The air-BNB was nothing special, but she supposed that’s what you got when you rented mid-price and last minute. It looked enough like the pictures that she was not disappointed. A small living-room was attached through an open doorway to the kitchen, with front windows that faced out over a small lawn. A hallway led from the wooden front door–one of those old-English style ones with a barred porthole window and large hinges–down to a clean bathroom and her bedroom. The bathroom counter was scattered with beauty products and tiny hotel shampoo bottles. An open suitcase took up the lounge chair in the corner of the bedroom opposite a bed; the drawers of the dresser beside it still empty. Her clothes spilled out over the zippered edges.
The house was garish. That was good. This place didn’t feel like home–and it shouldn’t. On either side of the window, white polka-dotted black curtains hung. A couple of boxes sat in the living-room, beside the couch. She had to step passed them as she made her way into the kitchen. She’d arrived last night, and it took her a couple of minutes to locate the coffee maker. It looked like it had been purchased in the late nineties–cheap white plastic, but it would do. Picking it up, she placed it on the counter and plugged it into the wall socket. Setting the small glass bot inside of it, she filled one of the top compartments with water from the sink and the other with ground coffee from a large tin in the cupboards above the stove.
The house hadn’t come with food, but it had come with coffee. That, she supposed, was good enough.
Outside the windows, the day matched her mood. Listening to the light rumble of the coffee maker, and the slow drip of liquid hitting the bottom of the glass pot, she glanced out of the kitchen window. Small lines of rain tracked down the glass, leaving faint impressions for a moment before they faded away. Overhead, the sky was heavy and grey. It promised a proper downpour of rain before the day was over. In the yard, between her and the neighbors, two large oak trees reached gnarled limbs up toward the overcast sky.
It was ugly, she decided. Ugly–and perfect.
Her thoughts were also ugly. They were suited to the day. She tried not to think as she worked, knowing what she was avoiding thinking about even as she tried to keep her mind blank and stared out of the window. Stepping closer, she pressed her hands down against the wooden mantle beneath the window. Like every other piece of wood in the kitchen, it had once been painted white and still mostly held that colour, though brown showed in long streaks where either the paint of the wood had cracked in lines. Turning her fingers into her palms, she pressed her knuckles against the wood hard enough for it to hurt. Hard enough that a couple of knuckles cracked, the sound and the slight easing of pressure toward near-pain managing to center her for a moment.
Her thoughts might have been ugly, but she wasn’t. She could see a faint reflection in the glass of the window, between its slightly fogged edges. A face that held the shape of an oval stared out from the sweep of her brown hair, which fell well passed her shoulders; straight, and currently loose. A pair of wide brown eyes and slightly loose-looking pink lips were all that remained to tell of her Bulgarian heritage. If her skin was slightly darker around the neck and shoulders, fading more toward brown than beige near her hairline and the back of her hands, she knew that most people passed it off as a tan.
She stood tall, her chin raised on a slightly short neck, trying to hold the image of a proud woman. Something that she didn’t feel.
Luke–the name in her head came to her with the same sound as the rain hitting the glass. The same sound as the drips of coffee slowly filling the pot behind her. Pressing her nails into her palms, she tried to focus her anger into her hands. She tried to make her anger white-hot, as if she were attempting to burn it out of herself in a single flashing, rage-fueled moment. It didn’t work. The name caught in the back of her throat, and for a moment she struggled to breathe around its weight. Luke and–there should have been two names there, but she’d never learned the second one.
They were a blankness. An empty space, which could have been filled by anyone. Over the course of the last forty-six hours, she’d spent a lot of time thinking about that; wondering whether it was a good thing or not. It was good, she decided. She wanted her rage directed at Luke. The empty space that whoever it was took up, the space that had once been hers, wasn’t to blame.
He was–right?
Deep down, she knew that it wasn’t her fault. Somehow, the knowing didn’t help. It didn’t ease the slight prickle of anger from behind her eyes, the one that had been threatening tears for the last two days. It didn’t help lift the Atlas-sized stone from inside of her stomach. It didn’t help her breathe around the name that was caught inside of her throat. The one that threatened to choke her, any time she spent time thinking about it. The worst part, she thought, was that the memory was still there. When she paused, she could still feel him. The weight of his body standing behind her shoulder, the warmth of his arms around her waist, the slight bristle of the beard he had been perpetually growing around his mouth.
When she woke up in a strange bed this morning, in the moment before she’d remembered where she was and what had happened, she had reached an arm out instinctively to his side of the bed. He was still there–because she could still feel him.
