Have started both my summer jobs now! Act One Scene One in the mornings and Sharon Day Camp in the afternoons. I will be one busy lady!
I am already sunburnt- despite using SPF 50 sunblock, lol. I'm a lobster!
I'm loving working at Sharon. Loving working with Mr. Waite. God Damn but he's adorable. And he's so good with the kids it makes my uterus spasm! He has 1st graders, which kinda drive him crazy (I don't blame him, 1st graders are only slightly better than kindergarteners, who are an entirely different species from us), but he's still so great with them! And it is SOOOO cute to see him interact with those tiny little nuggets! He's great at his job and what he does and it makes me psyched to see him there.
Plus I dig calling him "Mr. Waite." Nummy.
He calls me Miss Reardon, but more often just calls me "Reardon" Which makes me smile so wide!
Act One Scene One was fun today as well. I don't really have further comment, other than to say I do believe I'm getting better at learning and retaining NAMES. I still have a long way to go if I want to hold a candle to BETHANY NELSON's skill and talent for name learnin, but I do believe I'm getting better.
Best thing I heard all day-- in re-telling his favorite part of the movie TOY STORY 3, this little boy was quoting a scene in which Mr. Potato Head demands people stop 'putting things in his butt' and he, the young boy, finishes in this glorious manner: "I told you not to come in my butt!"
YEAH. For Realz. I thought there must be a camera on me! oh, myer, out of the mouths of babes!
SO! As for the writing: I'm introducing a new character today! Whoop whoop. I realize you all have busy lives and don't get to read much but WE. I'mma keep on trucking anyway. Because If I stop posting fiction then I mostly stop producing fiction. Like breast milk, I've been told. So PUMP ON says I, and pump on I shall!
Enjoy suckling on this one bitches. Introducing Phelan Everett. Awww yeah.
************************
“What the fuck’ve you got in the fridge?” Phelan Everett demanded of his roommate upon opening the refrigerator door to see several bottles of expensive looking wine taking up all the room he needed to store his leftovers from lunch.
“Wine—don’t touch it!” Called Grey from the living room where he was ironing a shirt.
“Why so fucking much of it?” Phelan asked, struggling to re-arrange various boxes of weeks-old take-out to make room for the new additions. “You having a fancy lady orgy?” Who the fuck needed this much wine? There were two bottles of red on the counter too. Christ. And various expensive cheeses and fresh fucking fruit and shit too. “Can I come?” He added, thinking about how many women would be needed to consume all this wine.
“No.” Grey responded with a laugh. “And it’s not an orgy.” Phelan heard the puff of steam from the iron.
“All this for one girl?” Phelan finally shoved his Styrofoam box between a pizza box and the shelf above it, causing a very unpleasant squealing sound that set his teeth on edge. He closed the fridge and strode into the living room, now taking the time to remove his sunglasses.
Grey was looking at him, smiling. “Yeah but you should see the girl.”
Phelan knew that look. That wolfish, hungry, cocky-ass look. “Goldilocks.” Said Phelan flatly. Grey had all the fucking luck.
Grey lifted his eyebrows up and down and then pulled the shirt off the ironing board with a flourish. “So fucking perfect you’re going to have to punch yourself in the dick.” He shook the shirt out and hung it on a hanger with care.
Fuck. “What’s she look like?” Phelan sank into the couch, making every effort to appear non-chalant and friendly, but he couldn’t help the surge of bitter envy pooling in his gut. Fuck Grey Delaney. Phelan hadn’t been able to get his hands on a goldilocks virgin in fucking forever. Like, a year, probably. Goddammit. Where did his roommate keep unearthing them? Grey Delaney must be the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in town.
“You’d like her.” Grey said, unable to completely mask his gloating as he unplugged the iron. “She’s only about five-two, maybe five-three,--“ Phelan wanted to kick something. “Tiny waist, perfect tits and Phelan? Her Ass? Jesus Cunting Christ.”
Phelan spread an appreciative smile across his face but wanted nothing more than to feel his foot connect with Grey’s arrogant fucking face.
“She black?” Phelan asked casually. If she was black Phelan might just murder his friend and go take the bitch for himself.
“Latina.” Grey responded with a wink.
God dammit. That was almost as good.
“And her lips are un-fucking-real.” Grey shivered and Phelan begrudged the man all the fantastic head he was going to get out of this girl.
“How old?”
“Eighteen.” Grey said and Phelan felt a small bit better. Legal. If she’d been underage he wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to mask his raging jealousy. “But she’s so doe-eyed and skittish and holy fuck, Phel, you’ll wanna sink your teeth in when you see her.”
Grey folded the ironing board up and put it back in the closet along with the iron.
“You bringing her back here?” Phelan asked.
Grey made a pitying face. “C’mon, this isn’t some bar-fly.” He lectured. “This is a one-hundred-percent pure goldilocks virgin.” He stared at his friend with a smirk. “You know full well that she won’t be seeing the inside of this fucking place for a while.” Phelan kept his mouth firmly closed as he watched his friend head toward the bathroom and turn on the shower. Letting the water heat up, Grey strode back into the livingroom, pulling off his t-shirt. “No. I’m treating this lovely young lady to a perfect evening at the park, under the stars, with wine and fruit and a nail-biter on the green.”
Phelan pressed his lips together. She’d be tipsy and giggly and have to cling to him during the suspense of the film. It was perfect. Fuck. What he wouldn’t pay to be Grey Delaney that evening.
“How far do you think you’ll get?”
“Phelan, Phelan, Phelan.” Grey tisked as he retrieved a towel from the linen closet beside the bathroom. “How dare you impugn the lady’s spotless reputation?”
Phelan laughed shortly. “How far?”
“Why sir, I am appalled.” Grey said in mock outrage. “I intend to be a perfect gentleman.”
Phelan squinted at his friend skeptically. “Ok.” He conceded, knowing that Grey was going to take his time, do the long-con, get the girl good and dripping and willing to do anything for him. Christ. So this really was the real deal. It was like a fucking unicorn or some shit. “You lucky prick.” He said, half smiling, half menacing.
Grey grinned. “How many times have I told you—it isn’t luck, it’s skill.”
Bullshit. “Where’d you find her?”
Grey shook his head, still grinning. “Nope.”
“Nope what?”
“No way am I giving out that secret. I’m not gunna let you even try to poach her, you greedy fuck.”
“Afraid of a little competition?” Phelan challenged, never dropping his smile.
Grey laughed. “You aren’t her type.” He said dismissively and waltzed into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. He put a hand to his face and rubbed thoughtfully on his cheeks and chin. Phelan knew he was weighing the options of which degree of stubble would work best this evening.
