Authors: Carol Swan
Kelsey eventually faced toward me, and we shared a passionate kiss as we rode two perfect parts of Carter’s body. When I sensed she was close, I leaned in and latched on her nipple with my mouth, using just enough teeth to make her squeal, Carter’s hips bucking against mine as our third for the evening came undone. Kelsey was a quiet girl, but her face radiated pure bliss while Carter lapped at her cunt.
As soon as she climbed off him, Carter reached up and pulled me toward him, his hands threaded through my hair as our lips met. He tasted like vodka, mint gum—and Kelsey. Or, I suppose, what I guessed Kelsey might taste like. I sucked his tongue, taking in all the flavors, experiencing the whole spectrum of it, as he pounded into my aching cunt, so close to coming that I could scream. As it were, some spanking, which began quite light and innocent before quickening and hardening on my poor cheeks, from Kelsey was what I really needed to push me over the edge. As she slapped my reddening skin, Carter’s pace quickened, his thrusts so powerful that my teeth chattered together, and I tumbled over the edge with a shout of joy.
Carter swallowed the sound, capturing it in his mouth as he kissed me and kissed me and kissed me until I was beyond breathless. He came ensnared in my arms, the pair of us clinging to one another as Kelsey watched. The woman sprawled out on the couch nearby, like a sphinx surveying her domain, and once more I got off on the thrill of being watched. Pleasure pulsed through me, my body almost convulsing, and when Carter rolled us over, I barely had the energy to prop my head up. Carter lay next to me, panting.
“I’m just going to use the restroom,” Kelsey announced as the dust started to settle. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her clamber off the couch and disappear through the doorway, leaving behind a comfortable silence.
“April?”
“Hmm?” My eyes had started to close as soon as Kelsey left, exhausted from a day of work and alcohol and mind-blowing orgasms.
“I think we should stop doing these kinds of nights.”
I pressed my lips together tightly. These were the words I’d been dreading. Forcing myself to focus, I sat up on my elbow and frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I want to go on actual dates with you,” he said after a slight pause, and my heart swelled at the omission. “These nights out are kind of just pretend dates so we can justify having sex after, but … let’s just … go out for real, and have sex whenever we want. You’re my best friend, and I … think I’ve got the hots for you, so—”
I cut him off with a kiss, smothering his words and taking them in with a smile.
Date my very best friend in the whole wide world? The guy I have amazing sex with on a regular basis? It was a no-brainer.
Hell. Yeah.
I've always been a bit of a tomboy. Who am I kidding? I am a down-and-dirty, in-your-face tomboy trapped in a little girl's body. Now before you guys get all pervy on me, when I say 'little girl' I mean my body has the physical attributes of a 13 year old girl but I'm actually 21 years old (nearly 22-please send birthday greetings and cash if you have extra).
How shall I describe my delectable bod? Slender? Willowy? Nebraska? I better explain 'Nebraska'. That nickname came from one of my three older brothers. We were on a family vacation motoring through the Midwest on I-80. I was about 12 or so and my brothers were mid-teens. They had hormones pulsating off them like radar beams. Whenever they would see a female with any kind of breasts, they would poke each other and make a comparison of that woman to a geographic location. You can imagine what 'Grand Tetons' and 'Twin Peaks' looked like.
Anyhoo, back to I-80. A very shapely woman had just walked by our booth during a food and potty break. As a wannabe boy, I wanted my brothers to accept me soooo badly. So I blurted out 'Mount Rushmore'. OMG, you should have seen the food and drink spewing out of their noses! They were just howling with laughter. I don't know why, but as soon as I joined in the name game they must have thought I needed a little humbling for being the precocious little shit that I was.
After they calmed down, my oldest brother nudged the brother sitting by him, pointed directly at my chest and stated, "Nebraska". The three of them looked at each other and then nearly fell on the floor laughing their fool asses off. I sat up straight, looked from one brother to another, confused about why they thought that was so funny. So being the naïve sucker that I am, I asked my oldest brother what he meant.
He pointed at my chest again, and then pointed out the window toward the vast, flat plains of the state we had been crossing. He was just crying with laughter but managed to choke out, "you are as flat as Nebraska". Needless to say, the boys rode that horse all the damned way to Colorado. I was pissed off at them but a little thrilled that I was included in their high jinks from that moment on. I'm still referred to as 'Nebraska' or 'Cornhusker' or 'Neska' (meaning Nebraska doesn't need a 'bra').
The name my mommy and daddy gave me is Alexis. Thank you my dear rents, because I naturally became Alex for short; a very proper tomboy name. As I've implied, my chest hasn't changed much since I was 13. My dear Mother is the one who graciously termed me 'willowy'. My other female parts have shaped up pretty good due to a lot of sports and girlie hormones. I have an ass and legs that can turn heads if the man doesn't see my front side first. My short, blond hair frames a decent enough face (featuring a smattering of tomboyish freckles across my nose) but I will admit that no movie casting agents have stopped me on the street begging for an audition (at least so far, IMAO). My best facial asset is my smile and blindingly white teeth-I could be the poster child for the orthodontic society. When I smile, my eyes get all scrunchy and some people (my daddy) think it's just ADORABLE.