She could feel him inside of her. The length of his cock parting her, opening her; a memory that once would have sent a flush of pleasure through her so violently that it was nearly uncontainable. A memory that now made her teeth feel too large, too sharp, too hard in her mouth. Something travelled up her spine, making her shiver slightly; a small spark that had once been desire, but was now something… colder.
Angrier.
That was something else that he’d left behind, another thing that turned her stomach inside out. She had never been an angry person. It wasn’t that she’d never been angry, of course she had. Everybody was angry, once and a while. But until two days ago she’d never felt like this. Like a shell had fallen inside of her, and was waiting for the smallest change to detonate. As if she were lying beside a bomb, unable to close her eyes, waiting for it to go off. Everything annoyed her. The sound of the rain. The sound of the coffee maker. How the salt and pepper shakers stood slightly off-center on the counter. She’d never been angry with herself for something that wasn’t her fault.
At some point, she knew, she was going to explode. Everything else, everything in between, was only a waiting game. How long before something set her off? How long before she went fucking nuclear?
Pushing the thought roughly out of her mind, she turned and slid the now full pot out of the coffee maker. Taking a cup down from the cupboard, she poured it about three-quarters full. The slightly click of the glass pot going back into the coffee maker annoyed her. The tap of the mug against the counter annoyed her. The fact that the cupboard creaked as she closed it annoyed her.
The fact that the dishwasher was broken, and that she’d contacted the property owner earlier and received no response annoyed her. That one, especially, ticked her off.
Carrying her cup of coffee into her room, she glanced at the laptop on her desk. She could work–that could distract her. But the though felt hollow; unfulfilling, because she was still filled by something else. The memory of him, inside of her. Instead, she turned her head slowly and glanced down at her suitcase. Setting her cup of coffee on the empty dresser and began to sort through her clothes. She pushes the piles from one side to the other, searching for something.
She had to breathe down a scream of rage as she realized that she might not have brought it. She was almost certain she had–she had taken it out of the closet, hadn’t she? She could remember doing that, but had she left it on the bed in her packing? Had she–
The thought disappeared as her hand closed around a black felt bag, closed at the top with a small silver drawstring.
Setting the bag on top of her clothing, she undressed quickly. Kicking her jeans under the chair, she worked her finger into the knot that held her tee-shirt closed around her waist. She’d bought it for ten dollars in one online store or another–dark grey, with the faint white image of pine trees surrounded by a circle. Dropping it beside her jeans, she took the felt bag and moved to the bed.
The sheets were cool against her skin. The rain made everything feel slightly damp, but she didn’t care. Something was burning inside of her–the slow crawl of a fuse cord. She wasn’t even really aroused, but if she looked at her anger from the corner of her eyes, it could almost pass as that. It was fuel. She could use it. Closing her eyes, she slid her fingers down into the strings of her underwear and pulled them off, dropping them beside the bed. She hadn’t bothered wearing a bra, this morning; she wasn’t going out, and she sure as hell wasn’t seeing anybody.
Pulling open the strings on the felt bag, she reached inside of it. There was a small collection of things inside; a couple small bottles that she knew were water-based lubricant and toy cleaner, respectively; a small bullet vibrator in chrome silver; a couple of spare batteries that clicked loose in the bottom of the bag; a pair of nipple clamps connected by a thin metal chain; a box of condoms; and… yes, that.
She drew the vibrator out of her bag. She’d purchased it about a year ago. It was technically a dildo, she supposed, but that word always made her feel slightly squeamish–which was strange, because most words she was fine with. Cock, pussy, cunt, vibrator; those words were perfectly fine. Dildo, though? Something about the word had always felt strangely childish to her.
The vibrator itself, however, made her feel anything but squeamish. It was seven inches long, in the shape of a cock, and curved slightly upward in her hand. Beneath the beige silicone covering, it even had a couple of “veins” that stood out along the sides and top. A small black plastic knob made up the bottom of the shaft. Turning it to the lowest setting, feeling the shuddering of it travelling through her fingers and palm, she smiled for the first time that day. Despite how familiar it was, it was still a strange sensation.
Her heart beat at the same pace it had before, but slightly harder. She could feel it against the top of her chest as she slowly lowered the vibrator between her legs. She didn’t put it inside of herself–not yet. Instead, she held it in one hand and fit the upper curve against the top of her labia. It drew a small, slightly shaky inhale from her as the silicone touched her skin. Her feet caught the sheets as she brought her knees up slightly, spreading her legs toward either side of the bed.