“Oh yeah?” Phelan called, wanting to be heard over the running shower. “What’s her type?”
Grey looked over and with a subtle quirk of his lips in an otherwise dead-pan expression he answered: “Me.”, then lifted one brow playfully and shut the bathroom door.
Yeah. So I promised myself that it would be ok on this blog to post things that were still, technically, 'a work in progress' didn't I?
And I have done so. I mean more than just my typos and the generally hackneyed style of writing. I've posted some raw shit, some stuff that needs serious re-working, and some stuff that would probably get cut right out if I were to ever make this a formal, linear book-type-dealy-thing.
And today I'm posting something that has been a real fucking pain in the ass for me because I love how it starts, love the feel of it, but it is going NOWHERE. It's just filler. Fun filler, a fun little look into Grey's arrogant psyche, but filler nonetheless.
Maybe what I have here would be followed by their first date, but fuck me, I'm not ready to write that. Not now, maybe not ever. Who knows? On one hand I like the idea of really following their courtship, seeing her woo her, win her and then wreck her, but on the other hand I'm a little more into seeing how they progress now that she's blackmailed him into marriage, ya know? The real deal romance.
If the fancy strikes me to finish this little fucker then I will finish it. Please feel free to volunteer ideas on the matter if any strike you! I LOVE feedback.
Meanwhilez, haz fun with The Three Varieties of Virgin!
**********
There are three basic varieties of virgin. Most virgins are itching to lose it, ready to lose it, and it doesn’t take a whole hell of a lot of effort to get them to nod and say “I’m ready” and it’s done. The easy virgin.
There’s another type, the perennial virgin, and this girl ain’t gonna give it up till she’s said “I Do” and there’s no two ways around it. She’s keeping her legs closed but good, and unless you’re in it for the long haul you might as well consider that shit a cold case and move the fuck on.
But the best? The most enjoyable virgin to hunt and win? That’s the one that’s right in the middle—the goldilocks virgin. Not too hot, not too cold, but just right. She’s not dying for the chance to spread her legs and have her cherry popped, but she might be persuaded that ‘love’ is an acceptable reason, rather than waiting for marriage. She won’t sleep with just anyone, but will consent to giving her chastity to ‘the right person’ even if he isn’t sporting that little gold band.
And these virgins are the most delicious, because before they give up the prize they’re likely to experiment with all sorts of other options first, to ‘tide’ herself over or keep the fella sufficiently satisfied. These goldilocks virgins, true to their name, are willing to try things out and see how they like them. Because they aren’t willing to jump right to the deflowering, but they are willing to be ‘active’ in a committed relationship; they’re likely to get really good at hand jobs, at oral, and these are the quietly erotic beauties who’re likely to consent to anal—so long as you promise to be gentle. They are the fatted calf, the golden fleece, the little ring you reach for at the carousel in summertime.
Grey had recently had a string of easy virgins, and they’d been great, been fun, but he was hungry for a change of pace. But the kind of virgin he wanted wasn’t so easy to sniff out. It took care and patience and could often be a frustrating waste of time if the lady walked that razor’s edge between perfect and prude. He was craving the thrill of a good, long, measured hunt. The satisfying, delayed gratification kind of stalk, the courting and the romance and the getting-her-to-fall-in-love kind of experience. Nothing was quite as rewarding as a job well done with one of those goldilocks creatures.
And, he wasn’t sure yet, but he believed he may have just found a perfect candidate. He’d run into her at his Uncle’s wine store when he’d popped in to pick up something for a date that night.
She was adorable. Young and Latina and slim but curvy, achingly innocent but undeniably attracted to him. She’d been so easily flustered by his charm it was endearing. So skittish it was arousing. He’d thought about her all week. About her perfectly high, round ass, her full breasts, and that amazing pair of lips. He liked the warm caramel-mocha color of her skin and the thick, fat, dark curls framing that wide-eyed little face.
But. Was she going to yield results? He went back-and-forth with Catholics, and this girl had definitely been a Catholic. Some of the best lays he’d ever had were repressed little Catholic hellions. But they also ran high numbers in the ain’t-gonna-happen-not-without-the-vows category.
He decided he’d need to suss-it-out. He needed to revisit the wine shop and test the waters. Though it was tricky, though there wasn’t an exact science, Grey had become quite skilled at sizing up virgins, administering his own personal litmus test, and, with some degree of accuracy, predicting whether he’d be wasting his efforts or not.
So he’d made a second visit to the wine shop— to bait and tease the virgin shop girl until he’d figured her out. A ridiculous amount of money later he walked out grinning. She was perfect and he’d be seeing her that very night for a first date.
Yesterday was an absolutely exquisite sunday. So perfect. I guess I ought not go into details, but I feel like standing on a mountaintop and declaring how amazing life was yesterday.
The kind of day that makes you forget there could ever be anything wrong. The kind of day where you lay down your burdens and cast aside your worries and just live, in the moment, exist in the joy and pleasure and beauty of a perfect sunday with the one that you love.
Conversely, today is monday. back to life, back to reality. Today I start a new job as a summer camp couselor and tomorrow I reprise my role as a drama instructor for Act One Scene One as well.
These are the jobs I am highly qualified for. These are the jobs I'd rather not do. I would, in all honesty, like nothing better than to be able to call them up and say: "Nah, this isn't for me." Because it doesn't feel right. I feel nervous and my brain just isn't getting into thinking of fun games to play or ideas for material and I am NOT INTO IT AT ALL.
I'm kinda jazzed that I'll be working in proximity to my husband; it will be kinda thrilling to look accross a crowded cafeteria and see him there, see the man who does naughty things to me at home, lol. I told Aaron this morning that it's a damn good thing people can't read minds, because when I see him, Oh the things I think! Jeesh. Inappropriate! After yesterday I'm not sure I won't blush when I see him this afternoon.
Another thing I did yesterday was read some awful, awful erotica. Amateur, on the interwebz shit. It was bad, but I kept reading because of the 'story'. Anyway, it made me feel much better about Cedar Falls but also made me want to be even better. So. That's a goal.
In other news hopefully this week I will get to go see and hang out with Baby Zoe and the Pigeons! Sounds like an awesome cartoon band from my youth, like Josie and the Pussycats! Anyhow I miss them all a great deal and hope we'll get together soon.
EEEK. Yesterday is over, I need to accept that. Now it's today. I have to embrace that. Sigh. Wish me luck on my first day at a new job.
So, sorry for the non-sequitor. I'm trying desperately to finish the one I want to post next but it's being a stubborn bitch and just won't come together for me.
So I dug into my folder and pulled out this little scene. It's almost insignificant, almost.
But I like it, nonetheless.