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, 'tomboy'. As a big girl I still love being around boys; their cussing, their spitting, their scratching. Since I've flown the parental nest, I still tend to hang around guys. When I moved into the city to start my glamorous professional life (ok, I'm the lowest slug ever in the corporate ladder) I sought out the best sports bar in my new neighborhood, knowing that there would be lots of young, horny men hanging out there.
Murphy's is the kind of place that attracts 20-something guys like blow flies to cow pies. The big-ass plasmas hang all over the walls, continuously broadcasting sports. The only time I can remember watching anything but sports at Murphy's was when 'Dancing With The Stars' had Jason Emma (I would lick the sweat from his armpits he's so hunky) in the finals. For the sports challenged, Emma is the 6 foot 5 inch god-like defensive end who plays for the Miami Dolphins football team. I think you get it-Murphy's is GUY place.
Oh, one more thing for my non-USA readers. I know you think football is played with a round, multi-colored ball by guys in short, silky pants. The football I'm talking about is the American version played by 350 pound water buffalos in pads and helmets. I don't want you to be confused.
I know, I know, you are wondering where the sex comes into this story. Keep your pants on! Sheesh.
By hanging around Murphy's long enough, I had ingratiated myself with the local boys who realized I didn't need to be treated differently than any other guy. I know my sports and try as they may, I'm rarely stumped with a sports factoid. Plus, I can play pool without ripping the felt and throw a dart into the board rather than the wall.
Unfortunately, one of my brothers was in town once and I took him to Murphy's. No, no, it wasn't unfortunate that my brother was there. I love the big buffoon. It was unfortunate to take him to Murphy's where he let my teenage nickname slip to the local boys. Thus, it was like déjà vu all over again (I think Yogi Berra said that). I became Nebraska again.
Not that the locals didn't already know that I lacked front bumpers. They've got eyes that tend to pluck every chick that clucks by the bar. I'd gotten quite a bit of grief from them already. It's just that my bro gave them a sobriquet (don't ya love big words that look great in print but you stumble over verbalizing?) that I will never be able to shake.
One more thing; my Murphy friends love to play poker. I know it's because ESPN calls it a sport and therefore shows HOURS of these Texas Hold 'Em tournaments. If those card players are athletes I'll stand naked in the city's central fountain and pretend to be a swizzle stick. If you sense that it's the one 'sport' I totally, freaking suck at then you win the stuffed panda bear.
That being said, since my guy friends like to play poker, then so do I. Here's how I suck at poker: I have one of those faces that other poker players have wet dreams about. If I pair up deuces my face twitches like a kitten's whiskers. Lord help me if I've got a set of aces. My forehead is like the Times Square electronic headlines billboard. In poker terms it's called a 'tell'. For me it's more like 'show and tell'. I lose my ass every time I play with my buds.
One fine summer day I arrived at Murphy's and joined my boys at the bar. There's a certain subtle slyness to the group as I elbowed my way to the bar. They are exchanging glances and poking each other in the ribs in a way that suggested something was coming. Regardless of the fact that they treat me like one of the guys most of the time, I don't have a dick. Therefore they sometimes revert to their piggish ways and don't think I have a BRAIN either (major eye roll if you could see me).
Every group has a leader and Carter is ours. I should tell you that our core group of friends numbers six. Carter epitomizes tall, dark and handsome (and filthy rich too if I can be so crass to note). I have a secret crush on him but he seems to favor the nubile bimbos that hang around the bar trolling for men (bitches!).
The other four guys all have certain qualities and professions that make our group interesting and fun. Jesse (Rocky is his nickname) is a short, muscular wrestler type who day trades in the stock market. Art the Fart (unfortunate I know) is good humored, tall as a redwood and works for a big accounting firm. Condor (nee Jarod) got his nickname from having a wingspan of the condor, which served him well when he played collegiate basketball. Now he dunks doughnuts instead of orange balls as a beat cop. Meat (his veddy proper mother prefers Steven) got his handle from something the guys just can't seem to keep their stories straight about. Once they told me he worked at a meat-packing plant when he was a kid. Later I hear he choked on a steak. Remember that BRAIN/GIRL thing? I know what they are chortling about (dumb asses).
By the way, Meat is an outstanding specimen of a man. He's blond, with piercing, glacial blue eyes. I don't care if you think I'm shallow but he could be a Chippendale dancer. He is a freaking gorgeous man. And he drives a sweet Beemer convertible financed by his big salary as an exec at a large multi-national.
Back to Carter (oh yes, he is just Carter-don't ask me why). Carter doesn't work because he doesn't have to. Remember that rich reference? He's perfect for the leadership role of our group because he has so damn much time on his hands. He plans our road trips and keeps the group energized. He also has a bar tab as big as Shaq. He's generous to a fault but on my microscopic salary I appreciate the free drinks and he never makes me feel guilty.
