Read Four Play: A Collection of Novellas Online
Authors: Amalie Silver
It was a four-hour drive from Chicago, but it flew by in a flash.
My mind raced with the idiocy of my actions, and cursing my team for convincing me that leaving in the bottom of the sixth inning of our World Series game was the right thing to do. But my stomach tumbled and my heart raced thinking that I couldn’t get to Nolan fast enough.
On my way through town, I drove by the Jiffy Lube and searched the parking lot but didn’t spot his truck. Even more determined—now that I was only minutes from his apartment—I let my foot slam on the gas pedal as my grip tightened against the steering wheel.
I arrived in his parking lot and shoved my keys in my purse. Running past his truck, I hurried to the front door and found his name on the registry. My thumb pressed his apartment number repeatedly and I waited for his voice.
Seconds turned into a minute, and with the intense rush of anticipation, I swore it had been a half hour that I’d stood impatiently. Doubts and regrets cluttered my head as I realized I hadn’t thought once what I’d say to him.
It had been three weeks that we’d spent apart; there was a possibility that he’d moved on, or worse, he had found someone new. I also had to consider the fact that he might not have forgiven me for acting so irrationally.
I leaned up against the brick of his building as the thump from my chest slowed. My dry throat ached as I tried to swallow, and the summer heat was so consuming that I began to feel claustrophobic.
I pressed the buzzer one last time and looked up to the windows.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and walked slowly back to my car. As I dug into the bottom of my purse to find my keys, I heard a voice call from behind me.
“Jack?”
I swung around and saw Nolan standing on the steps of the entry. My heart fluttered and picked up its pace again, and the sun was even hotter as the nighttide began its ascent.
“Nolan,” I whispered.
We stared at each other. He kept his hands in his pockets, and I was too stunned to move.
He cocked his head to one side and bounced down the steps.
“Are you okay?” he asked, walking toward me.
I nodded and swallowed.
“You sure?” He suddenly seemed nervous and he looked around the parking lot for some kind of clue as to why I was there. “You’re supposed to be in Chicago.”
“I know.” I nodded.
He took long strides until we stood face to face. “But you’re here instead. Why?”
I took a deep breath and steadied my nerves. “I left the game.”
His eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest. He nodded, so I continued.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” I began, keeping my head down as I fiddled with the mini softball on my keychain. “How I handled our situation deserves an apology. And I am truly sorry.”
My heart began to break a little, thinking about how I’d hurt him.
“You left the championship game to apologize to me? Are you crazy?”
“Maybe. I’m not really sure anymore.” I laughed, and then my tone grew more serious. “But I also knew that the only way to prove to you that you meant more to me than the game was to come here tonight and tell you. In person.”
He licked his lips and tucked his hands in his back pockets. “So you thought you could just come here tonight and apologize, and I’d magically want to be with you again? That somehow leaving in the middle of the game would show me that you finally give a shit about something other than softball?” He took a step closer until his chest brushed against mine.
My breath caught and I nodded, keeping my eyes closed. “Yes.”
He reached up and cupped my cheeks in his hands. “Jack, look at me.”
I opened my eyes, feeling ridiculous for the tears that made my vision glossy.
“It’s about damn time,” he whispered as he brought his lips to mine.
Red toenails.
High arches.
Thin ankles.
Black stockings.
I had never wanted a woman more than I wanted Katie Shields
—
or ‘Miss Shields,’ as I had been forced to always call her.
Until this moment.
My eyes wander higher to her calves, knees, and thighs as she sits on a white Chippendale chair at her vanity. I can almost taste her desperation from across the room as she stares me down with her hungry eyes.
We’ve both waited for this moment for too long.
As she stands, she wastes no time in removing her clothes, and my dick twitches as I continue to watch from my place on the bed. She’s putting on this show for me: each movement thought out, a slow torture.
