag. With a hand on the top of her head and one under her chin, I slide my cock into her mouth and keep going, going, going, until it’s lodged in her throat. I feel her try to swallow around it and I let out a long, low moan. “Ahhh, my little fuck puppet for the night. Good girl. Suck as well as you can.” That’s damn near impossible, but I want her to try. After three strokes, I tell her, “This is where I get off – literally. Get ready.”
And I use her. I use her hard and ruthlessly. She wanted that, but I think I’m going a few steps beyond that. It’s all because of Olivia, and I’m thinking about her the whole time, wondering what it would be like to see my dick disappearing into her mouth, what it would be like to see her naked and kneeling before me, how she’d feel under me in the quiet of my house and my bed. I start to wonder, could I do without this? Without the lifestyle? Without the leathers and the constant parade of subs and watching other people fuck? What would that be like? If I were with her, would the occasional porn flick do the trick?
I feel myself starting to get soft, and I can’t have that, so I come back into the moment and watch Melina. I pull out and point to the table. When she climbs up, I bark, “On your back. Head over the edge. I’m looking for a throat bump. You’ll deliver, I’m sure.” When she’s in position, I ram back into her throat and watch it expand every time my cock bores into it. That’s a beautiful thing, knowing your cock’s doing that, and it keeps me hard. I’m watching her tits bouncing with every thrust, and in a few minutes, I feel myself slipping toward the end. I reach out, grab her tits, and start to hunch into her throat until my balls harden and I pour what feels like a gallon of cum down the back of her throat.
“Keep sucking. I need to be hard again so I can fuck you.” She’s obedient to a fault, and in no time at all my cock is a steel scimitar, ready to pierce her wherever I like. “Elbows and knees, sub. It’s time.” Melina scrambles up, assumes the position, and I reach for a bottle of lube. No need – it’s like the Pacific Ocean down there, and I have no trouble sliding into her well-used pussy once I’ve rolled on a condom. I just take my time, leisurely stroking in and out of her, my hands gliding around on that soft, smooth ass, and I’m drawn back to Olivia again and the sight of her breasts there in the holding cubicle. As soon as she crosses my mind, I feel my erection soften slightly. What the hell? I try to redirect my thoughts, but I can’t, and I’m slipping, my hardness fading away. Melina turns back to look at me, and I just shrug as I try to keep it up, but it’s no use. It’s soft and it looks like it’s going to stay that way.
I zip up and help her up, then take the gag off and throw it in the bin on the table, along with the nipple clamps. So preoccupied with my thoughts, I completely forget to prep her nipples and do a follow-through so when I remove the clamps, she shrieks, “Dave? What the hell?”
Through gritted teeth I hiss, “Address me properly, sub.”
“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”
“Aftercare. Now.” I start down the hallway with her trailing behind amid whispers. I know what they’re all wondering. What the hell is wrong with Adams? Why’d he go soft? Explaining isn’t an option; I’m doing the Walk of Shame, damn it. I close the door after her when we get into a private room, then point to the bed. Climbing in, she waits and watches me to see what’s about to happen.
I flop down onto the bed beside her, then reach over for her and pull her into my side. With my other arm behind my head, I sigh. Even though she’s probably afraid to squeak, eventually she whispers, “Dave, what’s wrong? Did I do something wrong? If I did, I . . .”
“No, baby. It’s not you.” I stare at the ceiling and imagine that I see Olivia’s face in the patterns in the textured paint.
She waits a few more minutes, then says, “If I can help, let me know. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I know it’s serious from the way you acted out there.”
“How did I act out there?”
“Like you had something, or someone, else on your mind.”
God, she’s perceptive. Should I? This woman screws dozens of guys a day, but she came here looking for me. That’s got to mean something, that there’s some kind of connection between us besides just the sex. Could I consider her a friend? Yeah, I think I could. Maybe she’d be a good person to talk to. “Melina, you’ve been through a bunch of relationships, right?”
She laughs loudly. “Relationships! So that’s what they’re called! I thought it was fucking!”
“I’m serious.” She stops laughing and watches my face. “I mean, you’ve had boyfriends, right? Guys you actually dated? I know you’re bound to have.”
Her face is sad now, and I’m sorry I even asked. “Oh, yeah. I’ve had several. Once they found out what I do, though, all they wanted was to fuck. That became all I was good for. So yeah, I’ve had a ton of relationships, but I’m hardly the person you’d want to ask about that kind of stuff.”
“But what if you were in a relationship that you knew wouldn’t work?”
She scowls. “You mean like every one of mine?”
“Stop it. But yes, one of those that you know is doomed from the very beginning. You know the kind.”
She raises up on her elbow and looks me in the eye. “Dave, just spit it out. What’s going on? You can tell me. Hell, we’ve fucked each other so many times through the years that I feel like I’m your McDonald’s.” That makes us both chuckle. “Over one billion served.”
