LoveLines (21 page)

“Fuck yeah.”

“You’re so bad,” I whispered.

“Do you forgive me for it?”

I slid my arms around his waist. “I’ll do something even better.”

“Oh yeah?”

I nodded and kissed him tenderly. And then I unbuckled his belt.

“Bailey, I was k
idding,” he said, but he made no move to stop me.

“Bullshit
, you were kidding,” I replied, and tugged his jeans down his legs. His boxers went next, and I stared at his hard penis, suppressing the urge to giggle about how it got that way. Counting. For Christ’s sake. I couldn’t have found a better boyfriend.

“I’m
gonna blow you so hard,” I said, gazing up at him. “And you’re gonna count the strokes.”

“Me?”

“Well, I can’t very well do it with my mouth full,” I replied. “This is your twisted game, mister. Start counting.”

I slid my mouth over his shaft, listening as he hissed.

“One.”

I pulled away and stuck out my tongue, running it softly along the underside of his penis, all the way to the head, swirling it around
the tip and tasting the saltiness of his precome.

“I’m co
nfused,” he breathed. “Is that two?”

I ignored him and took him in my mouth again
, relaxing my throat and pushing my face farther down, down, down until he was almost completely in.

“Fuck me,” he moaned.

I pulled back. “I don’t hear you counting.”

“I don’t know what number we’re on,” he said, holding my head and pushing his dick against my lips. “Just suck my cock.”

“Count,” I demanded, and he shoved his penis in my mouth. I squealed.

“I’ll count, you little
cocktease.” He pumped his dick in my mouth, counting each stroke out loud, holding my head as I moaned and pushed against his thighs. I really wasn’t trying to get away. I just wanted him to think I was.

He pulled out suddenly and w
addled to the dresser. He took out a tie and turned to me.

“I’m taking over this entire operation,” he said.

I wanted him to. I wanted to be trussed up with all his ties. I couldn’t make sense of the freedom I felt when I let go and let him control me.

He shed his pants and underwear, then hauled me off the floor. He sat down on the bed and turned me around, securing my wrists behind my back with his tie.

“I never see you wear ties at work,” I said.

“It’s not really a thing anymore. Work culture’s changed. Now it’s all about the unbuttoned collar and suit jacket,” he explained, pulling the knot tighter. He spun me around. “I
wanna look at your ass while you blow me.”

I nodded, and he unbuttoned my jeans, pushing them down my legs and instructing me to step out of them. I waited for further orders.

“You’ve got everyone fooled but me,” he said thoughtfully, staring at my red panties.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’ve masturbated in front of your other boyfriends,” he replied.

I shook my head. “I swear to God I haven’t.”

“Hmm.”

I chewed my lower lip.

“Spread your legs,” he demanded. I obeyed. “You wear those shirts buttoned all the way up, but I know you, Bailey,” he said, running his fingers lightly over my crotch. “And I think you’re holding out on me.”

I shook my head. “I’m a good girl,” I pouted.

“Oh, you wanna play that game?” he asked, pushing my panties aside and rubbing my silky folds.

“But I am,” I insisted, panting lightly.

He was up in a flash, pushing my face into his bed. “God, I love your ass,” he breathed, stripping my panties and fingering me from behind.

I squirmed and gasped into his comforter.

“This is my favorite kind of fishing,” he said.

My face burned bright red, lying there hooked on his finger like a trout. No
no, not a trout. Some other pretty fish. I wanted to be a pretty fish. Like a rainbow fish.

“You
gonna be a good girl and suck my cock?” he asked.

“Yes!”

He pulled me to my knees and sat on the bed in front of me. I licked my lips and waited for him to tell me what to do.

“It’s all you, Bailey,” he said, pulling my hair up in a loose ponytail and holding it in his hand.

I bent over, taking him in my mouth again. I was better at it when I used my hand, too, but I realized I’d have to do the best I could.

“One. Two. Three . . .” he counted.

I found a rhythm and stroked him, unable to keep the spit from dribbling down his shaft. It was a mess, my mouth grew tired, and I tried to ask for a mini break.