And it's bite-sized!
This obviously takes place before the honeymoon, lol.
*********
“Mr. Grey?” Grey took one look at the man and knew he’d interrupted something. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve come to return the money you lent me.” He lifted the briefcase and extended it toward the mussed-looking older man. Grey caught the whiff of cigar smoke and booze and felt relief to be rid of him.
“She wouldn’t take it?” The man said, a smile creeping across his face. Grey was uncomfortable with the sheen around the man’s lips and chin. He winced and tried not to imagine too specifically what that shine might have come from.
“No sir.” He answered simply. “Thank you.” He felt like a heel. “Really. Thank you for the help.” He was grateful, even though the gratitude made him feel slimy. Even though the fact that this son of a bitch was ready to step in when Jonah refused made Grey boil and rage. He hated Jonah for leaving him no option but to crawl to this miserable fuck.
“So what now son?” Said the man, reaching over lazily and unburdening Grey of the case.
Grey blinked. “Now I go to city hall.” He responded blandly.
Vaughan’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure about this? There must be another way—“
“Thank you again for the loan sir.” Grey said repressively. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m in something of a rush.” He nodded politely and turned to go.
“Son—“
Grey seized up, his foot already planted on the next step down, and he turned slowly. He hated when the man called him that. “Mr. Grey?” He answered evenly.
“Why don’t you take this anyway—as a wedding present.” The older man held out the briefcase, offering it back up.
Grey squinted at the offering. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t accept. That’s… far too generous.” The older man and the younger stared at one another for a long moment. A slow chuckle sounded from Vaughan Grey and Grey felt the hair on the back of his arms raise underneath his coat and shirt.
“You come see me.” The man said, chuckling. “You bring me whatever contract she has you sign and we’ll just see what we can do.”
Grey felt his nose twitch. He never wanted to see the man again, had no desire to seek out his aid for any reason. “Of course.” He responded smoothly, revulsed by the man’s swaggering grin and his loose silk robe and his leathery old face with the glistening evidence of foreplay all over his lips and chin. “I won’t keep you.” Grey said with a humorless smirk, and, with yet another courteous little nod, he turned once more and left that place. He heard the man laugh heartily behind him, heard the door close, and only then did Grey draw his next breath.
It was beginning to rain. He needed to go pick up the girl he was going to marry.
I have been writing lately but am not super psyched with much of it. I did write a really compelling scene for Nolan and Jonah but I am nowhere near ready to post that shit. It's heavy.
I have some really fun and good scenes written but I don't want to blow my wad, you know?
Anywho I was doing research today on date rape and marital rape. Oh the things we do for Cedar Falls. Anyway I cam to the conclusion that, and I quote: "I never mean 'NO'" even when I say it. This made aaron laugh alot.
I also know how lucky I am to live in a place where marital rape is illegal and I could report my husband if he ever abused me (against my will...). Doing the research today was pretty grim, especially given recent laws in the middle east that make me want to fly in there on a dragon and wreak some righteous havoc.
Anyhow, My favorite part was looking at artwork depictions of 'rape' throughout history. This painting so captivated me that I believe I could write a whole play or something based off it. Maybe a song? Check it out.
The painting is titled: Interior (Or, The Rape). Yikes right? The power dynamic, the tension, the darkness of it. I am so intrigued!
I also found this gem from D&G's ad campaign which seems to glorify a sort of 1930's asthetic and also a little gang rape!
I have to admit I find them both incredibly erotic and while I'm troubled with the message D&G is sending, I have to say that the shot is gorgeous. Except of course that I'm almost certain at least three of those young men are completely homosexual and I don't feel the least bit like they're inclined to rape the disinterested barbidoll in the strappy heels there. But whatevs. Even just having an audience is fun sometimes right?
There were tons of intriguing and moving paintings and sculptures, very often from literature and myth like The Rape of Lucrece, or the Rape of the Sabine and such. Wild stuff. There is also this beautiful and impactful ad campaign against Rape (I believe it started in south africa where the statistics are staggeringly appalling about how many men will rape a woman in their lifetime there and what not...). The tag line is REAL MEN DON'T RAPE and the photo campaign is very moving.
The last pic I found that I absolutely love wasn't found while searching for rape art, but rather this came up while searching 'drapes'. um. yup. I really don't know why, but anyway...
I title this one "Historical Breast Exam" but feel free to make up your own fun title. I think maybe this should be the poster for breast cancer awareness month. I think it would wake people up a little, get them to pay more attention than they do to those sweet pink ribbons...
I like this almost as that famous one of the one girl tweaking the other girl's nipple. What always kills me about such paintings is the scenery in the back, like in this one, merrymaids over there is just tryin to do her thing and whoop! Rich lady pulls out her titties and jewelry. Fucked up day for merry maid. That might be sexual harrassment.
Anyway with all my myriad of distractions on google today I didn't get written what I wanted to get written and now I'm not sure what to post. Grumpy :(
Maybe I'll sleep on it and decide in the morning. Obviously it should be something date-rapey or Marital rapey with all this juicy prologue, but I don't think it will be. Not just yet.
Oh man alive. I got into a whole big discussion in my film class in undergrad about marital rape and came to the conclusion that because it has been romanticized in Hollywood movies that I watched at an impressionable age I find it incredibly compelling and erotic. Christ, Sean Connery Husband-raping a practically comotose Tippi Hedron in Marnie? Sick and sexie all at once.
And Marlon Brando in Streetcar? Raping his Sister in law? Should that be allowed to be as fucking hot as it is? C'mon ladies, who among us did not get a little dewey down there for that scene, even in the midst of our being appalled and indignant (and frankly 'blaming the victim' though we know we should NEVER NEVER do that. But she really did want him right? But no. No one deserves to be raped, not even crazy face from Streetcar.)
And the number one reason "No" never means NO when I say it to my husband? Duh. What else:
Thank you Rhett Butler, for making me cream my eleven year old pants! Jesus Christ you are one sexy fuck. and thanks Scarlett for humming a little to yourself and smiling the next morning because you know it was THE BEST SEX OF YOUR LIFE. And then he feels bad for acting 'ungentlemanly' and losing control and she's all like 'grrrr.' because that sex was so fucking phenomenal but she doesn't want to let him know how much she liked it and OH! Gone With The Wind you are my JAM! And prolly the reason I like it rough. So TXH THX THX!
Oh, and Thanks to Ma Reardon who had like five different posters of GWTW which clearly idealize and romanticize spousal rape. Oh man. She had SUCH a thing for clark gable. But seriously folks, not to blame the victim, but look at Scarlett- it's like "No Means No": You're doin it wrong!
