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He strips out of his jeans and begins slowly stroking himself as he examines me. Even with his massive hands wrapped around himself, his dick still looks huge. As far as dicks go, he has a nice one. The head is large but not too big so that it hurts. It turns a deep pink when he’s turned on. The velvety smooth shaft is long and thick and perfectly proportionate to the head.
After a minute, he stops his own pleasure to tend to me once more. His hands massage and tickle the sensitive skin of my labia, stopping just short of entering me or touching my clit. He’s so disciplined, never in a hurry, building these feelings into a furious storm before allowing me to get any relief.
“I can smell your soap on your sheets on your old bed,” he says. My eyes flutter open at the sound of his voice.
“You were in my room?”
My room at my parents’ house is exactly the way I left it before moving into my apartment. Even
my diary is still stuffed under the mattress. The one that has Paul’s name scrolled through it a thousand times, talking about all my childish day dreams of our wedding, the names of our future children, all the sexy things I wanted to try that I’d seen in porno videos or magazines.
I still have dirty laundry there, my laptop that has naked selflies on it, which, thankfully, is password protected. Everything that could possibly humiliate me with Paul is in that room and he’s had plenty of time to go snooping.
He’s looking curiously at me. “I couldn’t help but think when I sat on your bed that this was the same place you used to touch yourself when you were first discovering new sensations to your body. The same bed you snuck a boy into while your parents were asleep downstairs, and he put his fingers into you for the first time.”
My eyes open wide. “How—” I start to say, but remember my diary.
He continues. “It was where you put a hairbrush handle into your ass to see what it would feel like, and discovered your new love for ass-play.” He takes the bottle of strawberry lube he bought and drizzles it onto his fingers. The tart candy scent fills my nose. Using his dry hand, he spreads my ass cheeks apart with his fingers, and with the lubed hand, begins to massage the rim of my asshole. I take a deep breath and let it slowly out, trying to not tense up.
“There you go, just relax,” he says when my body starts to loosen up. Still, he doesn’t enter me even though I’m ready to accept him.
“The same bed,” he continues, “that you laid in night after night fantasizing about me …”
“So you did read my diary.”
I can’t remember everything I used to write in my diary, but I never held anything back. Everything I ever felt about Paul was between those pages, raw and unabridged.
“It was just lying there. I couldn’t help it,” he says.
“It was under my mattress wrapped up in a sweater.”
A beautiful, playful smile tilts his lips. “You were a dirty little girl, weren’t you?”
“Maybe a little.”
I’d always been a good student, excellent with computers, and managed to find my way onto porn sites that I shouldn’t have had access to. A girl can learn a thing or two from those webpages. Watching all those women spreading their butt cheeks while men drilled into them, planted a seed into my brain that continued to grow over the years. I knew one day I wanted that done to me, and I used to picture Paul as the one to do it. That, I remember writing in my diary.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, one of his fingers slips past my ring. I suck in a loud breath instead. I’m nervous. I’ve never done this with anyone before. It takes a moment for me to relax enough for it to easily glide in and out without that feeling of uncomfortable pressure.
Once I’ve allowed myself to completely open up to him, his next finger enters.
I’m rocking back and forth on his fingers now. When he bends down, catching my clit between his lips I’m on the edge about to go over, but be backs off before that can happen. He’s really good at controlling my orgasms.
“You like that?” he asks in a sexy, sultry voice.
“Mmm, yes,” is all I can manage because he’s reduced me to nothing but coos and throaty noises.
From the bag, he pulls out the egg vibrator and turns it on. It’s a loud, powerful thing and I shiver with excitement imagining what he plans to do with it. He douses the egg with lube and that, too, goes in my ass. I marvel at the ticklish sensation of something vibrating in there. It feels amazing—like nothing I’ve ever felt before—and helps my muscles to relax even more. When he pulls it out, my entire body has loosened up, so when he puts the head of his cock into my rectum, there’s no resistance or pain.
I let out a long moan. He pours more lube onto his shaft, and takes his time easing it into me until I’m full. By the time he has sank all the way into me, I’m completely adjusted to this new sensation and feeling more turned on than ever before. He goes slow, pulling out, then pushing back in. He adds more lube each time so each entrance is silky smooth and feels delectable.
He lifts my butt off the bed so that he can move deeper into me. As he starts to move faster, humping in and out, I’m going wild. My pussy doesn’t need any attention to send me through the roof. He reaches over into my side table and finds one of my dildos.
I watch him, eyes wide open as he rubs my clit with the tip. He’s going to double penetrate me. Part of me is nervous, afraid it will hurt or won’t fit, but I trust him. If it hurts he’ll stop.