“What’s that?” he said, leaning over. He held my face on his cock.

“Bray!” I cried.

“A break? You need a break?”

I nodded quickly, and he stroked my cheek.

“No, honey,” he said, holding my hair firmly. “No break. Keep sucking.”

I squealed as he gently pushed my face down on his dick. I choked and screamed, feeling him swell in my mouth. He controlled the remainder of the blow job—moving my head as he wished, stroking my cheek as I moaned and begged for release.

“
Shhh,” he whispered, and then he threw his head back, twisting his hand in my hair harder as he came in my mouth. He groaned, holding me still, making sure I took every last drop. He pulled out, watching my face carefully.

“Wh
at are you gonna do with all that semen in your mouth?” he asked, grinning maliciously.

I tried to stand up
but lost my balance and fell to the side. He laughed.

“Were you trying to make it to the bathroom to spit it out?”

I nodded.

“No, honey,” Reece said. “I need you to swallow it.”

My eyes grew wide.

“Go on.”

I scowled. He bent over and picked me up like a baby, laying me carefully on the bed. I twisted my body, trying to free my wrists that were still tied behind my back. He shook his head.

“Swallow.”

I grunted. He placed a pillow under my hips to ease the pressure on my wrists.

“Swallow,” he repeated.

I squealed.

He spread my legs and dipped his face between them, licking my swollen pussy.

“Somebody’s wet,” he noted.

I tried to buck him off me
, and he pushed my knees into the bed, holding me spread wide.

“Bailey, Bailey, Bailey,” h
e said, staring at me between my legs. “You have the prettiest little pussy. And she looks like she needs to get off. Badly.” He paused and looked up at me. “So swallow my come so I can make her feel good.”

I thrust my hips forward. I was completely powerless against my sexual needs. My brain said not to give into his brutishness (even though I secretly liked it), but my body rebelled against every thought.

“Awww, you want my mouth on your pussy?” he asked, watching my hips move desperately.

I whimpered.

He bent down and kissed me gently, teasing me open with his tongue. He kept it there, right at my opening, torturing me. And then he spoke against my flesh.

“Swallow my come, and I’ll make you come.”

For the record, I don’t care what any woman says. No one likes swallowing come. And if she says she does, she’s just trying to be cool. It’s disgusting and vomit-inducing. The only reason we do it is because it drives men wild. Or in this case, the only way to get eaten out. I swallowed, trying hard to ignore the burn as it slid down my throat, leaving a nice bleachy aftertaste.

“Ugh!” I cried. “Yuck!
Fluck!”

“‘Yuck’ and ‘
fluck,’ huh?” Reece asked.

“You’re an oral sex bully!” I gasped.

“Oh, Bailey, hush up,” Reece replied, before plunging his tongue in me.

I moaned as
he held me down—thighs spread wide and aching—concentrating on his lips nipping my clit. Then drawing it into his mouth. Sucking gently. Tweaking it with his tongue. Tickling me with his fingers. Playing games with my body where he withheld the amount of pressure against my clit he knew I needed in order to come.

I begged. I promised all sorts of things. I even cried.

“Stop torturing me,” I sniffed.

He brought me to the brink of an orgasm. He knew I was there. He could feel my body contract around his finger. And he took his hand and mouth away.

“Reece!” I screamed.

He kissed my inner thighs, giving my body a few minutes to calm down—giving the orgasm time to recede—before kissing me again. He swirled his tongue, and I was consume
d all over, feeling the excitement build even faster this time. I willed my muscles to keep from contracting. Perhaps I could trick him before he realized I was about to explode. But my body betrayed me, and he felt the tightening on his finger once more, pulling out and backing away before I reached my climax.

“Motherfucker!” I shouted, my face wet with tears and sweat.

“Now Bailey,” Reece chided. “Is that any way to talk to the man who’s making you feel so good?”

“But you’re not,” I whimpered. “You’re being mean to me.”

He hovered over me and stuck out his bottom lip. “Poor baby. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just revving you up like an engine. Just a few more times, and then I’ll let your engine turn over.”