Speaking of, there's this whole MEME of silly de-motivational posters about Rape, usually using barnyard animals and adding prurient meaning to what they're doing. Many of those made me literally Laugh Out Loud. I'll post a couple for ya. So silly and irreverent.
I kinda feel bad for the poor bottom duck. But seriously. Lacking some of the asthetic edge of the D&G ad wouldn't you say??
Or this one: Not only a Rape joke but a Rape PUN!
And my fave, so fucking cute! The cutest of all rape meme pics!
Hey! So I will probably have a scene or two on Maggie & Grey's 'honeymoon', but I haven't yet finished them but I HAVE managed to finish this one so here ya go!
In case you missed it check out the couple of scenes where they're driving up to the resort here it's a double entry (heeeheeeheee), one from his perspective and one from hers.
And, Welcome Home Danielle! I heart you so hard-core! Thanks for being a new mom and still taking the time to check n with the blog. You are amazing.
*************
“May I borrow your car tomorrow morning?”
Grey looked up from the paper he was hardly reading. He stared at Maggie. “Skipping town?”
Her mouth quirked just a smidge. “I need to go somewhere.”
He closed the paper and folded it along its crease. “I can drive you.” He answered.
She swallowed and looked out the enormous windows at their pretty stunning view. “It will be early—I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He pulled his coffee cup toward himself and lifted it to his lips to test the temperature. It was still pretty damn hot, but whatever, he wanted some fucking coffee. He took a small sip and, deciding he wouldn’t quite scald himself, took another. He toyed with the idea of putting some whiskey in it. “What’s open so early on a Sunday?” He puzzled with his brows drawn together. He couldn’t quite decide on the whiskey.
She fiddled with her necklace and kept her eyes out on the vista. She’d hardly touched her breakfast. “I want to attend mass.” She replied quietly.
Oh. Grey resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. “Isn’t there a chapel here at the resort somewhere?” He asked, putting down the mug and reaching for another chocolate almond croissant. He wasn’t much of a breakfast person normally, preferring to have only juice or a protein shake before going for his daily run, but he was on vacation. He’d go to the fitness center much later in the day. And the croissants were phenomenal. She hadn’t answered so he glanced up, tearing a piece of flaky, buttery pastry from the whole.
She looked, well, he wasn’t sure, but she looked a little disappointed, a little guilty maybe? “That isn’t the same.” She told him quietly, in a tone that made him wash over with pin-pricks of embarrassment. He shrugged and then pushed his shoulders down and reclined in his chair. She was acting as though he’d made some bigoted slur for Christ’s sake. How the fuck should he know? He figured a Christian denomination was a Christian denomination. It wasn’t as if he were suggesting she attend temple or go to a fucking mosque for fuck’s sake.
“Ok.” He replied and popped some croissant into his mouth. They’d been getting along. For the past few days. It hadn’t been awful to be in her presence, and, he’d decided that when they were in eachother’s company he would try to keep things as even-keel as possible, at least until they were back in Cedar Falls, back on their home turf and had room to go their separate ways. He’d agreed with himself upon an unspoken truce, and so, he kept some of his more uncharitable opinions and snide remarks to himself whenever possible. If she wanted to go to church, let her go to fucking church. It was really none of his fucking business.
She looked surprised. “Ok?”
“Yeah. Ok.” He said and took another bite, this time getting some of the dark chocolate center. Fuck these were good. Definitely not a breakfast food one should indulge in on a normal basis. Actually, if Grey thought about it, these little fuckers shouldn’t even be categorized as a breakfast food; who the fuck had decided that these delicious desserts could masquerade as any part of the three squares? “D’you know how to drive stick?” He asked after he’d swallowed.
Her eyes got wide and then she looked severely disappointed. “No.” He watched her reach for her decaf tea. “I guess...” She sighed and sipped. “If you could lend me just a little money I could take a cab.” She said, unable to meet his eyes.
He felt an uncomfortable squirming in his gut. He didn’t like it at all when she brought up money. And more than that he detested being asked for it in that way—like he was her father holding the pursestrings on her allowance or something, or like he was some wealthy lord to bestow his generosity on the peasants. “Maggie you aren’t taking a fucking cab to church. I can drive you.”
She took a sharp breath in and seemed to hold it. “I don’t want to bother you.” She repeated, staring into her tea cup.
He rolled his eyes and finished his croissant, dusting the flaky crumbs from his fingers and reaching again for the virgin black coffee. It was going to taste like ass after that French confection. “It’s not a problem.” He said gruffly.
“I’d walk, but the nearest Catholic Church is farther than I think I ought to walk…” ‘in her condition’ went unsaid.
“Christ.” Grey snapped. “You’d rather walk miles than be in the car with me?”
Her head popped up and her eyes looked alarmed. “No, no, that’s not what I meant!” She hurried, looking anxious.
For some reason her reaction made him feel worse. “Then let me drive you to church.” He said and practically forced himself to put the coffee mug to his lips to prevent any of his fiery opinions to spill forth. Truce, he reminded himself, shut the fuck up.
“Thank You.” She said, and it sounded like a great effort. Grey smiled into his coffee mug. Maybe she’d promised to hold her tongue too. Maybe they had both vowed to make peace for the time being.
“How early are we talking?” He asked, squinting a little. Why did religious folks have to make everything such an ordeal? He seemed to remember a theology course he’d taken, remembered something about discomfort and sacrifice and subjugation, but after two almondy, chocolate filled croissants he couldn’t un-fuzzy the logic behind making yourself miserable to get into heaven and he yawned.
“There is an eight o’clock mass.” She said. “There is another at eleven if you’d prefer.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And is there a matinee?”
She smiled. “The early masses tend to be over quicker.”
Hmm. So the little saint wanted to attend but didn’t want to linger. “Why’s that? Isn’t it the same show?”
She tilted her head and gave him a half-amused, half-warning expression to which he responded with a mild smile. “At the early mass, the seven or eight AM mass, there’s usually less singing. Fewer people.” She shrugged. “Even the sermons seem, um, condensed.” She said carefully. “It is much more bare-bones, like at a daily service.”
He crinkled his brows and rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes. “Sounds like the priest just wants to get back to bed.”
To his surprise he heard her laugh. The sound of it made him smile. He reached again for his now nearly-empty coffee.
“That’s not entirely unlikely. Sundays are a long day for him.” She bit her lip around a playful smile.
She was a very pretty girl, Grey thought, looking at the way the morning sunlight caught on the curves of her dark brown curls, the way her large chocolate eyes sparkled and danced when she was playful. He forced his eyes to look elsewhere. One side-effect of the truce that Grey did not care for was it seemed to confuse his body into thinking it was alright to find her attractive again. It was not alright.
