Authors: Aven Jayce
I’m in heaven.
My finger traces his
dark is lovely
tat while he puts on a condom. His smile’s
contagious and his eyes are set on mine until he’s inside, and at that moment
his eyes finally close and a heavy sigh is released from his mouth. It hurts a
little since I haven’t done it in so long, but his tender touch detracts from
the pain. There’s no movement from either of us. No words; just deep suggestive
breathing. He feels incredible and that’s what he ultimately says as we begin
making love, that I feel incredible to him.
I
can’t keep quiet any longer. I’ve got to say something about all of this.
Please don’t.
“You okay?” Dan asks.
Oh God, I hope I didn’t say that out
loud. “This is wonderful,” I whisper. “Keep going.”
We kiss and he pulls my legs upward to
wrap around his waist. I feel so close to him at this moment.
Divine,
this is basic missionary sex and he’s got complete control over you. It’s like
you’re trapped in some boring marriage back in the ‘50s. The only reason you
think it’s any good at all is because you haven’t had dick in years. Think
about it.
I’ve grown up, Violet, and if
you
think about it, I don’t need you
anymore. You’re just some lost and angry teenager who’s been stuck inside of me
for years, a part of me I used to hold onto because you were this way when Mom
and Dad were around. I see that now. I kept you around in my head because of
that, because I didn’t want to lose myself along with the two of them.
And
because you’re fucking lonely.
I needed to hold on to some part of my
past and you were the only thing I had left. I kept my inner voice from that
time period, never allowing it to mature, and I used your young teenage sexual
cravings to write those books. Well, I can take responsibility for my life now;
it’s time. This is the strongest I’ve been in over a decade and you sure as
fuck aren’t going to ruin any of this for me.
I’m
leaving.
Yes, that’s exactly right, you’re about
to.
“Dan?”
“Yes, stunning woman.” He looks into my
eyes and brushes my hair away from my cheeks. “Tell me anything,” he whispers
with a moan. “I’ll do anything for you. What do you need?”
I hesitate, looking deep into his lustful
eyes. His feelings for me are just as strong as mine for him. He shakes his
head and tells me I’m beautiful, then kisses my breasts.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he
whispers. “And I know you’re just as afraid to say it as I am. We both feel it
and that’s enough for right now. There’re other ways to express it.” He takes a
breath and fixes his lips to mine, keeping his thrusting hips at a steady
speed. My feet curl and then my muscles tighten throughout my body. I’m close
and he knows it.
After over an hour of cuddling, foreplay,
and his dick now pleasuring my clit, I’m finally ready. He moves faster, kisses
my neck, my chest, and my mouth. I take deep breaths and tilt my head back,
exposing my neck for more of his caressing nibbles. He moans, delighted to feel
the intense pulsations of my orgasm, to see my hands gripping the bed sheets,
to hear my high-pitched whimpering cries, and to feel my warm erotic breathing
on his cheeks. I gasp and he stops moving, his dick slowly becoming flaccid
inside of me. He holds the condom and pulls out, resting his head on my
shoulder.
“Did you cum?” I whisper.
“Yeah. Sorry I was quiet. I didn’t want
to distract you,” he pants. “I wanted to make sure... you were so close... I didn’t
want to mess anything up for you so I tried not to make a sound.” He turns on
his back and takes my hand, bringing it to rest over his racing heart. “Was
tonight better than the foot?” he asks.
“Not better, different.” I kiss his cheek
and snuggle next to him. “But don’t hold out for me. I want to know when you
cum. Let me enjoy it with you.”
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Tomorrow I’m going
to fuck you with my morning wood like the men in those western erotica books
you love, and I’ll make sure the feeling of my dick being inside of you lasts
all day. I want us both to be sore and in love as we shop at IKEA.”
I can’t help but laugh and Dan joins me.
I doubt that line has ever been used in the history of lovemaking. Sore and in
love as we shop at IKEA.
And he wasn’t joking.
I awake to his dick nudging between my
ass and before I can even open my eyes, Dan has me on my stomach and is bobbing
on top of me, as promised, like a cowboy riding his horse out on the western
plains. Fuck, it feels incredible. Long, hard, lunging insertions and dirty
talk. Now this is what I call a fuck.