After her clothes come off she stands in front of me with one finger in her mouth, looking down innocently at the bra and panties that remain. But if my prediction is correct, she’ll leave them on for a while to taunt my imagination.
Her hand trails from her mouth to her cleavage, and her fingers brush between her perfect tits. My eyes sweep across her flat stomach and down to her black panties, where her thighs rub together in anticipation.
“Touch me, Simon,” she pleads.
My eyes remain hooded as I rise from the bed. I take my time strolling toward her, staying in control the entire time, reassuring her that I’m in command of this. The air leaves her chest, defining her ribs, making her breasts peak and her stance straighten.
There’s a slight apprehension in her eyes, an excited fear of the unexpected.
It’s a suspense that tickles both of our insides. And the smallest sound, taste, smell, or touch makes our skin feel like it’s on sensory overload.
I reach my hand out to tuck a dark tendril of hair behind her ear, and her eyes flutter shut at my touch. I grip her chin and jerk her eyes to mine.
“Shame on you for making me wait so long.” My firm hold keeps her head still, and I wait until her eyes grow lazy in submission before I appraise her body. Her skin is tan and supple, her lips red and plump. And her nipples poke through the satin of her bra.
I motion with a flick of my chin toward the bed. “Lie down.”
She nods timidly and crawls on top of the sheets.
“Stay there. Just like that.” Her ass is straight up in the air and her thighs are spread slightly as she waits for me.
She’s so beautiful. Everything about her is perfection. She’s my ideal woman in every way: from the small divot in her chin to her long black silky hair. To think I’ve come as far as I have since the first day I laid eyes on her makes my chest expand with pride. But I need to take this slow
—
slower than my greedy hands and dick have planned.
To think about a woman for so long, so hard, and with such intensity; I’ve played this moment over in my head thousands of times. Now that I’m finally here, I need to savor her so that she’s guaranteed to return for more. I can’t blow this.
I strip down, removing my shirt, pants, and boxers, and crawl onto the bed. She’s still lying submissively, her lips parted, her arms above her, and her eyes on me. My fingers dip underneath the thread of her panties, and her back arches as she exhales. With one yank I have the silk down to her knees, and her bare ass is in view. My eyes close and I sit back on my heels, privately thanking any god who can hear me. Miss Shields must hear me make a sound, because she giggles, and my eyes open.
“Turn over, Katie.”
She quickly follows my orders and lies on her back. I remove her panties slowly until she has nothing on but her bra. “Take it off,” I demand.
Reaching behind, she unclasps her bra, letting the material hover over her chest as a tease, and I know she’s enjoying every second of this.
“I’ve wanted you for so long, Simon.” Her words sing to me and echo in my ears.
“I know, baby.” I snatch her bra away and throw it to the floor. For a moment she looks shy, covering herself with her forearms. I ease myself on top of her and pin her arms to her sides, just before taking her dark nipple into my mouth.
I can’t seem to slow myself; I’m too needy for her. I want all of her at once: her skin, her hair, her tits, her pussy, and that beautiful ass
—
everything she’ll give me. Even though I know she’s a woman I should take my time with, I feel ravenous and Katie Shields is my only satisfaction. I open her thighs wide, and dip down to taste her. Shuddering, I delight in her exquisite flavor.
Her body is immaculate, tender, and ripe for me as I dip my tongue inside her. She’s drenched, and I feel another stab of pride knowing that I was the one to get her there. I hum a vibration against her, and she rewards me by whispering my name.
Her hips begin to move against me and her fingers find my hair. She pulls gently, rocking against my face and uttering small, sweet groans. A smile spreads across my face as I stop and look up at her.
Gliding her hands down to her nipples, she tweaks and twists them, and I think briefly about asking her to pleasure herself for me. But I realize there’s no way I’d allow it; I want to be buried deep inside of her.
I slam my body forward, keeping her knees at my shoulders. Her body shifts quickly with mine and she grunts unexpectedly, causing my smile to turn wicked. I can feel her pussy at the tip of my cock, begging for me to intrude her, but instead I tease her with it.
