Chapter Fourteen

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Chapter Fourteen


TPOV

This was actually quite hilarious.  Wasn’t I supposed to be the one who passed out after orgasm?  Wasn’t that the guy’s job while the girl was left totally unsatisfied?  

Not that I was unsatisfied.  I mean, certain parts of my anatomy were very unsatisfied and very unhappy with me, but seeing her come was by far the better satisfaction.  

O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.

Then, after a conversation of less than ten minutes, she suggests marriage the next day.  Great play—fucked up marriage principles.  

I seriously needed to get off because I was veering into sonnets, and if I continued on that vein I’d probably ask her marry me when she woke up.  

God, my balls were never going to talk to me again, and my dick was in revolt—angry and throbbing while my balls were trying to crawl out through my dick because that was a better alternative than settling down.  

My whole body felt tight, and I really needed to come or I was never going to be able to lie next to her while she was half-naked and be relaxed.  It just wasn’t going to happen.  

Jerking off next to her while she was sleeping seemed like an incredibly gross and skeevy idea.  However, the idea of running to the bathroom with my dick nearly splitting my pants and finding Jordan in the hallway was also completely gross and skeevy.  Or not, but just uncomfortable, and I was already uncomfortable enough, and I didn’t even know what I was thinking anymore because orgasm was screaming in my brain, and I tried to be as gentle as possible when I snuck off the bed and basically made the maddest dash to the bathroom ever.  

Then I’m in there and it’s a question of exactly how to do this.  I mean I could come in the shower, but again, gross and skeevy to do it while Allison was sleeping and Jordan was wherever, and then I’d have to run the shower to rinse it out.  The toilet seemed a likely option, but I was not going to have control of where the come was going to go.  Thank God there was a box of tissues in the bathroom—the savior of teenage boys and patient guys who-were-selflessly-getting-their-girls-off-while-not-getting-off-themselves.  

I didn’t even get my jeans down all the way.  I didn’t move my boxer-briefs down all the way, either.  I just shoved them both down, dropped my hands down, and stroked hard twice, cupping my balls and praying that they would forgive me one day when they were not vibrating as I, thankfully, had enough sense left to grab the handful of tissues I’d taken from the box.  

I nearly bit through my lip trying to be quiet.  

I was still grunting, though—that couldn’t be helped—but I tried to be really quiet about it.  

My head swam with the euphoria of the release; so much so that I leaned on the fucking sink because I thought I might just pass out, and then wouldn’t that be fun to explain?  They would find me sprawled out with my head cracked open and my pants and underwear shoved down my thighs, my junk all hanging out with come-stained tissues in my hand.  

At least I would be really relieved.  

I took deep breaths and tried to focus on the sound of the water leaking out of the faucet, the steady drip-drip-drip-drip, but that brought back memories of rhythmic releases and I had to switch tactics.  I forced myself to move and throw away the tissues and wash my hands and put the lower half of my clothing in order because Allison was sleeping in the next room and I didn’t want her to wake up alone; I could pass out in the bed next to her.  

Jesus.  Fucking.  Christ.  

I hadn’t come that hard in a long fucking time, and it was with her face, her mouth forming my name, her body jerking for me in my mind.  

She might just kill me.  

And she hadn’t even gotten me off!  Christ, what was she doing to me?  I nearly passed out in her fucking bathroom and it was just from getting her off!  

I opened the door as quietly as possible and stuck my head out into the hall before making another dash for Allison’s bedroom again.  I breathed a huge sigh of relief that I had not encountered Jordan, and that Allison was still sacked out on the bed.  I grabbed a light blanket that was tossed over the pile of shit on the chair and covered her with it before I climbed back in the bed as gently as I could.  She stirred a little but didn’t wake.  

It was easier when I wasn’t completely strained with the need to come, and with her not half naked next to me.  I flipped to my side and watched her sleep for a while, all the features on her face relaxed and sated.  She looked almost peaceful, or as damn near to it as I had seen yet.  

She took in a deep breath and let it out, her arm flinging up in an arc over her head, and it just made me smile to see her like this.  Watching her face made me recall the way she looked when she came, too: her head thrown back, her neck taut and strained.  I catalogued everything I could, from the way her legs shifted and kicked when I touched her clit to the moment her toes started curling when I barely even gotten my fingers inside of her.  