He calls my vag his tight honey hole and
spits on my ass, inserting the tip of his finger inside. I scream and laugh and
then tell him to stop, that I’m not ready for that type of pleasure just yet;
and he does. He stops.
Good man.
“You said I shouldn’t hold out, so you’re
going to hear me and feel me cum this time.”
His balls slap against my flesh while he
holds my hands tightly above my head. Two minutes, three minutes, four... it’s
a miracle that I think I’m going to... yes, I might be able to... I’m so close
to...
“My God in all of
Mary-Mother-and-Joseph-Dear-Fucking-Lord, I’m going to cum,” he says.
He pulls out and tugs the condom off so I
can feel the warm shots of fluid on my back. “Oh, Jesus,” he says. “In darkness
of Hell I release my evil onto this woman.” And with a laugh he falls on top of
me.
I’m glad that was a joke because it sure
as fuck was starting to sound creepy. I’m religious, but that’s taking
fornicatin’
to a whole other level.
His chest pounds and our bodies are glued
together with his cum. “I can’t always be sweet,” he pants. “Damn, that was
good.”
“Like night and day.”
“Like Hayden Night,” he exhales. “I have
an erotic side that’s begging to play with you and I may have to unleash its
full range of savagery soon, but I hope to God when I do that you don’t take a
butcher knife to my dick.”
I can’t even imagine what he means by
that. It’s actually kind of exciting to fantasize about. “Are you going to gag
me? Handcuff me to the bed? I’m curious.”
I roll over and he repositions himself on
top so we’re eye-to-eye. We engage in conquering one another’s mouths with
swirling tongues. Our morning breath doesn’t bother me; it’s too early in the
relationship to let such bullshit stand in the way of a beautiful and loving
morning kiss.
He grins and his fingers do a march down
to my clit. It seems a shame that I’ve deprived myself of this for so many
years and I’m happy being a hedonist while he takes control. I was a moment
away from an orgasm when he pulled out and now it should only take a few
minutes to get back... nope, a few seconds. Wow.
His fingers writhe inside while his thumb
rubs my clit, causing my body to twist underneath him.
“That’s delightful,” I whisper. “I’m so
close.”
“I know.”
He pulls the sheet over our heads and we
speak softly and sensually to one another until I’m seconds away.
“Please don’t slow down,” I say. “Please,
I’m almost there.”
“Mmm, losing control? Maybe you should
beg me.” He stops and taps a finger lightly over my clit like a ticking watch.
Each contact on my flesh shoots quickly inside, causing short shocks of
electricity to fill my lower body. It’s starting... I’m going to...
“Dan!” I plead.
“You need something?” he asks. Our lips
touch and I’m denied the opportunity to speak. I mumble against his mouth then
bite his lip and call out ‘finger me’ when I can finally talk.
“Okay, beautiful queen of
raspberry-scented squish mittens, your request will be fulfilled. Playtime’s
over.”
My laughter stops the moment his fingers
bore between my legs. Oh fuck that firm and curved middle one is merciless. I
grip his hair while he attacks my tits. He’s a licker, a biter, a sucker, and
has the swiftest two-finger moves out of all the men at the Comfort Inn; fingers
that lead me to my final point of eruption. A jolt, babbling noises tumbling
from my mouth, and shaky legs ending with one fiery wave through my body. Ahh.
“My two-finger vagina king,” I exhale,
wheezing for air.
“Hell, that’s a good name.”
I’m dusted with delicate kisses in the
morning sun and as I lie next to him, I try to think of the last time I felt so
happy and content with a man. I believe the answer is never. I’ve never
experienced such emotions.
This is the first relationship I’ve
pursued for reasons other than for fear of being alone, and I’ll admit I didn’t
realize I was living my life that way until I met him.
And I wouldn’t expect anything more than
to have our first time be in a value-priced hotel next to IKEA.