My mouth dropped open. “No,” I breathed. “No
no no! Please don’t, Reece. I can’t bear it!”

“Oh, you’ll bear it,” he said. “You’ll have to.”

He went back to work, teasing my pussy, bringing me to the brink, feeling my muscles contract, and pulling away. Over and over. I lost count. By this point I was screaming bloody murder. He had to pause, grab another tie, and gag me.

I cried into
the silk as he continued playing with me. He was merciless, and I wondered what I’d done to deserve it. It wasn’t long before I got my answer. The passion built again, and I was expecting him to pull away. But he didn’t. He kept up the assault with his tongue, and I screamed into the gag as he finally brought my body to the peak, holding me there, forcing spasms I’d never experienced. He brought me down again, but just a fraction, before another mind-numbing spasm. It was exquisite pleasure and pain, and I gripped it as long as I could, pumping my hips, crying out his name against the gag as he forced me up and down. Up and down on the choppy sea before laying me gently in the surf.

I was
spent—dazed—thinking I deserved every bit of that orgasm because I was a good girl.

“That’s
called the Hurricane Reece,” he whispered in my ear.

“
Uhhhh,” I replied.

He untied my gag, and I worked my jaw side to side.

“I like it,” I said.

“Just like it?”

“I love it,” I corrected.

“Better than a real hurricane?” he asked, rolling me over and untying my hands.

“Way better,” I replied.

He gathered me in his arms, and we lay in his bed, breathing long and slow.

“May I stay with you during the storm?” he asked a moment later.

“Of course,” I replied. “Why on earth would you think you wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t wanna be presumptuous,” he said.

I traced circles on his chest.

“Never,” I mumbled, and then I passed out.

Hurricane H
olly visited town a week later.

I hid my wetsuit under yoga pants and an old
, ratty sweatshirt. I hid my surfboard under a pile of blankets in the back of my Honda. Reece never suspected a thing, and I couldn’t wait to see his face when I stripped.

“Bailey, I don’t know about this,” Reece said on the drive into Wrightsville Beach. Police were already evacuating the area, and I was stopped by one particularly aggressive cop.

“Ma’am, you need to turn around.”

“I live here!” I lied. “And I’m not going anywhere without my dog!”

The officer grunted and waved me through.

“Free country,” I mumbled. “If we
wanna die, that’s our prerogative.”

“Did you just lie to a cop?” Reece asked.

I shrugged.

“Oh my God, Bailey, you lied to a cop!”

“Reece, take the stick outta your ass,” I replied.

We both fell silent. Reece was the first to laugh. I followed right after.

“Who
are
you?” he chuckled.

“I’ve no idea!” I giggled. “It’s your fault. You’re turning me into this non-rule follower.”

“Hey, don’t blame it on me, sister,” Reece replied.

I pulled into an empty space in the parki
ng lot next to Johnny Mercer’s Pier.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Reece said.

We climbed out of the car and waved to Christopher, who was sitting on a bench waiting for us.

“I always come out to see Christopher surf before a hurricane. Don’t you know it’s the best time to go?”

“He’s crazy!” Reece replied.

“Why? ‘
Cause I’m a black surfer?” Christopher asked, walking toward us. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief. I could tell he was about to have an awesome surfing session. “Why you gotta be so stereotypical, huh Reece? Just ‘cause I’m black don’t mean I can’t surf. What the hell else am I supposed to do in this white town?”

I grinned.

“No, man, I wasn’t saying you being a black surfer was crazy,” Reece said. “Only that you’re surfing right before a hurricane.”

“Best waves, right Bailey?” Christopher asked.

I nodded and pulled my sweatshirt over my head. I couldn’t even try to describe the sound that escaped Reece’s lips.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

I reached up and pinched his cheek before stripping my pants and tossing my clothes in the back seat. I pulled out my pink and aqua custom Channel Island board and waggled my eyebrows at Reece.

“You
surf
?” he asked.

“Every now and again. It’s been a little whi
le, but I couldn’t pass up hurricane waves,” I said.

Didn’t seem to compute.

“You
surf
?” he asked again.