Ok, ok, ok, back to the fine summer day. Carter propped his arms on the bar next to me and casually said, "Nebraska, put July 14th on your calendar for a road trip. I've got my dinghy all detailed for the summer and I want to treat our tribe to a day cruise and then poker that night. No dates and it will be an over-nighter so bring your bunny jammies."
Now I've seen Carter's 'dinghy' from afar. It's a friggin' yacht, sports fans. I'm talking 'make my panties wet' big. You can only imagine that none of our group would turn down that invitation. Even though the whole atmosphere seemed suspicious to me, I was not going to wimp out on our group.
"What's the occasion Carter? Need some more of my money playing poker to gas up the cruiser?" I asked innocently.
"It's an obscure special holiday you've never heard of. I've got my party planners working on the details. I want it to be a surprise so don't ask me any more questions. Just show up," he casually replied.
Art the Fart nudged my head with his elbow (remember how tall he is) and said, "Yeah, Neska, don't forget to wear your poker face."
Of course that comment caused some serious guffawing amongst my friends. I retaliated by twisting Art the Fart's nipple so hard he squealed like a teenage girl. I knew I could get away with that because no matter how much I was one of the guys, none of them had ever really laid their hands on me, grab-assing like they do with each other.
Sure, they ogle my fine derriere when I lean over the pool table and think I don't know it. And the tall boys get to peek down my blouse (as if that's a big thrill) when I lean forward at the bar. Now here's where I become contradictory: Yes, I'm a tomboy; yes, I'm one of the guys; and but yes, damn it, I have my needs. Don't think I haven't noticed Meat's package when he wears his tight blue jeans-I DO know how he really got his nickname.
Even though we are a tight group, we've never been on an over-nighter before. As I stand amongst these five, good looking, successful men and I think about the upcoming cruise with little 'ole me being the only female, I feel a little thrum between my legs. Oops, so much for the tomboy bullshit!
I know you are already imagining a cocoa butter orgy on this yacht trip but indulge me with one more side-story. It's relevant to the trip so shut up and listen. My other nickname as a kid was Nancy Drew. I was always poking around in my brother's stuff, looking for clues about what they were up to. I could go on for hours about some of their secrets. Anyway, you understand I can't tolerate not knowing things.
Google is to me as milk is to a baby. I worship at the feet of those geeks who invented the search engines. Carter didn't say I couldn't ask other people questions. Sooooo, I Googled 'July 14 and Holiday' and guess what dear readers?
NATIONAL NUDE DAY IS ON JULY 14!!!!
Hmmm, let me think. Alex has a brain. Alex thinks this holiday cruise has something to do with poker and nudity. Alex knows she plays poker like a clown. Alex better get her ass down to the spa for a Brazilian wax, pronto. Alex has a PLAN!
Anyone listening ever had a wax job? Girls? Scream out if you have. I'm not talking about a tidy little shave here. Have you seen that movie '40 Year Old Virgin' where Steve Carrell has his chest hair removed? My poor waxer must have thought I grew up in a family of longshoremen hearing all the curse words I screamed. I decided that since I was going through the pain of hairlessness that I would not even leave a landing strip. I was as bare as that butt-ugly dog Paris Hilton lugs around.
Wait, one more thing. This spa had a special deal (the owner subscribes to 'Marketing Today' I'll bet). 'Buy one Brazilian Wax and an Anus Bleach is half price'. LOL. I know you think I'm making that up. "What do you do for a living dear?" "I'm an asshole bleacher, thanks for asking."
In for a penny, in for a pound (please, please, you Brits, don't ever convert to the Euro or this idiom will become useless). You guessed it; I was all in on the pretty asshole concept. For all my sistahs out there, you know how you feel at the gynecologist when you get to ride the exam table like a cowgirl? Imagine the shame of having your naked butt up in the air with a technician's nose about an inch from your asshole.
The moment of truth came when my new friends had finished their respective intimacies. "Missy, missy, please look now," the Brazilian girls urged. There was a three-sided mirror in the room installed to give me the panoramic view of my leafless, willowy bod.
Holy shit, Batman! I looked like a pre-pubescent waif. If I didn't have some pretty cool nipples (if I do say so myself) I could be mistaken for one of my dildos-a big head and a long, straight shaft. I twirled one way and then another to see everything. I even bent over (blush) to examine my pristine anus. Wow. This was like 'Home Makeover' on my torso.
Now that I laid the foundation for my upcoming cruise, I figured I better add some finishing touches. Hair, nails, pedicure, and facial...all that girl shit I secretly love. Don't forget SHOPPING! Bikini, cool cruise togs and accessories.
The cruise holiday was just a few days off but I decided to avoid Murphy's and the gang until the big day. I was a little nervous about all my preparations but I will admit to feeling like a lit fuse on a firecracker. I didn't even masturbate even though I could hardly keep my hands off my polished places.