I listen to the birds chirp in the bushes
below our window, singing a Sesame Street style high-pitched and buoyant tune;
or maybe it sounds that way because I just got laid. They could be chirping the
theme from the movie
Jaws
and I’d
still perceive it as some pretty love song. “Dun-dun... dun-dun... dun-dun...”
“Is that Jaws?” Dan asks. “Are you
planning an attack on me or something?”
A blaring car alarm, one that also
reminds me of a cheerful song, startles the birds away as I stretch my arms
above my head and yawn. Yep, must be the fucking that’s making everything sound
superb.
Dan darts to the window after hearing the
alarm. “How the fuck did you just predict something was about to happen?” he
asks. I continue dun-dunning, lost in my own little world of sunshine and
birds. “Div, stop,” he says and then I hear him mutter ‘shit this’ and ‘fuck
that’ as he dresses in a fury, putting on a t-shirt to conceal his semen
encrusted stomach before rushing out the door.
“Some fucker hit my Cherokee,” he fumes
and vanishes from our room.
I make a mental note that birds have
become significant in our relationship, those devious little things. Wait...
someone hit the Cherokee?
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
I
didn’t predict anything was going to
happen and I can’t explain why I started to sing the theme for
Jaws
the moment before Dan’s Cherokee
was backed into by some moron driving a Chevy Suburban; a beast of a truck. It
was just a coincidence. My life is full of them.
The guy in the Suburban is a fuck muppet.
He insists he barely tapped the Cherokee with his car and the dent and
scratches on the front passenger side had already been there. He also says
there’s no way he could’ve done
that
much damage. Then he tries to play us like we’re as dumb as dog shit and says
he’s unsure he even hit it, yet somehow, it was rocked hard enough to set off
the alarm. Yeah buddy, that makes a lot of sense.
I call the police for Dan and after a
report is filed and insurance information is exchanged, the guy drives off in
huff. What an asshole.
Luckily, the event is a small distraction
to our morning. We shower and drive to IKEA which is a wacky-fantastical place.
I’ve flipped through the catalogs, but have never been to an actual, physical,
store. Cool gadgets, trendy furniture, good food, and the best part, it’s
affordable for a single woman who survives on a college professor’s salary.
Dan says he’s never been here either. It
was just a random suggestion in order to spend some time with me outside his
hometown, a place where it’s nearly impossible to go out without running into
someone he knows.
So we spend hours shopping our asses off
and pick up a bunch of unnecessary, but ‘why not’ items, like cookie cutters,
towels, candles, and lingonberry preserves. We share a plate of Swedish
meatballs and mashed potatoes for lunch then buy matching floor lamps for each
of our bedrooms. I know, gag, right? I don’t care if it’s the ultimate twosome
thing to do, I’m having a good time and anyone who tries to bring me down can
just fuck off.
We drive home in the early afternoon and
I realize I can’t take forever to tell him some of my bigger secrets. He said
he wanted to know, so here we go.
I wait until he drops my bags next to my
door, my heart racing and my legs like Jell-O.
“Thanks for agreeing to all of that,” he
says. “It’s not very often I try to disguise the desire to fuck a woman in a
hotel with a shopping excursion.”
“Oh, is that what it was?” I laugh
anxiously.
“Yeah, I used you,” he grins. “Sorry
about that.”
“Well I had fun using you, too. What are
you going to do now?”
He looks back at the Cherokee and shakes
his head. “Take my car somewhere for an estimate on repairs. I still can’t
believe that guy was such a dipshit. What about you?” He clasps his hands
behind my back and pulls me to his waist.
“Set up some new lectures for classes,
basic catch-up stuff for school.”
“My professors were all in their fifties
or older, like Margaret. It’s hard for me to picture you as one of them,
especially considering I know that you shave. If I had someone as hot as you
standing in front of me each day all I’d be able to think about is burying the
bishop.”
“What?” I laugh.
“You heard me. I think you’re beautiful
and I can’t wait to see you again.” He slides my hand over his growing erection
and we kiss. “You tired of me yet, Div?”
“Attracted and fascinated, but no, not
tired. I’ll be ready for more vagina king action soon, but right now I’m pretty
sore.”
He nods. “We don’t have to fuck on our
next date, I just enjoy spending time with you.”