For a moment, there’s a frustrating sense of nothingness. Then she felt it. The buzzing of the vibrator against her skin, between her legs, teased out a similar sound in the back of her mind–something like humming. It came from somewhere inside of her; distant and alert. Twisting the small wheel on the bottom of the vibrator, she felt the power increase ever so slightly. The one issue with the toy, in her opinion, was that she had to be slightly careful. Turning it increased the force of the vibrations, but if you turned it too far then it started going into patterns; which she was sure was great for some people, but had never done anything but frustrate her.
She could feel that frustration edging away as she began to slide the vibrator, quite slowly, along the outside of her labia. The sensation would have been ticklish, if she hadn’t been turning herself on. Instead, the small vibrations that travelled out into her thighs and up through the bones of her hips made her feel more desperate.
A couple of moments, and she could feel herself becoming wet. A spreading of heat, lower and deeper than the anger before it had been. She could still feel that anger–like the ticking of a clock in the back of her mind, but more muffled now. A bomb covered by a heavy blanket. Wetness began to creep forward as she continued massaging herself, lightly but insistently, with the curve of the vibrator.
Tilting it outward, she drew a deep breath as the slightly indented silicone head touched the front of her labia, just over the opening of her pussy. She could feel a slight fluttering in the lips of her labia; a strangely opposite sense of numbness and acute sensitivity.
Very slowly, she eased the head of the toy inside of her. It was slightly thicker than any of the men she’d been with, and she could feel herself stretching slightly as the shaft began its slow, carefully guided journey upward. As it entered her, the vibrations of the device did so as well; moving from her skin to her muscles, and finally through her stomach. Clenching her toes in the sheets, she felt a familiar tightness in the back of her knees. Using one hand to control the vibrator, moving it forward and backward slowly, she brought the other hand up and grasped her breasts. Using her hips, she began to rock against the fake cock inside of her; matching the movement of her body to the movement of her wrist.
The movement brought her left breast into the palm of her hand and then away again. She pressed it flat against her chest and then reached upward to tug her nipple; gently, and then slightly less gently.
Inside of her, the vibrator felt incredible–but something was wrong. It came from the ticking, she knew. It had been almost inaudible, at first. Now, though… it sounded like the clicking of nails against hardwood, like the sound of raindrops on grass, like the sound of coffee hitting the bottom of a pot. And then, awfully, it sounded like his laughter. Like a thousand grains of rice turning over in a rainstick. The motion of her wrist stopped short, her hand resting just between the top of her stomach and her chest, her eyes open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Was this it? Was this the detonation?
It was useless. With the vibrator inside of her, all she could think about was the feeling of his cock. She’d done this to fuck the memory of him out of her, to replace it, to remind herself that he wasn’t the only one who’d ever brought her pleasure. This was having the opposite effect.
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to think of anything but him. It was useless. Her usual fantasies slipped away, like trying to hold a handful of water, or a handful of smoke. Frustration rose through her, threatening to spill over. Her arousal began to drift away, like smoke from a wavering candle. In it’s place came something… uglier.
It took her a moment to hear the sound, consumed as she was by the buzzing of the vibrator–now outside of her–the ticking of the whatever inside of her head, and the beating of her heart. Maybe it was because the sound was faint, or maybe because it fit so neatly in them. It was the sound of knocking. Turning off the vibrator, she slipped it beneath the pillow and listened again. Strangely, whether it was the disappearance of the vibrator or her sudden concentration, the sound of ticking also quieted slightly.
There it was again. Knocking, definitely.
Luke? She hated that the thought of it sent a small spark of hope ricocheting through her chest. Her anger flared once more, but whether it was directed at him or herself, she couldn’t tell.
Rising from bed, she quickly retrieved her clothing from where she’d left them in crumpled piles against the floor. Pulling her jeans up around her hips, she retied the shirt just above them, leaving a bare strip of skin between the blue and gray fabrics. The room smelled like sex, she realized suddenly. She didn’t know whether it was something only noticeable to her or not–the faint smell of her pussy, the smell of sex-toy latex against her hands. Dragging her fingers through her slightly sweat-damp hair, she brought it into as much of a semblance of tidiness as she could manage. It would have to be enough.
Making her way down the hallway, she hesitated for a moment in front of the front door. There was no time to collect her thoughts; somehow, over the past forty-six hours, she’d thought of a thousand things she’d wanted to say to Luke. Most of them hurtful. At this moment, none of them seemed appropriate. Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door.
And her thoughts stopped dead in their tracks.