I’m surprised when he pushes it into me and it doesn’t hurt. Not at all. I just feel very full and very sexy and my orgasm smashes into me. He stays inside me a moment, waiting it out as my muscles clamp down on him. He caresses my breasts with his fingers until my shaking has stopped.
He then takes the cuffs off. My strength is non-existent and I buckle into his waiting arms.
“I love how kinky you are,” he whispers in my ear and there’s a smile in his voice.
I smile too, but I have no words. My tongue is broken and my mouth is mush after that gut-ripping orgasm. He rolls over and turns off the light, snuggling up to me.
His breath grows heavy and I think he’s falling asleep, but instead, he says. “I’m in love with you, Rachael.”
I’m frozen in his arms and it takes a minute for me to find my words. “I love you too.”
At this moment, I can’t think of a time I’ve been happier. The fantasy is definitely not better than the reality. The reality is better than the fantasy ever imagined being.
6
“I should probably get back to your parents’ house before they start to get too curious about where I’m spending all my time. Your mom is a worrier.” Paul says. We’re still in bed.
We’ve had sex two more times and it’s starting to get late. I don’t think I have a fourth one in me. I’m exhausted.
“Welcome to my adolescence,” I say.
I don’t want him to go. I love sleeping in his warm, safe arms. But he’s right. My parents—especially my mom—don’t know how to mind their own business. They also have a bad habit of showing up places without being invited or calling first. Might look bad if they show up in the morning and find his truck in my designated parking spot after he didn’t come back to the house last night.
He kisses me before he leaves. I want to tell him I love him again before he goes, but I’m not entirely comfortable just throwing those words around. They weigh a ton and mean everything to me.
My neighbors are outside again, watching him leave. It’s late and they’re all in their pajamas, holding cups of coffee. It’s almost as if they’ve been waiting up to hear our bedroom theatrics and to catch a glimpse of the man behind all that pleasure. By their swooning smiles and quiet titters, they like what they see.
I shake my head and go back into the apartment. As soon as my head hits the pillow, I fall right to sleep.
In the morning I wake up to the scream of my alarm. I’m feeling a little queasy and think it might be best to stay home from school, but I can’t. More exams. At least this is the last day.
It was supposed to be Paul’s last day in town. He texts me to tell me that. I’m almost in tears and I’m afraid I’ll be too sad to concentrate on my school work until he texts back saying he’s extending his stay. He doesn’t say for how long. I know my dad will be happy about that, and my mom will be happy to have my dad out of her hair.
Paul has been in town for a little over a month now and I’ve had more sex in those weeks than I have in the last two years. Seems longer with everything that’s happened between us. Every day he comes to the school and takes me to lunch. After school he picks me up and we spend time together until he goes back to my parents’ house at night.
It’s fine for now, but we’re in love and eventually it won’t be enough. Luckily he talks about moving back to town and getting a place of his own. I can’t believe he’s willing to drop everything and move back. I’m so happy I can har
dly stand it. If only we didn’t have to hide our relationship from my parents, then everything would be perfect. I’m terrified at the thought of telling them, but if I want to be with Paul, they have to know. I need to tell them soon.
Saturday morning, I wake up before the sun is even up. I have to work at the coffee shop. The moment I stand up, the room tilts sideways and the temperature spikes to two-hundred degrees—at least that’s how it feels, anyway. My stomach wrenches as if it’s being turned inside out. I run to the bathroom and make it to the toilet just in time to vomit. I must be coming down with something. I think about calling in sick, but once I have it out of my system, I’m fine and decide to go in.
The bus ride to work seems more tedious than usual. Watching the lights flash by makes me car sick. I’ve never been car sick before, but I’ve been on a charter boat in the middle of the ocean and had gotten sea sick, and it felt a lot like this.
The lights in the bus seem too bright and someone has a serious flatulence problem. Pop a Beano already, Jesus Christ. If it wouldn’t make me late, I’d get off at the next stop and walk the rest of the way. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to be late and so I endure it by pulling my shirt up over my nose. I really need to start saving up for a car.
Emily meets me at the coffee shop. She usually spends my shifts sitting at the bar, keeping me company and getting discount caffeine. I feel hungover and yet I haven’t had a drop to drink in weeks. Normally I make small talk with my morning customers on their way out to work, but this morning I don’t seem to have the patience for anyone. I’m even getting annoyed with Emily as she talks non-stop after several cups of coffee, which I normally find kind of funny.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks. “Your face is pale green.”
If she can tell, it must be bad. “I think I have a stomach bug. I should probably go home. The smell of coffee is making it worse.”
