AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And when she’s so close she can’t stand it, she propels herself up and in one swift motion, plops perfectly on my cock, to ride it until we’re both coming.
“I love you, hubby,” she says, as we cuddle together afterwards. “Happy Fourth of July.”
“Happy Fourth of July,” I tell her. “And happy wedding day. I love you, too.”
Brittany is a… well… bag of surprises sometimes, and I haven’t found one in there that I don’t like yet. In fact, I have a feeling that if things keep going (and going, and going, and gooooing) the way they have been for us, she and I are gonna make it after all.
‘Til death do us part.
THE END
Under the Fireworks
A Fourth of July Secret Baby Romance
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
Chapter One - Becca
It was supposed to be easy.
At least, that had been the consensus.
Not only with my parents but also among most of my friends.
With hilarious jokes before my entrance exam about how it was impossible to fail a music test, what was there to get wrong?
A lot of it was memory, particularly of the audio variety, which was where I trended naturally, so it was probably easier for me than it might have been for someone else, particularly if they were tone-deaf.
Crazy nerd I was, I’d not studied not just one instrument but all of them, at least in theory, and how they came to be the most common and popular pieces. Such was the lot of the conductor.
It had been a long, wet winter, as tended to happen in the Emerald City. Not that it stopped anyone from complaining about it.
But that all came to an abrupt halt when summer really started to roast. Then everyone switched to complaining about that, if with a touch less zeal.
I could always tell it was summer when the tube tops came out and the shirts came off. Some of my fellow students were going to class in what amounted to beachwear. Not that the professors were much better. If the college had a dress-code, it was merely that one had to be dressed.
One of my favorite professors came to every class, no matter the weather, in a t-shirt, Dickies and Vans, which were procured from his youngest son, who got them for free on account of being a pro-skater.
I was a bit more bashful than most. More given to jeans and t-shirts, which still tended to show my figure. It had become clear, round about the time I hit puberty, that the only way to fully disguise my womanly shape would be to literally wear a potato sack.
Resigning myself to the reality of male attention, no matter what I did, it made sense just to wear what was most comfortable. Hence a personal style was born, based on nothing more than comfort and stark utility.
It was like hieroglyphics with a dash of arcane magic. The symbols conjured from the tip of an erasable marker on the whiteboard. A pure white field of potential affixed to the wall. I knew what they all meant.
To the surprise of just about everyone, I could sight-read music by the time I was 10. Much of the shock and wonder stemmed from the fact the only music in my family came during that one winter my dad worked as a piano mover. And there’s my mother’s massive record collection.
Just about every kid thinks they know what they want to be when they grow up. But these are aspirations that almost invariably change over the years. My brother went from fighter pilot to astronaut to rock star to magician between the ages of eight and fifteen.
The fact he ended up the manager of a grocery store seemed mildly tragic in retrospect. I always knew.
My interest in being a conductor had been clear and unwavering, ever since my parents let me stay up way past my bedtime to watch a performance by a philharmonic. They were probably just astounded I would be so interested but a seed was planted, and I never looked back.
There was a reason for the sequence streaming across the pure white expanse, standing out in boldest red. The class was sitting for a test. Namely to name pieces - title, key, composer and date - from a single line of notation picked from a random spot in the score, like trying to identify a painting from a single detail.
That was something my best friend Ashe had been through in her Art History courses. It was one more thing for us to commiserate over, our friendship at least partially one based in mutual empathy.
There was no sound except for that of people writing. And by that I mean you could hear people’s pencils scratching on paper as they physically wrote but you could also hear people typing on their computers, the school making it a point to have WiFi available in the classrooms, allowing anyone to use their device to email their answers or notes to the professor during class, if they wanted to.