Her lips stay parted in surprise, and I take my opportunity to indulge in a kiss. I keep a firm hold of her thighs at my shoulders while I take her mouth onto mine.
It’s frenzied and eager, and I make no apologies for it. My mouth is wet, and tastes like my Katie. This seems to make her appetite shift into overdrive, and she’s just as impatient when she kisses me back.
Without notice I thrust myself inside of her, and the sensation shocks her. She holds her breath and throws her head back.
She’s tighter than I thought she’d be
—
or perhaps she’s waited all these years for only me.
I ease out of her slowly and back in again. Jesus, she’s wet. I take my mouth away from hers and watch her face contort in pained gratification. Her eyes are squinted and she’s lets out a breath. Black hair cascades on the pillow, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth. I move my hips slowly at first, and she moans with pleasure.
I pick up the pace, grinding myself in deeper
—
harder
—
and I know there’s no way either of us will last long. Our bodies are too damn perfect for one another’s for more than five minutes of this. So I close my eyes and soak in every moment I can.
“Simon,” she whispers.
My pace is vigorous, and I barely hear her. My tongue is circling her areola, and when I hear the echo of her voice, my thrust quickens even more as I trap her small nipple between my teeth, feeling it pucker.
I’m so damn close
—
within seconds of coming. I feel the orgasm build as waves of euphoria encompass me.
“Simon?”
“Holy shit,” I sputter, unable to tame it any longer. She grips my hair harder, my thrusts become fiercer, and I lose any semblance of control as I pound into her, reveling as the last of the orgasm rips through. I grind my body against hers and I come quietly, yet crudely.
“Simon? You in there?” I hear the voice again along with a knock at my door. My heart races wildly as I open my eyes up and reach for the towel on the floor.
“Yeah, Ma. I’m here. I’m…resting,” I manage to choke out, feeling hot and flustered.
“Okay, I’ll leave you alone. We just got home and we’re going to go to bed,” Mom says quietly through the door.
I swallow. “Okay. Goodnight.” I clean myself off and throw the towel on my nightstand, knocking over the bottle of lotion, which makes me roll my eyes.
After putting my boxers back on, I climb into my empty bed and close my laptop, still feeling frustrated.
I don’t know how much longer this fantasy of my teacher will suffice. I want her so desperately sometimes that I wonder if my dick will explode if I don’t feel her wrapped around it soon.
I turn on to my side and close my eyes, thinking of her gorgeous face when I’ll see her at debate next week.
I wake the next morning and hear the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen. After a piss and quick stretch, I head straight for my desk and pull up my password-protected Excel sheets: my babies. I have an Excel spreadsheet for just about everything in my life.
The first document is a schedule of all the girls that I’ve said I’d keep in contact with after I’ve fooled around with them—cell phone numbers and addresses. I’ve also charted the dates, locations, and certain things they enjoyed: If she was a soft touch kind of girl. Did she expect sweet nothings whispered in her ear afterwards? Did she like it rough and hard? And could I get away with wiping my dick on her skirt and leaving without saying a word?
I set the alarm on my phone with a message with each girl’s name—as a reminder to text them at certain times for the next week—and stare at Andrea’s name.
She brought the total count to nine last week. Nine notches of sexual exploration. The ninth girl I’ve charmed, seduced, screwed, and promised to call the next day.
Glancing back up at my computer screen, I look at each of the names, then stop when I get to the bottom.
Andrea is what I categorize as the
Volkswagen
.
I first got the idea for categorizing girls based on cars a little over a year ago. For this category, its purpose is to say she’s efficient, but exotic in her own right. Not quite like the
Ford
—which will be explained later—
Volkswagen
means "people's car" in German. She’s sweet, has a lot of friends, and you’d never predict the kind of smooth and easy ride she gives just by looking at her.