She’d been so incredibly wet, and it was such a difference from that first day in my apartment when she’d been anything but.  I was rather proud of myself for the level of trust and confidence that had grown since then, for her to be that aroused.  I liked, in a purely selfish guy-way, that I was the only one in so many years to do so.  I loved that she let me, too; that she wanted it, that she asked.  I never wanted that to go away, that level of communication.  

I sighed and tried to force my mind away from thoughts about what her face would look like with me inside of her, how she would cling to me, how her face would look when she came around me, and how completely awesome that would feel.  That was probably a long ways off yet, but I couldn’t help my mind going there.  

It wasn’t about me, either.  Or how much I wanted to see that on her face.  The only way this was going to work was to go with whatever she wanted, and at a pace she was comfortable with.  It had to be about her because it so obviously hadn’t been for so long.  It had to be.  

I had a lot of time in the last three days without seeing her to think about how it might be—doing this with her—or how she would react to certain things.  I really didn’t know what to expect.  I had a feeling that she might be kind of shy—or not shy, but just…exposed.  That she could feel differently than being on stage because being with me was the opposite of that.  This was her showing me something, sharing something with me, not just a random flash of her tits for someone to ogle over.  This was the real her—this wasn’t something exploited or for show—and the real her was much more fragile than the one on the stage.  She developed this really hard shell to protect herself, but if she let you in, it was heartbreaking to me sometimes the level of question and confusion and doubt that was there because of it.  

She forced me to be more thoughtful, to be mindful of everything, so I tried to think more about what I said or how I said it before it came out, and to actually take time to figure out what she might like.  

The fact that she hadn’t ever been given flowers before, and her intense desire to keep them, the idea for trying to preserve them had been almost a no-brainer.  I had no idea if it would work at all, but it was something for us to do together, and if it did work, I knew it would make her really happy.  I wanted her to know that relationships could be different; they could be nice.  

I’m not sure when exactly I decided to derail my research on flower preservation.  I printed the instructions I thought we would need, and since I was already in research mode I found myself looking for literature on stripping.  

Yeah, fuck off; I looked up literature on strippers.  

Now, granted, my grand pool of opinions and statistics came from the Internet, and inevitably, not all of it was true.  What was perhaps the scariest, though, was that the opinions posted on websites were all real people.  They were opinions of actual people you could meet on the street.  They ran the full gamut, of course—from the ultraconservative who simply dismiss all sexual expression as immoral and indecent, to the crazy whack-jobs who insisted that the majority of strippers felt empowered to the point of emotional satisfaction and sexual gratification, and loved their jobs more than anything else in the entire world.  Then there was, of course, the fucking assholes section, which was comprised of the men who assumed because a woman stripped she was fair game for anything they desired, and was nothing more than whatever they wanted to use her for, whether she was willing or not.  

I was sort of floored.  

And many times disgusted.  

And mostly just completely enthralled with the audacity that abounded, and the veracity they felt while trying to assert their ‘rightness.’  I would have punched most of these people if I met them on the street.  

There was an entirely hilarious section of material on “How to Date a Stripper”.  It was basically an instruction manual for how one could frequent a strip club and then pick a stripper to ask out.  Some of the most helpful pearls of wisdom:

Offer the benefit of the doubt. Before you even step into a club, make a conscious effort to be open-minded. Don't assume that because they are strippers, they must be promiscuous and unable to make money in any other way. Some dancers are very intelligent and might be doing what they do to pay their own way through college or nursing school. Other dancers might have had very unfortunate circumstances that you couldn't even imagine, and might be working at a club to feed their family or send their child to a good school. It's very easy to judge a book by its cover, but you'll never get very far with a stripper worth dating if you go that route.

I’m embarrassed to even be on the same planet as whoever wrote this.  Some dancers are very intelligent, but the other ones are just fucking morons, or they had lives you couldn’t even imagine so keep that in mind while trolling like a fucking pimp.  

And a stripper worth dating… So not all of them were, then?