It’s now or never. “I’m in love with someone.”
Well, that got her attention. Those perfectly drawn-on eyebrows skyrocket. “Dave’s in love?”
“Yes, Dave’s in love.” How do I introduce this concept? “And there’s a problem.”
“I gathered that.”
“I’m sixty-five.” I wait.
“Why do I get the impression that I don’t want to ask the next question?”
“She’s twenty-nine.”
She doesn’t say a word, just falls back onto the mattress with an arm thrown across her forehead. After what seems like an eternity, she asks, “How in love are we talking about here?”
“The I-was-thinking-about-her-while-I-was-fucking-you kind of in love.”
“Ah! That explains the noodle.”
“Yup.”
“Hmmmm.” She
just lies there for awhile, then says, “What’s the real problem?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. It’s not your age; you can say that, but I really don’t believe it.” She waits. “Are you afraid of what people will say?”
“No! Absolutely not.”
“Hmmmm.” There’s a long pause again before she asks, “Are you afraid she’ll want kids and you won’t?”
“She can’t have kids.” I’m still dancing around it, and I know it. If I say it, it might come true, and that would kill me. It’s always been a point of pride for me, and the thought is unbearable.
“Dave?” I look over at her. “Are you afraid that, at some time down the road, you won’t be able to perform and she’ll want a younger man?” When I don’t answer, she says, “Yeah. I wanted to guess that first, but I wanted you to think about it for a minute or two.”
A light sweat has broken out on my upper lip. “But really, Melina, what if?”
“And what if you’re Iron Dick Adams on into your nineties? Wouldn’t it be a shame to miss out on that? A relationship with someone who really loves you?” She hesitates, then says, “Does she feel the same way?”
“Oh, yeah, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately? Dave, real love is hard to find. Nobody really cares about your ages except the two of you. And her mom and dad. How will they feel?”
“They’re dead.”
“Well, there you go!” She kisses me right on the lips, but it’s more like a greeting or goodbye than a passionate thing. “You should pursue this.”
“Thanks. I don’t know if I can do that, but thanks. Thanks for being my friend.”
“Friend with benefits. Don’t forget that!”
“You gonna be mad if you can’t have those benefits anymore?”
“Nope. But wait: You love the lifestyle. Is she into it?”
“No.”
She cuts her eyes back to me. “Uh-oh. Are you willing to give this up?”
“That’s a good question, Melina. I’m just not sure.” And I’m not.
Chapter Six
It’s late before I get to leave the club. Trish sends a text and asks if Olivia can just stay there instead of having to get out, and I tell her that’s fine. And it is. I need time and room to think.
It seems so strange to go home to an empty house now. I’ve gotten used to her being here, and now the quiet is almost deafening. I get a beer and sit down, then get back up and walk down the hallway to Clint’s old room. When the door swings open, I get a whiff of the perfume she bought at the mall. At least it wasn’t five dollar stuff. I open one of her dresser drawers and pick up a pair of panties. They’re beautiful, all lacy and pink, and they’re soft and feminine in my hands. There are a couple of bras too, and I remember promising her we’d go and get more. I should do that with her tomorrow.
The next drawer is socks, not very many because it’s been marginal flip-flop weather, but it’s getting colder and she’s going to need more. We’ll have to buy boots too. And a coat and some sweaters. I open the next drawer.
There are weird things in there. There’s a button, and its red and orange face reads, “If you want it, get it at Barlow’s.” I have no idea what that means. Next to it is a piece of glass, and I recognize it as the bottom of a bottle. It’s got a piece of aluminum foil on the backside and then wrapped around the edges of the glass in the front. And that’s when I get it.
It’s a mirror. These are the things she had with her when I found her. I remember thinking I saw her coming in the back door that night I took her to the club with me, and now I know she must have sneaked out there and retrieved these. There’s a white mother of pearl button off a shirt, and a pack of matches, which I’m sure were like gold to her. I try to figure out what the next item is, and then realize it’s a piece of an old knife blade. The next item is a tattered coupon for tampons and it just occurs to me that those were bound to be hard to come by. What did she do when she didn’t have any money for them, which was most of the time? One pair of ragged socks, an old scarf, a coin purse with nothing in it. They’re all placed carefully on a towel that she arranged in the bottom of the drawer. I reach for the knife blade and can tell there’s something under the towel, so I feel around under the towel carefully and pull it out.
It’s a notebook of some kind. It’s horribly ratty and smelly, but there it is. I open it up and start to read. There are entries, but it’s not really a diary; it’s more like a cross between a diary and a daily reminder. On January 9, she wrote, “It’s too cold out here, but I have nowhere to go. I’m saying goodbye to my fingers and toes – tomorrow morning I probably won’t have them.” There’s an entry on March 13 that says, “I’ve been in four dumpsters and fifteen trash cans, and there’s no food anywhere.” The scribbling on May 23 reads, “It’s finally warm. I’m so glad. Now maybe I can sneak into the fountain tonight and take a bath.” Too curious, I flip to the back of the book. Her last entry was two days ago, and it says, “I’m in love with a man who isn’t in love with me. Oh, well – that’s my life.”