Each girl is then categorized even further into a specific model—in this case, Andrea started out the evening as the Beetle—but by the time the night ended, she was a shiny new Passat.
Then there is the girl that every guy wants to be with and every girl wants to be. She’s the
Jaguar.
You know—the sleek, trim, beautiful model that’s all about showing off to your friends. It’s the ride you’ve dreamed about your entire life; you know it’ll be smooth, unforgettable, and unattainable.
Miss Shields is what I consider
my Jaguar
.
Not only after the animal—an animal who has a strong bite, does the majority of its hunting around dawn and dusk, and is more than likely to stalk-and-ambush its prey rather than chase it—but also after the original 1922 slogan of the British sports car: “Grace, Space, Pace.” The Jaguar is the kind of woman you don’t rush, unless it’s on her terms. She’s at the top of her food chain. And she’s the kind of woman you want to pamper and polish.
I’ve had sex nine times in my life—with nine unique and perfectly attractive girls. Not bad, considering I’m a senior in high school and just turned eighteen.
Now I’m looking for one more.
I decided a long time ago that ten was my magic number. Why? Ten is when I can say I’m experienced. When my sexual conquests hit double digits, I can feel confident enough to get Miss Shields.
I just need one more—one more willing participant in this game of the flesh—and then I can say I’m man enough to have her. Worthy enough. Because she’s the kind of woman that would expect only the best.
My body still buzzes from last night’s fantasy, and it hums from her imaginary touch. One day I’d capture my
Jaguar
.
The memory of our first encounter still lingers in my mind after all this time.
It was during a party over the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school.
My parents were rich, so that afforded me a certain kind of status at my school. But I wasn’t a jock. And I wasn’t the fucking prom king. But in my own small world of geeks and outcasts, I was king. And the chicks ate my I’m-too-cool-to-hang-with-the-popular-crowd attitude with a fucking spoon.
That night at the party I’d stayed outside by the pool in the backyard most of the night, alone. Kids would come and go, and I could hear the laughter and music coming from inside the house, but I never ventured back in.
It wasn’t until about eleven o’clock that I questioned my presence there at all, and made my way around the house to get to my car.
Well, she wasn’t exactly standing. She had just stepped out of a taxi and was attempting to walk into her house next door. But she kept stumbling and sobbing. After the taxi drove away, I found myself walking toward the weeping but sexy woman. She had fallen to her knees, and something about her had me reaching out and helping her up. And yeah, I couldn’t help but notice her pink panties underneath her skirt—something that gave my dick a five-alarm jerk alert—but I covered her up to give her some dignity. Then I helped her into the house and onto her couch.
She never did tell me why she’d been
crying
, but she didn’t need to tell me she’d been
drinking
. It was obvious. But after I served her a glass of water and she changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants, she was able to speak.
I had no idea who she was until she informed me that she was an English teacher at my school and she coached the debate team.
We talked well into the night. She listened to what I had to say. She acknowledged me. Now, the recollection is hazy and I can barely remember what we spoke about, but I had such a connection with her that night—so much more of one than I’d ever had with anyone. I fantasized about all the things we’d do, and all the places I’d take her. I even indulged in the thought of taking her to my getaway in the woods.
She even gave me a hug when I was about to leave. Physical contact, even of the nonsexual variety, from a hot woman was all I needed to indulge in a marathon tug-fest later.
You see, Miss Shields—in all of her vulnerable, hot teacher glory—had given me a glimpse of that seemingly unattainable goal that I wanted so badly I could taste it.
Because I, Simon Blackwell, III, was hot for my teacher, and I was going to seduce her right out of her skimpy, too-sexy-for-her-own-good panties if it was the last thing I did.
Everyone has that moment of definition, when the clarity of who you want to be is so vivid in your mind that you can’t turn back once you’ve caught that glimpse. A goal that you see and then seek: it’s the moment you decide your future.
This was that moment for me.
Miss Shields was my
Jaguar,
and I planned to have one hell of a ride.