Start a conversation.  Be sweet and non-judgmental.  (Not the murdering rapist you are.)  Lots of these girls are used to getting the worst treatment from men who regard them as a disposable pieces of meat. (Like this how-to is teaching you a skeevier way to accomplish that.)  Listen to them, give them a chance to open up and tell you their stories (which are usually interesting), (And they’d be glad to tell you all about them!) and show genuine interest in their activities outside the strip-club. (Discuss your knitting hobby.)  Don't focus your attention on their bodies. Everybody likes compliments, but they get them all the time. (Right, so DON’T, under ANY circumstance, tell her she looks good or anything—that would be epic FAIL!)  Use eye contact, not leg or bust gawking. Instead of complimenting their body parts, tell them they look good in their new outfit (compliment the color scheme) (Yes, objectifying them with their fashion is definitely the way to go.) or they are really improving a lot on the pole-tricks, stuff like that. (Yes, stuff related to their stripping.  Didn’t they just fucking tell me NOT to focus on the stripping?  Ignore the giant elephant in the back please!)  Ask them about books, movies, school, family, life and they will find you a lot more interesting to talk to than most of their customers. (Right, she’ll be able to tell what a nice, creepy, asshole you are when you’re prodding her for info you can use to your advantage.  She won’t see that coming at all.)

Ask her out.  If she isn't willing to meet you outside the club to hang out, she's playing you.

Yes, they play you when you’re a creeper who won’t leave them alone and think you’ll bury an axe in their backs.

Be accepting of her job.  If one thing leads to another and you end up dating a stripper, she will appreciate that you understand that she is working and making more money than many family practice physicians.

Are you fucking kidding me?  What stripper makes more than a doctor?  They tell me later in the warning section that some strippers are only out for sugar daddies to pay for all of their expenses.  Why would they need a sugar daddy if they make more than a doctor, I ask?

The best part was that from the entire list of instructions, there wasn’t one actual bit of information on how you date the stripper.  It doesn’t tell you anything about what to do once she’s said yes.  

Then there was this genius asshole, the one that posed the question: “Are all relationships with strippers doomed to fail?” He insisted that strippers drive good men away.  They led lifestyles of excess, blamed other people for their problems while secretly knowing that they have no dignity left, and then they don’t want to have sex with their boyfriends after they attend all their lavish parties with drugs and alcohol and extravagant gifts.  

He insisted that strippers get degraded every day and the hurt stays with them, and then they can’t talk to those poor slobs dating them about any of that because the men don’t care, or care too much.  And yet, they crave constant admiration, but it’s not their fault because they have baggage from the past that isn’t their fault either.  But, they shouldn’t use that as an excuse to degrade themselves, and 9 times out of 10—what a wonderful statistic pulled from his ass—they’re criminals.  

Are you lost yet?  Because I was fucking lost after his first sentence.  

He summarized that he basically had pity for no one in the world and that it just never works with a stripper and then laid out the gem that six months ago, he’d never even been in a strip club before…which means that the motherfucker had dated a stripper for less than six fucking months and made all these wonderful observations.  

Fuck me, I felt like I’d lost IQ points.  

I went into this looking for the psychology of stripping, of trying to understand where Allison might be coming from or what she was feeling, or what I could prepare for to make it easier.  I opened myself up to a completely different realm because I realized if these opinions were readily available, then Allison was probably aware of them, and then what did she believe about herself?  

It was odd in a way how someone could be a completely different person on stage or off with the same past.  Intellectually, I understood you could just detach and get lost in something that wasn’t you—that she could become Mallory, or whomever she needed to be to do that.  I wondered how she got back to Allison after that, though.  When she walked off the stage at night, was it just an instant flip back or was there some process to do it?  It was sort of like acting, but…not.  The concepts were completely confusing to me.  I didn’t know how she kept all of it straight.  

I finally hit on something that seemed real when there were actual accounts from strippers—histories and articles that gave a much better point of view from the actual source.  A lot of them did admit that after a night of stripping, sex was not high on their list of priorities and that romance was something that was rarely thought of.  That made total sense in Allison’s case, and I could recognize that immediately.  With her, though, it was so much rawer than that because it wasn’t like she just didn’t want romance—she’d never fucking had it.  Ever.  

Some said they had problems reconciling their two egos and that the stripping alter ego would do things or have relationships that the real ego would never have.  Most agreed that they found it hard to be both “bad” and “good” at the same time if they were in a relationship; meaning that “bad” girls—their stripping ego—were predetermined to be dirty or hot in bed, but the “good” girls—their real ego—for whatever reason, were supposed to be proper and boring in bed.  I had no idea what to expect with Allison, but I don’t think that particular concept of different categories of women was specifically related to strippers only.  