“I learned when I was eight. My psychologist said it was good for me—that it would teach me that I couldn’t control every aspect of my life. Especially if a shark attacked.” I winked.
He didn’t laugh. Not one of my better jokes.

“You
surf
?”

“Oh my God,” Christopher muttered. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He led the way down the beach, far away from the pier. (No one wants to slam against pilings.) The wind had definitely picked up since yesterday. Holly was expected to make landfall some time tomorrow afternoon, and Reece and I were already well-prepared. We boarded my windows, and Reece even helped Soledad’s husband prepare their home.

There’s a strong sense of community in a coastal town when a storm comes. People help each other. It’s like the world suddenly turns good for about a
week. Even in the midst of impending destruction, you can feel the goodness all around you. It’s palpable, and it restores your faith in human kindness.

Reece
bought enough groceries to last us a month and told me I owed him five hundred blow jobs for ignoring my advice to wait. He went to the store early and discovered the shelves everywhere were nearly empty. Luckily he was still able to find milk.

“Milk, Bailey,” he said as we put the groceries away. “Remember the milk you said I didn’t need to buy early? Hmm? What on earth would we have done without it?”

I said nothing. Just started in on my mouth exercises for all those blow jobs.

Classes on campus were obviously cancelled, and students who couldn’t travel home hunkered down in Randall Library to ride out the storm. Businesses boarded up, Wrightsville Beach was under a mandatory evacuation, and news updates urged Wilmington residents to leave as well. I called my parents this morning to make sure Dad finished boarding the windows. Nicki and Brad planned to stay with them. Dad begged me to stay, too, but I told him I’d be fine with Reece.

I looked out onto the Atlantic, watching her slap and crash onto the shore, her waves building higher and higher as the minutes ticked.

“Bailey, I really don’t want you doing this,” Reece said.
“You’re really tiny, and that ocean looks angry.”

“Let the girl do her thing,” Christopher interjected.

Reece turned to him. “And that goes for you, too!”

Christopher raised his eyebrows. “What? So I can’t surf ‘
cause I’m black
and
I’m short? You’re a condescending jerk.”

“I don’t feel comfortable with any of this!” Reece said. “If you two die, I’m left with Camden, and I
cannot
be left with just Camden!”

“Reece, sometimes you just
gotta let go, okay?” I replied. “You’ve no idea how therapeutic this is for me. I need it.”

He looked at me desperately.

“I respect the water, Reece. I know when it’s time to turn around.” I looked back out onto the ocean and said what I always say right before I run toward the waves: “You’re bigger! You’re stronger! And I give you mad props!”

“Is that a thing you—”

“Shhh! Don’t ruin it,” I said.

Reece fell silent.

“You’re bigger! You’re stronger! And I give you mad props!!” I turned to my boyfriend and grinned. “Cowabunga, dude.” And then I was gone in a flash, racing down the bank, running full speed into the chilly water.

I collapsed on
my board and started pumping my arms feverishly. I never had the best upper body strength. It made surfing on a normal, semi-windy day difficult. But pre-hurricane winds were something else entirely. My arms started burning before I made it over the third choppy wave.

“Come on!” I cried, pushing harder, harder out to sea. I wanted that big one. It was coming—a wall of water you us
ually only saw on the West Coast. So huge, so beautiful and frightening and everything a hurricane wave was supposed to be. I breathed in. Knees up. She came faster than I expected. Feet planted.
Catch it! Catch it, Bailey!

I tumbled off the board, crash
ing into a whirlwind of bubbles, flipping like a ragdoll in the washing machine. I righted myself and popped out of the water, waving to Reece who, I’m sure, was having a heart attack at this very moment.

“I’m cool!” I shouted, but I knew he couldn’t hear me.

I climbed back on my board and paddled out.

“Okay, baby doll. It’s one to zero. But you
gotta be nicer. It’s been a while for me, and you know it,” I said, pumping by arms and watching as Huge Wave #2 approached . . . with a bit of an attitude, if I’m being perfectly honest. I sensed another wipeout in the very near future and shrank against my board.