Whoever this was, it wasn’t Luke. It took her a moment to see the features of his face; partially because she was so struck by the man’s height, and partially because he was looking away from her toward the window of the living-room. As the door opened, he turned.
“Good afternoon,” the man’s baritone brought her thoughts running back to reality, “I’m Carson.” She realized that the man had reached out a second ago, offering her his hand. She look it quickly.
“Patricia,” she replied, feeling slightly dumbstruck.
“I’m here about a dishwasher,” his smile revealed two rows of white teeth, particularly startling against his dark skin, “Know anything about that?”
“Uh…” she blinked, “Yeah. Sorry, yeah! I didn’t hear back from the owner. Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you.”
“Ah,” he exhaled, the sound low and understanding, “I have the work order in my truck. I can wait there, if you want to call…?”
“No,” she said hurriedly, stepping back and giving the man room to step through the door. Stupid some small, still-rational part of her brain chided her. Inviting a strange man into a rental house.
But he did had a small toolbox with him, which he picked up from the porch and carried inside with him. He was wearing a pair of khaki pants, black shoes, and a pale blue shirt that had Boyer’s Repairs and Contracting stitched over a small logo of crossed hammers on the breast pocket.
Truthfully, none of that mattered. The moment she laid eyes on the man, what he was wearing ceased to matter. She saw a pair of proud shoulders and a chest that pressed flat against the rain-flecked blue of his shirt. She saw a pair of tattooed arms, the blue ink almost hidden against the dark brown of his skin. She saw a pair of almond-shaped black eyes, which blinked out at her from a handsome, slightly round-boned face. His hair might have been curly, but was shaved close enough to his head that it was impossible to tell. His face was clean-shaven, revealing a pair of hollowly dimpled cheeks and a mouth that seemed to take up the entire bottom of his face when he smiled. Even factoring in the thick-soled black work shoes he wore, the man must have stood six-four on the flats of his feet.
Patricia’s thoughts had absolutely nothing to do with dishwashers; nothing to do with what was or wasn’t running.
At the sight of the man, the ticking had gone silent.
The heat of arousal which had earlier slipped away came roaring back to life, like gasoline thrown over the last coals of a fire. As she stood aside and watched the man bend down to undo the laces of his shoes, leaving them beside the door, she felt unexpected warmth gathering between her legs.
Was she really the kind of woman who fucked the repairman? The thought almost made her laugh; a low, dangerous laugh. It was something straight out of pornography. It wasn’t something people actuallydid. Except that today it was–she was.
“Your clothes are wet,” she said, trying to make the words sound like a casual observation.
Carson straightened, glancing at her. If he thought that the words were strange, his expression showed no sign of it. He was obviously waiting for her to take the first step, to show him to the kitchen–she would take the first step alright, but it was going to be to the bedroom behind her. He glanced down at his shirt, the shoulders of which were slightly darker than the bottom; dampened by the rain.
“That’s alright,” he held up his hand in an after you gesture, “I’ve got a change in the truck for when I’m done. Always carry a spare set of everything.”
Reaching down, Patricia touched the knot of fabric that held her shirt closed against her stomach. Working one finger into it, she pulled it loose. Now that caught the man’s attention. She saw his dark eyes hold on the suddenly loose, slightly creased fabric of her shirt for a moment, maybe glancing at the bare skin beneath it, before quickly returning back to the safer territory of her eyes. Safer territory another thought that almost made her laugh. Around her, right now, there was no such thing as safer territory.
The heat had spread through her body, by this point. She wanted to move. She wanted to push Carson back against the old, port-holed oak of the door and take him right there in the hallway. Maybe, she thought suddenly, maybe this was the detonation. Instead of doing that, she tilted her head slightly and studied the man’s eyes. They went slightly narrower as his brow drew closer together, causing small lines to bunch between them and a longer one to travel above half-way down the flat bridge of his nose. It gave his expression that of one somewhere between curiosity, confusion, and concern.
“Maybe you should take them off.”
For a moment, they both stood in the hallway and stared at one another. Patricia’s expression was serious, Carson’s going smooth as his eyebrows unknotted and rose a fraction of an inch; surprised, searching.
“You’re serious?” He asked, slowly.
“Very,” she nods in reply, “Take them off.” When the words come out of her mouth, they’re not a question.
“Are you saying–”
“You’re hourly, aren’t you?” She cut the man off, speaking over him. Closing his mouth, he nodded, “Good. I want you for an hour. Then you can take a look at the dishwasher.”
Patricia could barely believe the words had come out of her mouth. She recognized the sound of her own voice, but not the words that she spoke. She didn’t care. The indecency of it didn’t bother her; the man was here, she was here, she wanted him. The ticking had gone silent. Everything else was secondary.