Bitterness rises up in my mouth and I start to put the notebook back, but I flip back three pages and look at an entry two weeks before. And it brings me to my knees.
“I’ve found an angel. His name is Dave. I’ll love him until the end of my life, and then into eternity. I think he loves me too. If he does, my life will be complete.”
What the hell is wrong with me? I slip the notebook back into its spot, then look around the room before running back up the hall to my room. I throw open a drawer and look into it: Socks. Lots of them are socks I don’t wear. I get a paper sack from the kitchen and start weeding them out. Then I go through my underwear and get rid of everything I don’t wear. When I get done, I realize I can put all of my socks and underwear in one big drawer and it leaves two smaller ones empty.
I keep doing this with no regard for the time. I just work until I’m done. When I am, I have four dresser drawers and two chest drawers empty. Then I head back down the hall.
There’s an empty drawer for her bras, another for her panties, another for her socks. In the chest, there’s a drawer for her night clothes and exercise stuff, and the other drawer will hold sweaters. I attack the closet, get rid of about two feet of stuff I don’t wear, and fetch all of her things out of the other closet. Last but not least, I move her shoes in. I happen to think of a decorative wooden box in the living room, and I move it to the dresser, then move all of her jewelry into it. It’s not really a jewelry box, but it’ll do for awhile.
When I finish and survey my work, it’s six thirty and the sun is up. And I don’t care. I want her in my room and in my bed.
I’m in love with Olivia, and I know she loves me. We’ll work it out. We have to. Otherwise, we’ll both die of broken hearts.
Crawling into bed at six forty-five, I hear the door at about seven thirty and it wakes me. She’s tiptoeing down the hallway and I wonder what she’ll think when she realizes I’ve moved her stuff. I just wait and giggle a little to myself.
But it never occurred to me that she might not figure out what I’d done. I hear some kind of rustling around and then her footsteps in the hallway again. Before I have a chance to stop her and ask what she thinks, I hear the front door open and close, so I go into Clint’s old room and look.
The drawer with her stuff, the mirror and knife blade and notebook, is empty. Her phone and keys are on the dresser, and her bag is gone, the one she loves and wanted so badly from the mall. And I figure it out fast – she thinks I’m planning to kick her out.
I manage to throw on a pair of lounge pants and a tee shirt, then grab my all-weather mocs to slip on. When I hit the front door and throw it open, she’s disappearing around the corner at the end of the block, so I grab my keys from the bowl by the door and take off for the car. I’m sure the neighbors wonder why I’m peeling out of the driveway this way, but I don’t care. By the time I round the corner, I don’t se
e her anywhere and I start to panic. But I drive another block and see that headful of dark, glossy hair turning right on Iroquois Drive, and I hightail it down there. When I pull up to the curb ten feet in front of her, she stops, then turns and goes the other way, but I’m already out of the car and running toward her, and I’m yelling, “Olivia! Stop, please! Please? Olivia, honey, stop!”
Wheeling past her and spinning to face her, my heart breaks at the sight of her tear-stained face. “I left all of the stuff you gave me. I didn’t steal anything.”
“Honey, that’s not what’s . . .”
“I get it. All my stuff is gone. I won’t bother you anymore.” She pushes past me, but I grab her arm.
“No. That’s not what’s going on here. At all. You don’t understand.”
“No, I get it. I really do. And I don’t want to be a thorn in your side. You’re not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.” She tries to shake her arm loose from my grip, but I won’t let go.
“Olivia, get in the car. You don’t understand.”
“No!” She tries again to break loose again, and a man who’s come out to pick up his newspaper stares at us. “Just stop! You don’t have to explain. I get it, really.”
“No you don’t. Baby, I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you succeeded.”
I guess I’ll have to spill the beans. “Olivia, your stuff isn’t gone. It’s in my room.”
That stops her dead in her tracks. “What are you talking about?”
“Baby, get in the car. We need to talk.”
“Dave, I . . .”
“Please. Just get in the car and we’ll go home and talk, okay?”
I see her face soften, and then she says, “Okay, okay. Let’s go.” She lets me open the car door for her, and we drive the five blocks back to the house in silence.
I open the front door and she makes a beeline for the bedroom. Just as I suspected she’d do, she starts opening drawers, and then slings the closet doors open. I finally take her by the hand and lead her back to the living room, then point at the sofa, and she drops onto it. I sit down on the coffee table in front of her and take both her hands in mine. “We need to talk. I was at the club last night.”
Incredible Us Page 11