I think reconciling being “dirty”, whatever the fuck that even meant, was something that a lot of women dealt with, and because women I’d dated that weren’t strippers weren’t completely comfortable all the time with their sexuality, I still really didn’t have a handle on Allison’s take.  She just asked me for what she wanted so far, and she seemed comfortable with that.  I just didn’t want to fuck it up along the way.  

A lot of them expressed feelings of shame and feeling like they were damaged, either alone or in relationships.  Most thought that their self-esteem probably had a lot to do with that, or the societal views of anyone who worked in the sexual sector.  There were a fair amount who had epiphanies about their own self-worth and “forgiving” themselves, but I started to think a lot of that was bullshit, too.  What did someone like Allison need to forgive herself for?  She didn’t do this because she liked feeling special on stage, or that she wanted a guy to think she was worth something while taking her clothes off.  That was just completely antithetical.  

I didn’t think most women would randomly decide this as a career choice if they had other options they thought were viable.  They fell into it like everyone falls into other shit: they needed the money and, for a brief moment, it was great.  Then the second night came.  And the third.  And the hundredth.  Or if they make this as a career choice, it’s a completely different category of stripping.  Not many people made that distinction in their accounts, and the ones who did were obviously stripping in more upscale clubs.  

Now I suddenly had thousands of questions I wanted to ask her.  What made her start; what she thought she was getting out of it; if she felt constantly demeaned or if she felt sometimes empowered; if she ran into random creeper dudes who actually thought hanging out in a strip club meant instant dating material; if she felt like her worth was less because she was a stripper?  

It wasn’t like I could fire all of those at her at once, though, and I didn’t know how she would react to me asking, either.  She would probably want to know why I was asking, and I didn’t really know how to answer that.  I mean I wanted to know because I wanted to understand her, and I wanted to know because the more information I had, the more I could do to make this easier, the more I would know how she was going to react or what I could expect or what I needed to do so she was ok.  

I had good intentions; it just brought up a lot of shit I hadn’t thought of.  I just didn’t want the questions to make it seem like I was doubting or grilling her.  It felt like a fine line sometimes.  

I wound up napping for a while and she was still out when I woke up.  I watched her sleep again for a few minutes before turning my attention to the room, scanning for something to do, and landed on the bookshelf.  I eased off the bed and skimmed over the titles for something to read.  There was an old, beat-up copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull on one shelf and I slid it out carefully.  There was a bookmark about halfway through the book, and I opened to the page.  The bookmark was nothing but a piece of folded notepad paper, yellowing from age, and delicate.  It had two quotations from the book written on it in a loopy kind of handwriting: “To fly as fast as thought, to anywhere that is, you must begin by knowing that you have already arrived…” and “The gull sees farthest who flies highest.”

I crawled back onto the bed, settling against the wall to read.  

Her quiet “Hey” pulled me away from the book a while later.

“Hey.” I smiled down at her.  

“Sorry,” she said, yawning, “I didn’t mean to just crash on you like that.”

“S’ok.”

“Was I asleep long?”

“Few hours.”

“Shit.  I’m sorry.” She pushed herself up to sit against the wall next to me and pulled the blanket around her shoulders.  She looked down at my reading material.  “Is it good?”

I smiled. “Yeah, it’s good.  I’ve read it before, but a long time ago.  I thought you read part of it; there’s a bookmark.” I showed her the marked spot in the book.  “I kept your place.”

She smiled. “I’ve never read it.  It was my mother’s.”

“Oh,” I said.  Well, fuck.  My brows pulled down. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize.  I wouldn’t have moved it otherwise.”  I held it out to her.  

I hadn’t meant to screw with family heirlooms or anything that obviously meant enough to her that she carted it with her.

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine.  I just kind of forgot I have it.  Funny, because it’s one of the only things of hers I have.”  I still held it out, but she waved me off again.  “No, I’m glad someone is reading it.  It’s obvious she liked it a lot.”

“Why haven’t you ever read it?” I hadn’t really meant for that to fly out, but sometimes with her my questions just kind of came out of compulsion.