Grey reprimanded himself several times a day and reminded himself that he wasn’t ever interested in exes. Not in that way. Occasionally, very occasionally, he’d had a casual fuck with an ex, but just to scratch an itch, just because it was easier than playing the game with someone new. But screwing an ex was not all that fun, not especially satisfying, and more often than not he’d rather just wait for the new piece to give it up to him, or go pick up some easy thing at a bar.
So it was frustrating that he had to keep reminding himself of this fact while he was around Maggie. He’d been there, he’d already had that, there was nothing new to learn or do with her. Not really. Not especially. So why the fuck did his body insist on reacting to her as if they’d never fucked?
Sometimes the way the light would caress the soft caramel color of her skin made him almost ache to reach over and touch her. Every now and then she’d lean over to reach for something and the heavy curve of her ample breasts would catch his eye and make him a little breathless with the need to take her nipples into his mouth. He almost could not resist watching her gorgeous round ass whenever she walked away from him—a fact that made him very grateful that she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. And those lips? It wasn’t fair at all that she had a pair of the most beautiful, enticing, perfect lips he’d ever seen. Fuck. And when she nibbled on the lower one like she tended to do when she was embarrassed or playful or even absently when she was worried or confused? Seeing her do that produced such a visceral impulse inside him that he found it increasingly difficult to hold himself back from taking her face in his hands and devouring her mouth with his.
Because, of course, he despised her. Well. Ok. He despised what she was doing to him. What she’d done. Trapped him like this. Fucked-him-over.
So why the fuck had he consistently gone hard when she’d come out of the shower in her towel every night? It didn’t make any sense at all and he needed to get a grip.
“Um.” He could kick himself in the balls for letting his thoughts wander so freely. He was getting semi-erect now just thinking about her in any state of undress. What the mother-fuck was his problem? “So, how long are we talking?” He asked, running a finger absently along the soft edge of the folded newspaper.
“For an early mass?” She thought for a moment. “I’d guess forty-five minutes.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes on the table. “Sounds doable.” He said.
He heard her replace the tea-cup in its saucer. “What do you think you’ll do?”
“Do?” he asked, still trying to think of anything else besides her petite form writhing under his. He never thought about his exes like this. It was unnerving. It must be because he was being forced to be in her company like this. He’d never had to interact too much with his exes. He made sure of that. He made smart choices about the girls he fucked for just such a reason. It made life unpleasant for him to have some weepy bitch sitting next to him in sociology class, or some venomous cunt hurling insults at him at the gym.
“While I’m at mass.” She clarified.
He looked up. “I thought I’d go with you.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”
His brows rose. “Is that… is that against the rules?” He’d never been to a Catholic mass but it was a free country, right? And they did always seem to be recruiting, trying to lure new congregants—it must be allowed.
“Well, no, not really but—“ She looked faintly exasperated. “Why?”
“Why not?” What the fuck else was he going to do on a Sunday morning in a resort community? Nothing would be open for business and he didn’t fancy loitering about in an eerily quiet town park while he waited for her to finish up her devotional.
“You aren’t Catholic.” She explained.
He shrugged.
They stared at one another. He felt like he was challenging her somehow, though he hadn’t intended to do so.
“Will you be respectful?” She asked, her tone somewhere between timid and commanding.
He smirked but nodded. “I’m not a complete asshole Maggie.”
She raised one dubious eyebrow and he burst out with a laugh. “I’ll behave.” He promised, raising his right hand as if in an oath.
She pursed her lips and didn’t reply, only reached for a plain croissant. He was relieved to see her at least making an effort to eat. They fell into a silence while she munched and he toyed with the idea of yet another breakfast pastry.
“You plan on raising the, uh, your child, Catholic?” He asked, the idea occurring suddenly.
She swallowed the bit she’d been chewing and stared at him. Something like fear flashed across those big brown eyes and it took her a long moment to make any response at all. Then, very slowly, she nodded.
He let that hang between them for a long moment. Then, “Even if I object?” He asked, keeping his tone conversational, theoretical.
She looked wary now, as if he’d pulled a gun and was asking for her wallet and valuables. “Yes.” She said, her voice a little rough. She cleared her throat and waited for him.
“Baptism and first communion and the whole works?” He asked mildly.
Again she gave him a slow nod. “Yes.”
“And if I disagree?” He felt his lips twitch but he kept his face a perfectly bland mask.
She never took her eyes from his. “This isn’t a subject for debate.” She said quietly.
Oh really? “Non-negotiable?” he asked almost sweetly.
“Yes.” She was nervous. Constricted.
“You’re putting your foot down?” He asked lightly, pleasantly.
“Yes.” It sounded like a plea of guilty in a court of law: resigned and heavy.
“Would you divorce me over it?”
Her nostrils flared and she blinked but she kept right on meeting his stare. Her front teeth captured her full lower lip and he forced himself not to notice too much. This was important.
“Yes.” She whispered, a pained expression contorting her face.
He smiled. “Wow.” He marveled. “Showing me all your cards.” He joked lightly. “Not a wise strategy, Maggie.”
Her eyes finally fell, her lashes fluttering. He got the uncomfortable feeling that she might cry.
“This isn’t a game.” She said in a low, thin monotone.
He was quiet while he pondered. Irreconcilable differences. It was a good story. They could tell people they’d married in a mad passion but came to realize that they were fundamentally incompatible due to disparate religious views.
“Why?” He asked suddenly. He wasn’t sure he cared, either way, but he needed to understand why a woman who had played such an incredible game of hardball with him, who had needed so desperately for him to marry her and pretend to all the world that they were a couple, why she would throw it all away after working so hard and so carefully to secure her future and his fortune.
“Why?”
“Why is it so damned important that the kid be Catholic?” he asked. “You’d risk everything for a religion?”
She washed over pale. “Un-baptized babies go to hell.” She said with an earnest vulnerability that shook him to the core.
Grey let out a low whistle. Holy Fuck. That was some rough fucking guilt-trip dogma. Her God sent babies to hell? Christ. He searched her eyes. She believed this. She knew it to be the awful truth and he understood that no amount of reason or rational thought would dissuade her from this macabre superstition. Knew that even if she could understand the notion to be absurd logically, emotionally she’d always be afraid that it might just be the truth.
“Well we can’t have that, can we?” He asked softly, unable to entirely stifle his facetiousness.
Her brows drew together. “Don’t you dare mock me—“ She said and he saw tears spring to her eyes, though they seemed too righteous to spill.
He spread his hands as if in surrender. “I’m not.” He insisted. “I won’t.”