“Good God,” the man’s words came out as an exhale of breath, “you are serious.”
“Completely,” she backed a step up the hallway in a motion that invited the man to follow her. Two pairs of dark eyes met in the slightly dim hallway light–his disbelieving, hers scorching.
This hadn’t been what she was expecting. She’d expected a flash, white-heat, complete destruction. Not this slow-motion detonation. This slow crawl of heat through her body. Reaching down, she tucked two fingers into the top of her jeans as she took another step backward. She saw the man’s eyes follow her hand downward, catching themselves between her legs before leaping back up to find hers.
“I’ll bet you an hours wages I’m wetter than you are.”
That brought a deep, surprised chuckle out of the man. His eyes narrowed slightly, and Patricia felt her heart jump as he took a step further into the hallway. His hand rose once again, indicating the open door behind her. The same gesture he’d used earlier, now with a completely different intention behind it. He followed her into the bedroom, closing the door behind him as he entered.
She stood completely still, at the foot of the bed, as he started forward. Only at the last minute did she hold up her hand, pressing one finger into the man’s chest.
“Won’t change anything–” she said, “but I need to know, are you single?”
It was a lie. She knew it was a lie, but she also knew that she needed an honest answer to this this question. She needed honesty from this man. The wrong answer, and things would stop just as quickly as they had started.
He paused in front of her. Her pointer finger rested on the light blue fabric of his work shirt, just below his chest. His dark eyes studied her seriously. Slowly, his chin inclined in a nod.
“For the last six months,” his study of her face became slightly more focused, “Are you?”
“Completely.”
That seemed to be it. The pin pulled from the grenade. Patricia gasped as the man’s strong hands lifted her from the ground. Her legs wound around his waist as he held her, without a single sign of effort. She could feel his hands against her back, her body suspended between his hips and the hard curves of his biceps, which she could feel pressed under her arms and against the side of her breasts. When their mouths met, the motion was grasping and desperate. She’d noticed the broadness of his mouth before, but now that it was open against hers she could feel the slightly puffy warmth of his lips, the slippery strength of the tongue that met hers.
With the weight of her body, she tugged him backward. They collapsed in bed; a fall which was controlled by his back and knees. Patricia felt her lifted up slightly, moved further up the bed as the man took a place above her. As her back met the heavy comforter, his hands slid out from beneath it. They still hadn’t broken that first kiss. She could feel his hands; not bothering with the button of her jeans, but instead finding the sides and folding against her skin as he pulled them down. She worked her legs, not bothering to hide her excitement as she kicked the jeans away with her feet.
As the man’s mouth left hers, she arched backward slightly. He lifted her shirt, bunching it around her breasts as he kissed down her stomach. Patricia felt her breath becoming unsteady, still not fully caught after the force of their kiss, but going decidedly less so as the man’s mouth reached her pelvis. Reaching down, she pulled her shirt over head head and discarded it. Between her legs, the man rose only to follow the gesture. His blue shirt stripped away to reveal what it had hinted at–a muscular stomach, a broad chest, shoulders that were covered in the same almost indiscernible ink-blue patterns as his arms. It looked, Patricia thought, like a cross between knotwork and tribal patterns.
He was one of the few men she’d ever seen who could wear that pattern, without looking ridiculous. It suited the colour of his skin, the strength of his frame, the curves of his arms and shoulders.
All thoughts of his tattoos vanished, like a tamper going over a candle flame, as the man pulled her underwear down her legs and replaced it with his mouth. She arched further, letting out a full-bodied gasp as the man’s tongue traced the outer lips of her labia. His hands gripped her thighs, holding them easily in place.
“I owe you forty-five,” the man’s deep voice drew her attention between her legs. He looked up at her, grinning his white smile, “–My hourly, remember? You win. You’re wetter than I am.”
Patricia laughed, but the sound quickly became an exhale as the man’s head lowered once more. This time, it wasn’t just his tongue. She felt the round tips of two fingers touch against the bottom of her pussy, following the path of his tongue as it parted her before them. When they slid inside, the sudden pressure made her want to writhe in the sheets. Between what had happened at the doorway and her earlier session with the vibrator, she felt ready to explode at the slightest touch. Her mouth went wide, gasping air as the man’s tongue drew a pattern over the mound of her clitoris and his fingers began a tight, reaching rhythm inside of her. As he continued, she began to thrust her hips slightly to meet his hand, as much as the hands on her thighs would allow.