She shrugged. “I’m not really a reader.”

“You have a lot of books, though.”

She shrugged again. “Yeah, I like them; I just don’t read them.”  She paused for a second and glanced at me before she started again, “Reading takes me a long time.  I’m sure a lot of it is because I was never in a school long enough to really learn anything.  I have a hard time… Shit, there’s a word for it…” She thought a minute before giving up. “Like, it means I don’t connect to the shit I read or something.”

“Retention?”

“Yeah.”  She nodded.  “I left school when I left Florida and never went back.  Jordan helped with getting my GED…” she trailed off.  

Telling her about the pretentious schools my parents sent me to was probably not a good follow-up to that admission from her.  I blurted again instead, “I got expelled from school after Michael died.”

“What?” She turned her head, the question half-disbelief and half-amusement.

I nodded. “Yeah.  I just didn’t give a shit.  I didn’t go to class and didn’t do any work.  Didn’t fill out tests and I smoked on the grounds and shit like that.  They didn’t really call it an official expulsion because there were ‘extenuating circumstances’.”  I made the air-quotes for her. “But they implicitly suggested to my parents that I find a new school.”

She chuckled.  “And did they find a new school?”

“Yeah.  I fucked off just as much from that one, but they weren’t as tight with their rules.”

She pointed toward the book. “What’s it about?”

“Uh, well, it’s about a seagull who is more interested in learning more about flight than searching for food.  Like, the life of a seagull is supposed to be about finding food and fighting for food and everything revolves around that, but he thinks that’s stupid and pointless and he’d rather learn how to fly higher and just keep learning.  He’d rather be hungry and learning than boring and fat.”

She chuckled.  

“He basically becomes an outcast and is shunned from his family and winds up meeting other seagulls like him and just keeps learning and teaching others.”  I opened to the page that had the bookmark.  “I think your mom wrote these quotations in here if this was her book.  They’re from the story.”

She took the book and looked at the words written there.  “I didn’t know what they meant, so I didn’t really think anything of them.”  

“They’re probably two of the most famous from the book.  She must have liked them.”

Allison smiled, like she made some new connection to her mother that hadn’t been there before.  She looked over at me.  “You wanna see a picture of her?”

“Sure, of course.”

She bolted off the bed to the bookshelf and grabbed a box from one of the shelves, opening it and rifling through the stuff inside.  She came back to the bed with a small wallet-sized picture of a younger lady and a larger 4x6 with the same lady and a little girl.  She handed them both to me.  

I chuckled, “You were adorable.”

She shrugged.  

“She was very pretty,” I said quietly, matching Allison and her mom’s similar features.  “You look a lot like her—same hair color, same nose.”  I glanced over to Allison and she was looking at the pictures warmly.  I was glad she could look at her mom and not have a lot of pain and loss associated with it.  Or at least it wasn’t there right now.  “What was her name?”

“Abby.  Well, Abigail, but I guess everyone called her Abby.”

“That’s pretty, too.  She looks like an Abby.  She looks like she loved you a lot.”  I handed the pictures back.  “Thanks for showing me.”

She nodded.

When she came back to the bed, I handed the book back. “You should read it.  I don’t think the reading is too difficult.  There’s a lot of language about flight and wings and wind speed and shit, but you don’t really need to know anything about that to know what’s happening in the book.”

She took it back.  “Maybe I will, yeah.”

“We could read it together,” I offered.

She turned her head to look at me, surprised or appraising or something.  She decided on a smile, though. “Thanks.  I’d like that.”

I nodded and we sat there in silence for a few minutes.  It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, just…silent.  We both chuckled at the same time. 

“So…” she started.

“So…” I said back. 

I wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about what happened or not.  I mean, I could have started firing my stripper questions at her, but that seemed misplaced in light of what she just shared with me.  I wondered how many people had even seen the picture of her mom.  I wondered if Jordan even had. 

So I debated with myself about which direction I should take the conversation in when she eliminated the need for me.

“So, I really liked that…with your fingers.  And your mouth.”

Like I needed clarification.  I smirked.  “Good.  I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah.”  She paused.  “Right, so I wanna do it again.”

My smirk turned into a full-blown smile.  I nodded.  “Ok.”

She nodded back.  “If you want to, that is.”