Her chest was heaving and she was forcing inhalations and exhalations through her nose. God, he liked her when she got all fired up. It almost made him want to needle her further, but not on this subject. He was dimly aware that his parents had raised him better than that.
“As long as we’re laying our cards on the table—“ She said in a heated tone “I might as well explain to you that if you marry me in a catholic ceremony you forfeit your right to protest the baptism of the child.” She tossed her hair behind her shoulders and lifted her chin defiantly. “You’ll have to promise that any children will be raised catholic.” She explained. “So if you plan on pressing your advantage you’d better do it soon. Because when we get back to Cedar Falls my father will have Father Ruiz standing by.”
She glared at him and he felt his mouth open in faint appreciation of her—well –her balls.
“Thanks for the tip.” He said with a half-smile. He watched her fume for a moment and felt plagued with guilt. Her father. Christ. The man was intimidating. Like a fierce little bull or something. Grey knew it was ridiculous to be intimidated by a man several feet shorter than himself and many sizes rounder, but nevertheless, something about Hector Ramirez made Grey think twice about his instinct to seize on this info and run to a lawyer.
Grey thought about what the man had said to him, at the Riverside Bistro, when Maggie’d gone to the ladies room and his mother had gone to make a phone call and his father had wandered up to the bar or somewhere, leaving just Grey and his new father-in-law. Grey could still feel the depth of his alarm at having been left alone with the man, left with no choice but to fend for himself. Grey’d never felt anything as remotely nerve-wracking and uncomfortable in his life as Mr. Ramirez staring him down, sizing him up, and looking more displeased and distrustful by the second.
“I know why she’s done this.” He said bluntly and Grey had only blinked. “But I don’t know why you have.”
The man was sharp. And keen. And Grey knew he was the type of fellow who could smell bull-shit from a mile away. He kept his mouth shut, deciding to respect the man by not making excuses or trying to lie.
“But whatever your reasons—“ Warned Hector, a steely glint in his heavy-lidded eyes, “You’ve made that girl your wife—“ The import and impact of the word as Hector annunciated it rocked Grey right in the solar plexus. As if it were more than a legal complication. More than a silly title they’d slapped on to bandage a terrible mistake. When Hector said the word it gave Grey pause. “And now you’d better treat her like one.” The man glared at Grey for another heart-stopping moment before tossing back the remainder of his tequila drink.
“Yes sir.” Grey had said.
Then the man fixed his eye on his new son-in-law and Grey had been sure his balls might never descend again. “You hurt her, you treat her wrong, you step one toe outta line and you will answer to me. Do you understand?” Grey knew he’d betrayed his alarm in his face, but he’d nodded his understanding just as his mother had sailed back over to the table and begun gushing about how lovely the man’s daughter was, how thrilled she was to be family with the Ramirez’ now and some other pleasant, bubbly, bullshit. Grey had promptly downed the rest of his weak Bloody Mary and ordered another—which his mother cancelled because he needed to drive.
Grey pulled himself out of his momentary fog when Maggie pushed her chair back from the little breakfast table and stood. “Not feeling well?” He asked, almost reflexively.
She glowered at him. “What are you going to do?” She demanded.
Oh. Right. The divorce. He was tempted. Sorely tempted. But he looked at her, glanced at that silver medal at her collarbone and sighed. “I fold.” He said, a small smile playing around his lips. “I’ll stand before your priest next week. I won’t have the soul of an innocent on my conscience.” He said jokingly.
But she only looked more furious. “How many?” She demanded hotly.
He was at a loss. “I’m sorry?”
“No, you aren’t. How many?” She repeated heatedly.
“Maggie, I—“ He was lost. He’d given in, he’d agreed to the catholic ceremony, he’d said he’d throw away the golden chance to wriggle out of this marriage largely unscathed.
“How many abortions have you paid for?” Her face was reddening and her hands, while clenched in fists, were shaking.
His eyes narrowed and he felt his stomach sour. “That’s none of your business.” He told her in a low, menacing voice.
“How many?” She repeated, her voice rising.
He didn’t want to fucking talk about this with her. He began to re-think his decision.
“Grey!” She snapped, one hot tear escaping and making a quick path down her cheek. “How. Many.”
“One fewer than I’d like.” He growled savagely and she gasped. He winced. It felt distinctly as though he’d slapped her, though he hadn’t moved from his place at the breakfast table. He watched her make a trembling sign of the cross and back away from him, her lips moving silently and her eyes welling with tears. She turned and moved quickly toward the bathroom and he sighed.
Andrea and I decided to give each other a writing challenge, like they used to do in creative writing classes in college. Only ours were considerably more, um, provocative? Shall we say?
Now that she's had the chance to read mine and send her comments back I think I'll share it!
The task was simple: Take the first sentence (given by the other) and run with it.
I ended up choosing to place mine in Cedar Falls, because the first sentence certainly felt like it belonged there, heeeeheeeeheeee....
So have fun meeting some new characters. I hope we see more of them (um, if that's possible, lol)soon!
And this is part of the reason for that adult content disclaimer...
You're welcome.
*********
When Sylvia turned on the table lamp next to her bed she saw that it was Lucy's, not Jack's, head buried between her legs. Oh My. Oh! Oh Dear. Oh? Oh.
She’d had a fair amount to drink at the office New Year’s Party, but she didn’t think she’d been too terribly irresponsible. Yet here she was, somehow back at her place, having no idea of how she’d got there, being eaten-out by her Boss’s pretty new wife.
“Surprised?” A rumbly, bass voice purred from somewhere in the shadows outside the meager pool of light spilling from her bedside lamp. It had been Jack’s voice that she’d heard in her state of half-dreaming half-awake, Jack’s voice that had culled her out of the semi-conscious limbo she’d been floating in; It had been Jack’s face she’d been imagining between her thighs, his tongue, and teeth, and lips she’d expected to find ministering to her below the sheets.
She blinked and then blinked again as she watched the heavy-lidded eyes of Lucy Merriweather-Fontaine flash with mischief and desire, the rest of the young woman’s face obscured by the puffy mound of Sylvia’s sex. What in hell was happening to her? Her brain felt wooden, clunky.
Jack was here, watching his new wife go down on his top sales associate. Maybe this was a dream.
Sylvia felt the hot, wet flick of Lucy’s tongue on her clit and her whole body jerked in reaction. It didn’t feel at all like a dream. What was happening to her pussy felt very real and tangible and Oh Jesus!
She bit down on her lip as the flicking picked up speed. Holy mother of god, this was the best damned head she’d ever experienced. What on earth was going on?
She heard a low, needy moan escaper her lips and was startled, and a little embarrassed with herself.