“You’re a bombshell,” the words were a breath of heat against her clitoris and the bottom of her pelvis.
No, baby. I’m what follows it.
Before he had a chance to form the words, she felt the man’s tongue find her clit. He didn’t attack it, like some men were want to do; instead he drew it out slowly. Traced it with slow licks and teasing flicks of his tongue. All the while, below it, his fingers continued their work. If not for the pressure of his hands, Patricia knew she would have tried to squeeze the man’s head between her thighs.
She was on fire. Every nerve in her body felt bare, raw, begging. The man was too far below her for her hands to reach his hair, so instead she tightened her fingers into the comforter. She felt the fabric bunch in her hands, pulling upward slightly.
When the orgasm reached her, it came as suddenly as everything else that day. This time, even his hands couldn’t stop her legs from closing around his head. Her thighs pressed against the man’s ears, her shoulders pressed against the comforter, the rest of her body buckling upward. For a moment, it felt like all of the vertebrae that made up her spine had fused together into a single, curved arch of bone. And then she was collapsing, releasing the man’s head from her legs as small shudders ran up through her suddenly loose back. Pawing at the sheets, she gasped wet breaths.
The man’s fingers had withdrawn from her body, but his mouth had not. Instead, his tongue parted her. It pushed a couple of inches inside, rolling slightly and then sliding upward. She could barely think–her thoughts spinning out of control, but she managed to snatch a thought out of the whirlwind. He was savoring her. Enjoying the taste of her pussy against his tongue. After a moment, Patricia exhaled deeply and lifted herself away from the man’s mouth. On the end of the bed, he lifted himself up.
Knees bent, back straight, he looked at her and grinned. A full-mouthed grin and revealed two teeth near the left corner. It suddenly dawned on Patricia that she had no idea how old Carson was. He had a slightly ageless appearance; he could have been a young-looking forty-five, but he could just as easily have been twenty-five. It didn’t matter, she supposed.
He was handsome, and he could do… that. Whatever he’d done to her body. That was enough.
“Condoms?” He asked, simply.
“Black bag,” she nodded behind the man, “On top of the suitcase. There’s a box.”
She watched the man stand, unfolding his knees from the bed and rising. After her orgasm, desire was still burning inside of her, but it didn’t feel nearly as frantic. She almost enjoyed how slowly Carson moved; like they had all the time in the world. He stretched, arching his back and bringing his arms up above his head. The motion pressed a deep line through the bottom of his biceps, making their size even more apparent. As he lowered his arms, he brought them to the front of his work pants.
The button clicked quietly as he freed it, bending down to slide the pants down his legs. His underwear followed them a moment later.
Holy. Fuck.
The entire situation was something out of a pornography video; and the man’s penis matched it. Patricia had slept with her fair share of men, and watched her fair share of porn. As the man’s penis pulled free of his underwear, she found herself raising her eyebrows and blowing a small breath through circled lips. It wasn’t that he was enormous. He was large, certainly; about eight inches, if she were to guess. It was the fact that he had a good looking penis. The proportions were all right, the head and the first inch of the shaft slightly lighter than that below it.
If Carson noticed her reaction, he gave no sign of it. His penis, which was swollen without being fully hard, swayed from one thigh to the other as he turned and made his way to the suitcase. Patricia took a moment to admire the man’s behind. It was firm, with small indents in the outer curve of each cheek.
Pulling a pillow behind her back and sitting up, she enjoyed the view of the man’s body as he fumbled with the drawstring of the bag she’d been using earlier. It only took him a moment to have it open, pulling out the back of condoms. They were–so far–unused. His thumb cracked the cardboard seal and separated one of them from the row.
He opened it as he turned, making his way back to the bed. She watched the gold wrapped flutter down from his hand to the floor, and then watched more closely as the man reached down to fit the condom over the head of his penis. He was looking back at her, she realized. She grinned, spreading her legs in the sheets and playing two fingers between them. She saw a slight jerk in the man’s penis, a reaction to the sight.
Instead of joining her on the bed, he continued to watch her for a moment. Standing tall at the foot of it. Reaching down, he began to stroke himself slowly through the condom.
“What are your favourite positions, Patricia?” He asks, his voice filled with genuine curiosity.
The question caught her slightly off guard. She had them, of course, but she’d never had somebody… ask her. Strangely, the question made something pull tight in Patricia’s chest. Like a cord running through her, from just below one armpit to the other side of her body. She swallowed, opening her mouth and then closing it. When she finally spoke, her voice was slightly different than it had been previous. More honest.
“Trish,” she answers, almost softly.