I turned to look at her, but she’d averted her gaze, afraid of my answer or something, even though I already said yes.  “I would be happy to.”

I could see her smile.  “Ok…” She looked at me.  “Can we do it now?”

I chuckled, “Yeah, we can do it now.”

“Great.”  I’m pretty sure she was excited—just a little bit—if her bouncing was any indication.  “I wanna get you off this time, too.  Ok?”

Like my response would be anything but yes?  I think she already figured out that if we were trying something and it was new to her, that I didn’t expect anything in return, but it was nice that she always seemed to want to.  “Yeah, I’m cool with that.”  I smiled back.

She nodded, smiling, and then stopped.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

She chewed her lip for a second.  “I liked your hands on me a lot, but…”

“But what?”

“But…” she took a deep breath and then the rest came out in a tumble, “ButIkindareallyjustwantyourfingersinmethistime.”  There was a short pause and then, “Is that ok?”

I nodded, still smiling like it was never going to leave my face.  “Yeah, that’s ok.  Whatever you want.”  If I even had any doubt that mine was going to leave, her smile was completely infectious, and she couldn’t seem to turn it off either.  I imagined we looked rather silly sitting there, both of us naked from the waist up save for the blanket she had currently wrapped around her, grinning like idiots.  

I figured I still have to be the one who made the first move, so I leaned closer to her and she turned her head to meet my mouth.  It wasn’t the greatest angle, but it worked well enough.  I started sinking down to the bed, not letting my mouth leave hers, and she moved with me, turning her body toward mine, her hands landing on my sides.  

It was actually pretty remarkable how well she adapted to things.  It was like once a certain barrier was knocked off the list, that was all it took and her comfort level shifted to accommodate.  Either that or she was just a master at hiding her nervousness.  It was more evident when she talked—maybe it was just easier for her to feel these things, something tactile and real instead of a concept that she couldn’t necessarily imagine until it happened.  

Whatever the reason, we had this kissing shit nailed down before, now we were mastering it like it was a fucking art form.  She would respond and lap at my tongue when I moved it in her mouth, and she would take initiative to push hers where she wanted it in mine, too.  Her hands kneaded at my sides and her thumbs flicked up to my nipples before I actually had to remind myself to get my hands busy, too.  Her hands on me made me momentarily forgetful, distracted.  She seemed fascinated with the tattoo I had of Michael’s name, and I think that was probably one of the best things I could have showed her to make her comfortable to start, because it wasn’t anything that everyone got to see—it wasn’t something that most people ever saw.  

Her hands moved up to my neck and face, thumb skimming over the stubble on my cheeks and jaw while her fingers rubbed under my jaw line.  I pulled her closer, my arms going around her back and holding her to me so our bodies were flush.  Her back was amazingly smooth and elegant, and I kept one hand pressed into the smoothness while I trailed another to the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her hair.  She nipped at my bottom lip and then sucked it into her mouth, and I was suddenly really glad she said that shit about getting me off this time.  I was getting hard, but it was slow, and I kind of really liked that—that this wasn’t ever fumbled and hurried.  We could do that shit later.  I liked the measured way of this.  

Her hands suddenly pushed against my chest and she pulled away from my mouth. “Tyler?”

“Yeah?”  I pulled back to look at her. 

“What did you do before?  When I fell asleep?”

I snorted, moving a hand to scratch over my hair.  “Uhm.  I kinda went to the bathroom and jerked off.”

She giggled, her hands flexing against my chest.  

“I tried to be really quiet,” I added.

She laughed harder.  “Yeah, I’m sure Jordan will say something if she heard you.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure she will if she did.  I don’t think she did, though.”

She pulled my head back down to her mouth.  “I don’t care if she did.  Just don’t stop kissing me.”

I smiled against her mouth.  “Hadn’t planned on it.”

We dove back into the kissing and I started moving my hands lower.  I spent a few minutes kneading and massaging her breasts on my way down.  I rolled her on her back as I stayed on my side, leaning over her so our mouths could stay connected, and flattened my hand over her stomach before angling it down.  The lower I got, the more ragged her breathing became and her kisses got much less focused and adorably sloppy.  