“That’s a good girl Syl…” The sound of Jack’s voice made the sensations between her legs seem more intense, more erotic. Her breath was coming quicker now as Lucy’s small longue lapped and flicked and danced across her clit. “That’s right.” He told her, and she felt her pulse throb beneath Lucy’s lips. “Just relax baby.”
She’d fantasized about Jack Fontaine since the day she’d started work at Cedar Falls Marketing Solutions. She’d imagined his lips on every part of her. Longed for his hands to probe and possess her. She’d endured, over the past five years, watching him divorce his second wife, date a string of impossibly young and impossibly gorgeous airheads, before suffering his third marriage, this time to Lucy Merriweather.
Little Lucy Merriweather, who Sylvia used to babysit for.
The same Lucy whose knees Sylvia had bandaged and kissed to make them all better after a tumble on the sidewalk. Who she’d read to sleep. Who she’d helped with her homework and made macaroni and cheese for and French braided her hair and taught how to roller blade. That Lucy Merriweather.
Was licking her cunt.
Though her brain was still working very sluggishly Sylvia was vaguely relieved that she’d had the foresight to wax down there. She’d done it because she thought she might end up going home with Carter the I.T. guy—he’d been flirting with her for several months and it was her New Year’s resolution to give up on Jack Fontaine and finally move on with her life.
“Put your fingers inside her.” Jack commanded Lucy and Sylvia thrilled at the husky note of arousal in his voice. She was deeply bewildered, but, well, everything felt very, very, very good. It was hard to object to anything that felt so damned amazing. Like looking a gift horse in the mouth or something. Is that what that expression meant?
Holy Lord. Lucy made a kittenish sound in her throat and Sylvia felt something sliding inside her. She hadn’t had sex with anyone in months, not since that awful one-night-stand on her birthday, and she didn’t own a full sized vibrator, just the little bullet thing, so Lucy’s fingers, petite as they were, still felt like they were stretching her open. And when Lucy curled them upward to tickle her g-spot Sylvia sat bolt upright, her body reacting of its own accord.
She heard Jack chuckle and she blushed all over even while she whimpered and trembled. “Be a good girl, Syl;” He said to her, a playful sort of warning tone to his words, “Lay back and relax baby.”
Her teeth were chattering and her nipples could probably cut glass. Shivers of excitement and pleasure chased up and down her spine and she had the urge to wrap her fingers into Lucy’s springy blonde curls and grind against her face but she didn’t. She gripped the cool cotton sheets and moaned instead, letting the weight of her head pull her back down toward the pillows.
She was having a great deal of trouble catching her breath. She’d gulp for air and get some but not nearly enough. Then she’d find herself gritting her teeth and holding her breath for long minutes, a sweat breaking out all over her body, the veins in her neck pulsing powerfully. She rolled her head back and forth against the pillows, arched her back and growled with need.
“Tell us what you want baby.” Jack commanded and Sylvia felt Lucy’s hot breath as she laughed against the slick, enflamed flesh of her pussy.
Sylvia tried to find her voice, tried to command her thick, clumsy tongue to form words but she only managed a deep groan. She felt one of Lucy’s small fingers slide over the sensitive, forbidden flesh of her asshole and she gasped.
“You have to tell us baby. You’ve got to say it.” God Damn but he was the sexiest man alive. How the hell had this come to be?
Sylvia licked her lips and begged her tongue to say it, say what she needed, what she wanted. “Please?” she whimpered, Her eyes squeezed shut, her chest heaving like a hapless fish out of water, her knuckles white where she gripped the sheets, her face half-buried in a pillow.
“Please What?” Suddenly the voice was a half-inch away from her ear, low, deep, rich and dangerous. She felt his breath, breathed in his maddening scent—clove and clean laundry and now a hint of whiskey—and she froze.
“ooooooh.” Lucy cooed into the V between Sylvia’s legs. “I think I know what she wants Jack.”
Jack’s answer was a low rumbling chuckle so close to Sylvia that she felt like he was inside her skull. “She’s got to tell me.” He said smoothly and then nipped her earlobe.
She couldn’t help it. The squeak that freed itself from her throat was embarrassing and mortifying and she felt like a silly virgin. Especially when he growled against her neck and nipped the flesh there.
She still couldn’t open her eyes. She was half afraid that it would be too real, that she’d finally see the man she loved in the way she’d been fantasizing about him for all these years; And she was half afraid he’d disappear entirely when she opened her eyes. That he’d evaporate back into the ether from whence he’d sprung.
Between her legs Lucy was stroking and kissing and teasing and taunting her and she whined. She wanted to come. She needed it. “Please!” she begged again and Lucy’s little finger increased the subtle pressure on her back entrance, making Sylvia wash over hot and cold and vibrate with anticipation.
“Please What Sylvia?” Purred Jack hungrily, his lips now lightly brushing her own.
“Jack—“ She whispered his name, hoping to God that it wouldn’t break the spell.
“That’s a good girl.” He said, and then ended her minor torture by covering her mouth with his own. He kissed her possessively and she found herself opening her mouth obediently to accommodate his bold exploration, capitulate to his arrogant conquest. She tasted the whiskey on his tongue as it plunged and plundered her mouth. And mint. He tasted clean and naughty all at the same time. She wanted to reach up and wind her fingers into his hair or run her fingertips over his strong jaw but she was more than a little unsure of whether or not she’d remain earthbound if the let go of her grip on the sheets.
She felt his weight pull the mattress down as he moved onto the bed. She wondered, with a flash of panic, if he was naked, but she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. Not yet. He kept kissing her, sapping her of her strength and her will and her reasoning. Then a large, heavy hand was on her breast and she thought she’d absolutely lose her mind. It was all too much. The amazing oral and the anal-flirtation and the smell of him and the sin of having another woman’s husband sucking on her tongue and tweaking her nipple—She needed to scream, she needed to get up and end this and, and, and—
“Oh” she said, “Oh,oh,oh,oh” She was starting to come. She exclaimed the small, inarticulate utterance right into his mouth, against his lips, on his tongue. She could feel ripples gathering, waves of pleasure pullimg up, beginning to crest inside if her, everything tensed and expanded and--
And then it stopped. Lucy’s mouth and fingers disappeared and Jack tore his mouth off hers and Sylvia was naked and shuddering and hanging on the brink. She snapped her eyes open, bewildered and desperate and maddened.
“Please!” She demanded, not even recognizing her own voice.
She looked from one to the other. They were smiling lasciviously. Jack was clothed and Lucy was completely nude. Sylvia almost couldn’t bear to look at her, except that the young woman was perfect and it was almost impossible not to stare at her, appreciate her, long for her.