Okay, here I go. I’m going to tell him.
“Dan, how would you feel about dating a
woman who... who writes... I know I mentioned my books to you before.”
He nods. “Women’s studies. I remember.”
“They’re not the kind of women’s studies
you’d find in academia. They’re erotic novels.”
“No shit?” He nods again.
“They’re dark stories about my parents,
my life as a teen, and how my mom and dad were torn from each other through
death.”
He nods. He’s doing that a lot.
“What’s your pen name?” he asks dryly.
“I’d rather not say. I don’t want you to
read them until you hear about my father. You’re too close to me now to learn
about his death in a book, I’d rather tell you in person.”
“I promise, I just want to know your
name. I won’t read it if you don’t want me to.”
I nod. The nodding’s contagious.
“Violet Cuddlecock.”
“Haven’t heard of her,” he grins. “You
want me to read them and write a review? I can market your books and get you a
boost in sales.”
What the hell? That’s not the reaction I
was expecting. How did this big secret of mine turn into nothing to him? I
don’t get it.
“No, I just wanted to be open about it.
You don’t care, or find it odd, or anything?”
He stares into my eyes and shrugs. That’s
a strange response coming from him.
“Let me tell you a story my aunt told me
a few years ago that relates to all of this. You remember those paint-by-number
kits that came out in the ‘50s?” he asks.
“Yeah, they still sell ‘em in the hobby
stores. I painted a few as a kid.”
“They were marketed as something anyone
could create. Aunt Emma, Grandpa Marty, Mom, Dad, and little sister Susie could
all become artists by following the simple steps. Once completed, placed in a
frame, and hung on the wall, a person could say he or she was an
artist
.
Everyone
was an artist. But it wasn’t just the kits. In high school
or college if someone took an art class and made a pretty painting or took a
photograph, all of a sudden they were artists too. No background or formal
training, just by creating one piece they could claim the term. This is how my
aunt explains what it’s like being an artist to me. It’s the only way she could
get me to understand that when I made my parents a wire sculpture of a dog in
high school, I wasn’t even close to being a part of her world. She says on
every street corner, of every town, in each neighborhood, and in every family,
there’s someone who claims to be or to know an artist. It’s offensive to her.”
“What are you getting at? That I’m fake
or something? That I’m not really a writer?” I’m starting to get a little
aggravated. He’s putting me down, isn’t he?
“No. I’m saying the erotic book bug is
similar. A lot of people started writing them after reading the bestsellers,
thinking they could come up with something of higher quality, but most of it is
pretty basic, unoriginal, and cliché crap, just like a painting kit you’d buy
in the store. I enjoy the sex in the books, but the plots fucking suck.”
“I understand and I often say that
myself, but my books are different.”
“That’s a very common and defensive
response.”
“You’re being an ass.”
“I’m not trying to be, but the reality is
it’s not in-depth philosophical writing or anything. I’m not saying it’s bad,
it’s just not a rarity, like claiming to be an artist. I bet fifty erotic
writers live in this area. Look at how oversaturated the market is these days.
Everyone and their great grandmother writes a book about fucking.”
“My books aren’t about fucking!”
“Div, don’t get so upset. I just....”
“My books have classy erotic scenes that
are based on actual events and no one else has a story about two parents ripped
from her life in such horrific events and at such a young age.”
“Actually, I’ve read a lot...”
“Shut up, James Daniel!” I yell. “I
should’ve never told you.”
“My full name? You
are
pissed off. Okay, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m being a dick and
I apologize.”
“Too late, you made it clear how you feel
and now I know the truth. You think I’m trash.”
“Far from it. Let me explain something to
you.”
“You already did. I don’t want to hear
anymore.”
“God Div, don’t be so touchy, give me a
chance, alright?”
I sigh. I’m being a total bitch to him
and all he’s doing is offering his take on the genre, and it’s not a jab toward
me, indirectly maybe it is, but not my books specifically. The fact of the matter
is I get defensive because of my parents and not the books.
“I’m sorry, go ahead,” I say.
I’m surprised he’s still in front of me
after all that. He should’ve called me an asshole and walked away.