She never bothered to button up her jeans before she napped, and this would be easier if she would take them off, or move them down, but I didn’t know if that was overstepping some line we had for the day or not.  I dipped my fingers under the waistband of her underwear, caressing back and forth across her abdomen; long enough that she was starting to squirm, wanting me to move lower.  I pulled back from her mouth.  

“You wanna take these off or move them down?  It’d be—” was as far as I got.  I totally prepared reasons for why that’d make this easier, but she didn’t seem to need them at all.  Her hands were moving to shove them down, along with her underwear, nearly the second I started asking.  I liked that she seemed to feel more comfortable with me already, and that the exposed feelings weren’t connected to this.  Maybe it was just because we had some semblance of this before that it wasn’t as new in her mind.  

I didn’t move from where I was—that we would save for another day—but ran my hand over her mound, allowing my gaze to track to see where my thumb was running through the strip of hair there before I settled over it, forcing my attention back to her face as my fingers rested over her opening.  I dipped back to her mouth and she moaned into mine at the contact, and in a lot of ways, she was really easy to please because she’d had too little attention to anything, ever.  

She was so fucking responsive.  

She opened her legs wider as I trailed one finger through her slit—already so fucking wet—and didn’t wait for her to ask this time, I just pushed the finger inside as far as it would go and watched as her face scrunched up on a moan, her lip going behind her teeth and her hips rising against my hand.  The second the lip was released, I covered her mouth with mine and added a second finger, curling them up and rubbing inside, quick and hard, and she nearly bit my tongue off as the orgasm ripped through her.  

So. Fucking. Responsive.

“Jesus Christ, Tyler!” she yelled, all strained as her muscles clamped on my fingers and I brought her down.  

I kept my fingers in her, lazily thrusting and exploring while I kissed her neck and shoulders.  She kept squirming when I rubbed up on her g-spot, and I loved the moans that tumbled out through her gasped breathing.  

When she came down enough to look at me again, I smiled.  “Fun, huh?”

She blew out a breath.  “You are so fucking good at that.”

I smirked, shrugging.  “You’re very responsive.”

“It feels amazing.”

“It should.  I’m glad it does.”

She pushed up to her elbows.  “Let’s get you off.”  She rolled into me and pushed me on my back, mirroring my previous positions.

I chuckled, moving up to rest on my elbows instead.  “You don’t have to.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but I want to.  And if it’s only about me, then it’s not really about us at all, is it?”

Well, she had a point.  But that wasn’t really...  

“I just don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.  Or like it’s just a reaction.”

“What, like the first time in your apartment?”

“Yes, exactly.”

She shook her head.  “That’s not what this is.  I want to.”

I watched her eyes, but I couldn’t read anything there that wasn’t truth.  I nodded.  “All right.”  I smirked.  “Knock yourself out.  Or me.”

She smirked evilly. “I could, ya know.”  

“I have no doubt.”

She sat up, folding her legs under her, and the smirk stayed firmly in place. She moved her hand to cover the bulge in my jeans, and I moaned on her first fucking touch.  Literally, the first squeeze of her hand, just one—and if I cared about embarrassment, that probably would have been something to catalogue, but instead I chalked it up to the fact that she had several orgasms while I’d been sorely lacking in her touch, and it just felt too fucking good for me not to have some reaction to that.  

And this was through my fucking jeans.  

I was so screwed.  

Her gaze flicked to mine as she reached for the button on my pants and, I mean, no resistance here, the zipper was just as easy, and when her eyes cut to mine again, I would daresay there was excitement there.  

“Shove them down.  Boxers, too.”

Oh.  

Yes, I liked that quite a fucking lot.  Something told me that when she actually hit her stride with this whole sex thing, epic shit was going to take place.  She didn’t have to tell me twice, either—I could follow instructions very well—I quickly shoved both my jeans and boxer-briefs down to my knees.  It was so fucking sexy that not only had she basically ordered me, but that she wasn’t inclined to wait even long enough for me to get them all the way off.  

I think my whole upper body just gave up with the resting-on-the-elbows thing the minute her hand actually touched me—skin-to-skin, no barrier, no jeans and boxers, nothing, just her incredibly warm, soft, and tiny hand, and Jesus-fuck, this wasn’t going to take long at all.  