Pow
! Smack! Splash!

I churned i
n the ocean, finding it rather difficult to right myself this time. For a moment I swam in the opposite direction, deeper into the water.
Bailey, what the fuck?
I thought, turning around. I popped up and waved to Reece. He was shouting at me, hands cupped around his mouth. Probably demanding I get out of the water, but there was no way I was going anywhere until I caught at least one wave.

I know what you’re thinking. Who’s this girl, right? People with “just so” lives do not surf. And you’re generally right. My father encouraged me to take up the sport as a way to manage my OCD. You can imagine my mother’s reaction. She was hysterical about it, wondering how a father could
encourage a hobby that could wind up killing his child. That’s what she said to him. But Dad knew what he was doing, and the more I surfed, the better I was able to handle my schoolwork, the spontaneity of life as a child, the setbacks when my anxiety roared.

It changed as I grew older. I couldn’t surf as much. While some of my rituals disappeared for good (the peas coun
ting, for instance), others popped up, brand new and shiny and ready to make my life a living hell. I realized while I floated on my board that I needed to devote more time to surfing. Reece was definitely a big help—he eliminated my counting and 7:58 A.M. ritual—but I had a much longer history with surfing. In the event Reece decided to walk away, surfing would still be there.

She was coming. She made the other two look like child’s play—stunted, weak waves compared to her grandeur. She deserved my words all over, and I paddled an
d huffed: “You’re bigger. You’re stronger. And I give you mad props.”
Wait for it, Bailey. Wait . . . for . . . it . . .

And then magic. Perfect timing. Stars aligning. You feel it come up through your heels as soon as they strike the board. You’ve got it. You’ve got her. She’s carrying you, pushing you, and you feel the majesty of her strength—a power that could squash you like a bug, fold you into the water and make you vanish from the world forever. You reach out your hand and touch her, the wat
er pumping hard and fast upward, upward, pulling on your fingertips, begging you to lean a little closer. So you do. You lean further into her, charge forward with slippery swiftness. Then she kisses you goodbye and catapults you to shore.

It’s like sex with nature.

I fell off my board in the surf and walked to shore. I watched Reece tear down the beach, completely out of breath when he caught up to me.

“What the fuck!” he screamed. “Bailey, oh my God! You’re, like, the hottest fucking chick I know!”

I laughed. Christopher came out of nowhere and poked me from behind.

“Girl, I give you that one,” he panted. “Missed it by a hair.”

“Aww, shucks,” I teased, wringing my ponytail.

“That’s cool. Rag on me.
I don’t care,” Christopher joked. “I caught six waves. How many did you catch?”

I scowled at him. “All right, all right.”

“Beboppin’ Bailey bags the big one,” Christopher went on. “I doubt we’ll get another like that.”

“What do you mean?” Reece asked. “The storm’s picking up.”

“Exactly,” I replied. “Remember how I said I respect the water?”

He nodded.

“It’s time to go,” I explained.

Christopher nodded. “You
gotta understand what ‘just in time’ means.” He waved his hand toward the water at surfers still riding. “You see those jokers? Man, they dumb. You gotta listen to your instinct when it’s time to go. You gotta feel it in the water, right Bailey?”

I nodded, and we headed to our cars, fighting the wind that
howled a last warning: Get out.

Holly made landfall at 2:31
P.M. the following day. It remained a Category 2—just strong enough to rip people’s houses to shreds, tangle power lines, blow out the phones. The water damage would be the worst. My parents and I went back and forth about leaving. If the storm would have been elevated to a Category 3, we would have boarded up and headed west to Central North Carolina.

I cracked open a beer.

“These hurricane parties are a real thing, then, huh?” Reece said, sliding a bowl of chips onto the coffee table.

Most of my furniture was up on cinderblocks—about two feet high. Flooding was inevitable, even with all the sandbags we put around the house.
We still had power, so the TV was on. We watched it sitting in cheap folding chairs. Reece wanted it glued to The Weather Channel, but I convinced him to flip back and forth between the storm and The History Channel. Hey, Benedict Arnold was on. I found him fascinating.