“Pardon?”
“Trish,” she repeats, “My friends call me Trish, not Patricia.”
When his smile comes, it comes slowly. Drawing up the planes of his dark cheeks and revealing the bottom of his white teeth.
“What are you favourite positions, Trish?”
“I like to be on top,” she ventures.
“Cowgirl,” he nods, the certainty of his grin not wavering an inch, “Noted. Any other ones?” She shook her head.
“Anything you really like?” He asks, moving a step closer to the end of the bed, “More important, anything you really don’t like?”
“Choking,” her answer comes with confidence, “I mean… Not crazy. Just, you know–” raising her free hand, the one not busy between her legs, she presses her thumb to one side of her neck and her two forefingers to the other. Turning her head back slightly, she stares at Carson out of the bottom of her eyes. “Like this.” Her voice comes out slightly strangled. Moving her fingers, she hooks two of them against the back of her front teeth and pulls forward gently, opening her mouth wide. “And this,” she spoke from her open throat, even less distinct than before, “And, actually… Pretty much anything involving your hands and my head.”
“Fuck,” he breathes softly, one hand still stroking the length of his cock. He’s fully erect, now. It stands stiffly out from between his hips, pointing toward her almost like the arm of a compass. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly stronger, “Maybe I shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve slept with… a decent amount of women. You, Trish, are by far the hottest.”
“That’s only because you’re about to fuck me,” despite her reply, his words bring a smaller flush of heat upward through her chest; not arousal, this time, but pleasure. There was something about his tone, she thought. Honesty.
“No,” he shakes his head, “It’s a great privilege, but that’s not why. You’re just… Fuck, you’re just gorgeous. I thought it when I came through the door, and I’m thinking it right now.”
“Come here.”
“What?”
“Come–here!”
She reaches forward, taking Carson’s hands as the man climbs onto the bed. Sliding them free from his fingers, she reaches up and grabs both sides of his face. Drawing it down to hers, she brings their lips together. This isn’t like the previous kiss; it’s deeper, their lips lingering together as the man leans over her and she reaches up to meet him.
For a moment, even the sex is forgotten. His arm wraps around her body, turning Patricia and pulling her on top of him. His hands roam her back, shifting her hair gently from one side to the other as their kissing changes positions. Opening her eyes, Patricia finds the man’s already open, staring at her as they kiss. She breaks away with a laugh.
“Ready?” He asks.
“Well,” she grins, leaning down and pressing her lips to his once more, briefly, “I suppose we’re already here.”
As he enters her for the first time, it’s not a thrust. It’s a gradual joining; Patricia’s breath drawn in through an open mouth and exhaled as she leans down, burying her face in the round indent between Carson’s shoulder and neck. As his hips rise, she eases hers back to meet them. She faintly remembered thinking that the man hadn’t been enormous, but he certainly felt that way now.
She could feel the muscles of her vagina stretched slightly as the man’s cock buried itself snuggly inside of them. The pressure kept up as the man went further, and further–and further, until Patricia was certain that he would hit her cervix. She braced for the slight pain of it. And then, before it happened, he was inside of her. Their hips touched, and she exhaled explosively against the man’s skin. His hand went around the back of her neck, his touch somehow gentle, but holding her in place.
When he began moving, Patricia could barely feel his breathing below her. As if he were holding his breath. Patricia gasped, feeling the man drawn a couple of inches backward and then moving forward once more.
“Let me–” she begins, but a slight pressure from the hand around the back of her neck stops her voice.
“No.”
“In that case,” her voice is a slightly breathless whisper against the side of his neck, “Go faster.”
She felt the change beneath her as his hips began to rock. He was breathing now. She could feel it against her chest–deep breaths, which lifted her up slightly and lowered her with each one. Patricia moaned, and then gasped slightly as the man’s penis actually stiffened inside her at the sound. Her moaning took on a different quality, exhaled with each breath, as the man began to fuck her.
She couldn’t have said how long it went on. She lost herself in the feeling of the man’s body; the unyielding pressure, the gentle control that he took of her, the rising speed of his motion. Over her head, his breathing became slightly ragged.
“Turn over,” the words were nearly a gasp from his mouth. His hand released its grip from the back of her neck.
Pulling herself off the man for a moment, she turned over so that she was laying against the man’s stomach. She felt his chest rising and falling beneath her shoulder blades, her head turned back slightly over his shoulder but supported by a pillow beneath her hair. She didn’t know where the pillow had come from. He must have put it there without her noticing, she realized. As the man entered her from below, the change in the angle of his penis was enough to make her cry out.