My eyes squeezed shut—there was just no stopping it.  I could barely remember to keep breathing, and I was seriously pissed with myself that I wasn’t watching this shit live.  There was only going to be one first-time like this—technically second time, but that one was completely separate—and I was kind of missing it.  I forced my eyes to obey my brain, or my brain to obey my eyes, or whatthefuckever process was supposed to happen in order to get my eyes to watch what the fuck she was doing.  

Her palm pressed against the underside of my cock, and she lifted it against my stomach, holding it there while her other hand cupped my sac, and then she fucking started gliding the heel of her palm up and down while keeping my dick trapped against my belly.  I had no idea what to even call it, but my thighs were already tensing, and she barely even started.  

In my defense, she was next to me naked after having copious amounts of orgasms, and I got off once in a bathroom, by myself, hours ago, and she was doing something amazingly awesome that no woman on earth had ever done to me before, not like this, and just when I thought that it couldn’t any better, suddenly her other hand had taken over and there aren’t even swear words invented yet for the feeling of that.  

Just as abruptly as the palm stroking had started, it was over, and she moved to hold onto the base of my cock.  Her other hand had formed a fist and slid thumb-side down over the head of my cock, and it felt like penetration—there was no other way to describe the feeling.  So fucking tight at the beginning; tightness I couldn’t even imagine right now.  I didn’t want to be concentrating on what it would feel like to slip inside her, because I had a difficult enough time trying to be patient and hold myself off, and that would just make it fucking worse.  But she seemed intent on making me think of nothing else with that fist tight at the start and nothing but snug, blissful friction after it.  

Plus, she was naked.  Completely naked and leaning over me and naked and…yeah.  

She was also completely relentless—and naked—and I think paying me back a little for the whole multiple orgasm thing because when my orgasm ripped itself out of me, her strokes didn’t change at all, they were just as fast and hard as they had been, and that just made my body want to push harder.  

I wasn’t the only one with skills at getting people off.   

I couldn’t breathe, or see, or talk, or move, or form any coherent thought.  It felt like my entire lower half was just one big constricted and tense jumble of complete sexual anarchy—and it was fucking amazing!  

I’d tell her that just as soon as I could breathe, see, talk, move, and/or form a coherent thought.  

I attempted to lift my head and test my vision, and did it in time to see her fingers swiping through the come on my stomach.  Allison met my eyes and my vision was somewhat choppy, along with my brain function, but her fingers went to her mouth before she was fucking licking it off of my stomach, and all I could do was groan pitifully and watch.  I may have managed an entirely too quiet “Fuck” in there.  

She smirked and dipped again, another blazingly wet hot-one-second-and-cool-the-next pass with her tongue.  

“Fun, huh?” she threw back at me.    

I meant to chuckle, but I think it was just more groaning.  The more she did, the more I wanted.  If she didn’t knock that sexy licking shit off, I was gonna be hard again, and I wasn’t sure I’d survive another orgasm like that.  

I had all this really important shit I really wanted to tell her—like how amazingly sexy she looked right now, and how her tongue licking her lips right after licking come off of my stomach was an image that was going to be burned into my eyelids whenever I closed my eyes.  I wanted to thank her for ridiculous things like letting me randomly bring over flower preservation kits, or embarking on ice skating adventures, and being mostly enthusiastic about them when she could have told me to fuck off.  I wanted to thank her for trusting me and letting me behind the wall that she kept other people out with.  I wanted to thank her for baring herself completely to me, not only physically but also on every other level here right now.  I wanted to thank her for being herself when she could have just played along—she could have pretended with me.  I think her not pretending kept me honest, kept me conscious and aware of what she needed.  It made me want to be good enough, to be the kind of person she never thought she’d have but totally deserved.  

I wanted to thank her for being the first person in years, other than Caroline, who I was truly happy getting out of bed for, that I looked forward to spending time with.  

Instead, I let her finish cleaning me up and watched drowsily as she wrestled my boxers and jeans off the rest of the way before nudging me to move under the covers.  She joined me a second later and I loved that it seemed just a given now that she’d snuggle naked into my chest this way as we both drifted off to sleep again.  

The warmth of her skin pressing into mine was a privilege I never wanted to lose.





One (Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) |   Two   |  Three  |  Four  |  Five  |  Six  |  Seven  |  Eight  |  Nine  |  Ten  |  Eleven  |  Twelve  |  Thirteen  |  Fourteen  |  Fifteen  |