“She asks so nicely wife.” Jack purred at Lucy, leaning toward the bouncy blonde and running his tongue over her glistening lips—lips, Sylvia realized, that were shining and wet with her arousal. She blushed with embarrassment and guilty excitement. “Mmmmmm.” Jack said and deepened his greedy taste of his wife’s wet, swollen lips. “She tastes good.”
Lucy licked and kissed her husband back. “She’s tight too.” Answered Lucy and bit down playfully on her husband’s lower lip.
He chuckled. “Your call Sweetness.” He almost whispered to her.
Lucy pulled out of the kiss and ran her big blue eyes up and down the length of Sylvia’s naked form appraisingly. “I want to watch you fuck her.” She told him with a giddy little shiver.
Sylvia’s eyes jumped to Jack—She was starting to feel a little more alert now and instead of things beginning to make more sense, things were getting more bizarre.
“Are you going to kill me?” Sylvia heard herself ask, startling the couple out of their intense eye communication. They both stared at Sylvia for a moment, apparently quite taken-aback.
Jack looked like he wanted to respond but before he could do so Lucy was sliding her body up Sylvia’s slowly, sensually. Lucy kissed her belly, the crest of her hip, she ran her tongue between her rib cage and captured one of her nipples in her mouth, sucking sweetly, not greedily, but worshipfully. Then she continued up, dropping tiny, warm, soft kisses along Sylvia’s collarbone in both directions before licking and kissing the soft tender hollow at the base of her throat. Sylvia arched her back and closed her eyes and found she was singularly thrilled at feeling Lucy’s nipples brushing her own.
She sighed and wondered if she’d even care if she died tonight, knowing she should probably be panicked or concerned, but feeling nothing but pleasure as Lucy trailed a curving line of kisses up her throat, over her chin and then finally arrived at her lips. Then Lucy kissed her.
And the kiss was so rich and deep and passionate that Sylvia couldn’t help but tremble. It was different than Jack’s—it was softer and yet no less erotic. It was subtle, yet she found Lucy’s exploration every bit as thorough and consuming.
And Lucy tasted sweet, and salty and she smelled of vanilla and something that reminded Sylvia of freshly baked dessert. She didn’t bother to fight the impulse to reach her hands up and run her hands through Lucy’s gorgeous, silken curls.
Sylvia felt Lucy smile against her lips and giggle. The young woman pulled back from the kiss enough to look Sylvia in the eyes. “Sylvie, I’ve had a crush on you since I was twelve.” She said with a mischievous smile.
What? Sylvia looked skeptical and searched Lucy’s eyes for the joke. But the girl seemed in earnest. “But—“
“And you’ve had a crush on Jack for years, right?” The girl said, and bit her lower lip over a sly smile.
Sylvia was mortified. Her mouth went dry and her eyes welled up. “I, I, I—“
Lucy shook her head, her curls bounced. She put one perfect finger over Sylvia’s mouth. “We’re not going to hurt you at all.” She smiled and giggled and tossed a quick look over her shoulder to her Husband. “Well, maybe, just a little bit—He’s pretty well hung.” She said, looking back at Sylvia and lowering her voice to a tantalizing whisper. “But he’ll be gentle.”
Sylvia’s mouth fell open underneath Lucy’s little finger and the girl laughed and moved back down over her conquest and captured a taut nipple once more.
Jack leaned down and devoured the other and Sylvia felt a tear slip over her cheekbone and bury itself behind her earlobe.
She sighed, feeling her nipples sucked-on, and nibbled, and licked, both-at-once, was one of the most exciting and eye-opening things she’d ever experienced. “Please.” She said again, this time certain, this time in control.
Both the Fontaines looked up and watched her expectantly. She was too embarrassed for words, too shy to tell them how very much she wanted this, so she bit her lip, and smiled, and nodded instead.
“That’s a very good girl Syl.” Jack said, and began to trace his fingers down the neat row of his shirt buttons. She met his eye and realized she wanted him more powerfully now that he was there, in her room, in her bed, than she ever could have imagined. He stood, shrugging off his button down and she marveled at the fit, toned expanse of his chest and the defined lines of his abs. He kept himself in very good shape. She loved the dark, olive-y mocha of his skin.
Lucy was running her hands all over Sylvia’s body, and the girl was good at knowing where to touch and tease and caress. Sylvia didn’t take her eyes off Jack though, and he was smiling a heart-melting half-smile at her. Lucy traced soft, tantalizing kisses along her neck and on her breasts but Sylvia watched as Jack reached to undo his belt, then the button on his trousers, then slowly he slid the zipper down and pushed the pants from his trim hips and let them drop to the floor.
Her breathing got quicker and she could feel herself getting wet and an insistent pulse began thrumming between her legs. She’d fantasized about this for five years of her life. Thought about it every day at work, daydreamed about it at home, journaled about it, wished for it, and masturbated to thoughts of what this moment would be like.
She licked her lips like a hungry cat and flicked her eyes to his. His startlingly light blue eyes always looked surprising and unexpected against his dark mixed-racial coloring, but tonight they looked especially shocking, perhaps because of the flash of electric heat behind them?
He gave her a tiny nod and she grinned. And she took his cue and looked down, waiting with a fluttering heart to see him in all his glory.
If she had been a cartoon character she was sure there’d have been an ‘ahwooogah’ sound and her eyeballs would have leapt from her skull; Maybe steam would have burst from her ears and she’d have filled up to her scalp with red-hot fire.
She’d heard he was well endowed, even before Lucy’s admission moments before—It was well talked-about in Cedar Falls that the man had been blessed with an exquisite gift, but he was even bigger than she’d dreamt. Lucy was right: that was very likely going to hurt.
“Jack.” Sylvia marveled unashamedly.
He smiled almost modestly and Lucy giggled into an ‘mmmmm’ sound. “I know, right?!” She whispered playfully into Sylvia’s ear.
It only took Jack a moment to slip out of his shoes and kick off the pants and boxer briefs and position himself between Sylvia’s legs.
“No, wait—“ Sylvia said and sat up a little.
They looked at her questioningly. She gave them a timid half-smile but screwed up enough courage to say what she wanted. Hell, a chance like this only came along once in a lifetime, if at all, so she’d be a fool to waste it.
“I want to kiss it.” She said frankly.
Jack raised his eyebrows and Lucy gasped before kissing Sylvia full on the lips again.
“Let’s do it together!” Lucy said with glee, her eyes shining and wide.
Sylvia nodded and felt bold enough to plant a kiss of her own of the girl’s perfect little cupid’s bow mouth. She slid her tongue into Lucy’s mouth and loved the feeling of the girl’s small tongue licking and playing with her.
When they broke the kiss Sylvia grinned. This was going to be the best damned New Year’s she’d ever had.
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