“You okay?” He asked, sounding slightly concerned.
“So fucking good,” she replied, reaching down and grabbing the side of the man’s stomach with one hand. She felt his arm go over her stomach, his hand curling over the soft skin just above her hipbone.
“Good, because I’m going to fuck you now.”
“What the hell have you been doing?” She asked, a flush of laughter travelling from her stomach up into her chest.
“Foreplay,” she could hear the grin in his voice, “Ready?”
It turns out, she wasn’t. She couldn’t possibly have been. As the man began thrusting upward, the hand that wasn’t reached over her body came up and took a hold of her throat. Patricia’s thoughts swam slightly–but whether it was from the pressure of the man’s fingers, or the delirium of her pleasure at having him do it, she didn’t know. She only knew that it was incredible. As he fucked her, the hand against her stomach moved slowly downward. Through her spinning thoughts, she felt it come to rest against her pelvis, and then go lower.
Oh, that’s–
Her thoughts scattered as the man’s fingers found her clit. With her pussy already spread around the shaft of his cock, he found it easily. Around her throat, his hand shifted. She felt his fingers go into her mouth, pressing down against her tongue for a moment before returning to their previous position. Even with her eyes closed, Patricia saw small explosions of white as the man’s hands and cock worked in a steady rhythm. A wash of heat went through her body.
“Oh!” She gasps, immediately feeling the man’s hand take a slightly firmer grasp on her neck, “Oh–fuck!”
This time, she could feel the orgasm coming before she reached it. The tensing in the muscles at the bottom of her feet, the vanishing of her breath, the slipping away of what few thoughts she had managed to hold on to.
“Oh my God,” she heard Carson’s voice below her, between breaths, “Trish, that feels so fucking–”
When the orgasm hit her, she very nearly tried to twist off of Carson’s body. Only the sudden steadiness of his hands; one on her throat and one clutching her thigh, held her in place. This time, there was nothing slow about the detonation that happened inside of her. She lost track of her hands as they grabbed at whatever was closest, whether it was Carson or the sheets she couldn’t have said. She shrieked, emptying her lungs of air as the man continued his steady thrusting beneath her.
“Uh–” It took Patricia a moment to realize that she hadn’t just heard the sound reverberating in her own head. That she had Carson had made it at the exact same moment.
Her entire body shook, wracked by the force of the orgasm as she came down from it. Inside of her, she could feel Carson’s movement slowing slightly. Even before he spoke, she knew that he was close. She could feel it; in the rigidness of his cock inside of her, in the slight strain of his breathing, in the hands that clutched her.
“Carson,” she breathed, “Cum inside of me–please.”
He did. She felt his penis jerk slightly, his movement slowing further as the motion repeated, deep inside of her. A low groan travelled through her body, followed a moment later by her exhale of breath.
For a moment, they only lay there. Both of their bodies were slick and slightly shiny with sweat; him more so than her. Below her, she could feel laughter shaking Carson’s body, and once more it took Patricia a moment to realize that it wasn’t just him moving her. She was laughing as well. Letting her head fall backward as the man’s hand released from around her neck, she shook it slightly. Against her temple, she could feel the tiny, slightly bristly curls of the man’s hair.
“I guess I’d better look at that dishwasher now,” he chuckled.
“Stay,” she breathed, and immediately felt the follow-up to the word catch in her chest.
“Pardon?” He asked.
“I have this place for another week,” she spoke as she eased off the man, wincing at the slight spasm that went through her legs as the man’s penis pulled out of her completely. He sat up, pulling off the condom and tying it before setting it on the stand beside the bed. She waited until he looked back at her to continue, “Stay with me?”
“Maybe we should talk about it after…” He trailed off, obviously seeing something change about the expression of her face. A small smile turned up the corners of his lips, “My answer is yes. Definitely, completely, yes. But I really am going to take a look at that dishwasher.”
“Wouldn’t mind watching you do that,” Patricia turned over in bed and propped her chin up on her hand, “Provided it’s done naked.”
He rose. Without touching his clothing, he walked to the door. Pausing only to glance back at her, his bright smile appearance once more, he disappeared through it. Sitting up in bed, Patricia let out a long breath. She listened carefully, but no matter how hard she concentrated, she could hear only the sound of Carson’s footsteps moving through the living-room toward the kitchen. In her head, there was only silence–without a tick to be heard.
Outside of the room, she listened to Carson opening the dishwasher, whistling to himself quietly.
Not his body, only it’s sound.
Not His Body, Only It’s Sound —- THE END.