“My job, as you know, is in marketing and
advertising. Writing articles and posting reviews on a company’s product is how
I spend most of my days. I write for major shopping sites and blogs, and what I
say isn’t bogus in any way. I look into the products I’m reviewing and test a
lot of the items first hand. Businesses need people like me. Think about it, if
you go online to make travel reservations and a rental car company has two
below average write-ups and another one in the same area has rave reviews,
which one are you going to chose?”
“What does that have to do with me?” I
ask.
“Nothing, I guess. I was trying to
explain my reaction. I’ve written both positive and negative reviews for
authors after receiving free copies of their books and a small payment, kinda
like Kirkus reviews, only not as high-end. My opinions are based on what I’ve
experienced through reading. I’m not trying to sound harsh, if anything, it’s
just the opposite; I’m numb to it and it doesn’t shock me that you write in
that genre, but if you want, I can do a suburban white boy cheer and call out a
‘fuck yeah,’ to show my support.”
“Why do I feel like you’re over
explaining all of this?”
“It’s personal. Think of it this way,” he
looks around and then turns back to me. “The guy next door could be a writer in
his spare time too.”
“Yes, fisherman stories.”
“No, the proper way to gut and prepare a
good fish for consumption,” he grins. “Anyway, I think the Cherokee situation
is making me sound cold right now, so don’t be too irritated if I come across
as an ass. Just because I’m not surprised or taken aback doesn’t mean your side
job isn’t fucking fantastic.” He places his forehead to mine. “What you do, no
matter what it might be, is special. I’m just in a foul mood because recess is
over.”
I feel the same, which seems ridiculous
since there’s only a hundred feet between us, but as we kiss goodbye my
emotions take control and I hold him in my arms until he has to back away.
“Sorry, Div. I need to go. I’ll call you
tomorrow.”
I watch during the ten seconds it takes
him to walk to his place, waiting to hear his usual happy whistling, but the
tune never comes.
Don’t
you think it’s a bit early in this relationship to be taking overnight trips?
No.
I
know you’ve been alone for a while, but tell your heart to slow down.
“It’s hard for me to say goodbye to
someone I have feelings for, even for a night,” I whisper. “You never know if
you’re ever going to see them again.”
To my right, as I walk inside, is a wall
of photographs of my parents. Dan has a collection of books and I have my mom
and dad. Floor to ceiling, left to right, small and large photographs of them
together; at their wedding, on vacations, holding hands, kissing, a loving
embrace, and one, just one of me. It’s from the day I was born. I’m in my
mother’s arms and my father has his hand on her shoulder while he’s kissing my
cheek. I’d like to say I look happy to be out of the womb, but I’m screaming my
lungs out. My face is red and full of tears.
I never hung that photo. It’s on the
coffee table in the middle of the room, placed between their two urns.
My inner voice tells me it’s morbid, but
I assure myself that it’s more comforting to have a shrine than to put my
parents away in a box. This is one of the reasons why I don’t allow people
inside my home, and probably also why I spend most of my time upstairs. I’ve
turned my living room into a memorial so I can visit with them each day as if
they’re still a part of my life, and yet unless I’m making sheep noises, it’s
hard to be in the room. I get that. I thought it would be reassuring, but the
truth is it’s just a way I’m holding on to my past. And now, I’m full of
anxiety whenever I try to take the photos down.
Well
gee, that oughta tell you something. There’s a big difference between a couple
of photographs on a wall and an entire room full of them, not to mention all
the other shit in here.
My inner voice is right.
Violet.
I’m no longer giving her a name or
speaking to her. I’ve decided she either needs to get on board with who I’ve
become, or shut the hell up.
Shit,
really?
But she’s right. I’ve gone overboard.
A pair of my mother’s shoes sits next to
my front door and I have one of her coats in my entryway closet. Once a month I
spritz a small amount of her favorite perfume on the fabric. I sniff it
whenever I open the door and it’s like she’s standing next to me, waiting for
me to hand her the coat so we can go out together. It’s calming in that I
remember her wearing it in my pre-teen years, along with that scent when she
would walk me to the bus stop.