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“That’s right.” He placed one strong arm on the bar stool where I was sitting, right between my yoga-clad legs.
“Okay. I get that. But how on earth could I possibly be your fantasy.”
As he spoke, he ran a firm finger up and down my thigh. Shivers darted right through me. “Cassie,” he said, meeting my eyes, “when you’re famous, everyone wants a piece of you, and only because you’re famous. You asked for a fantasy with a famous person, but you didn’t say they had to be famous to you. I said I’d do it if it was with someone who didn’t know who the hell I was, like
some anonymous soccer mom type, I said. Someone too busy shuffling her kids around to bother wearing anything but yoga pants and T-shirts. ’Cause I’m sick of show ponies. Know what I’m saying?”
“Soccer mom. So that’s what I’m supposed to be?” I started to laugh then, and so did he. “Have you done this before? With S.E.C.R.E.T.?”
He ignored the question, making his way back to the oven range behind me to check on something baking inside. “Looking good. Corn bread.”
He shut the door. A moment later, he was behind me, inches away. He placed his hands on my shoulders and moved them slowly down my arms. I felt my pulse quicken as he gently gathered my hands behind my back and held my wrists together with one hand. I could feel his breath on my ear.
“Will you accept the Step, my little soccer mom?” he asked, reaching a hand up to my ponytail, sliding out the band holding back my hair, his mouth breathing into it as it cascaded down my shoulders.
“Yes,” I managed to say, giggling. Soccer mom is a fantasy? Who knew?
“Good.”
Then he moved his mouth closer to my ear. “Wanna know who I am?”
I nodded. He whispered his name, his work name, his “stage” name. I was glad that he wasn’t facing me because my eyes bugged out. I wasn’t into hip-hop music, but even I knew this stage name. And now, Shawn was sliding his hands up my T-shirt. He lifted it off as though it was made of gossamer. He reached around and touched my breasts through my tight Lycra top.
“This has to go too. Arms up!”
He stretched my yoga top over my head, and flung it across the kitchen. Then he grabbed my stool and spun me around to face him. He pulled me close to him so my knees were between his spread thighs, his right hand tilting my head up to face him, his left fingering my nipple. He tentatively slipped a thumb into my mouth and I instinctively sucked the lingering spices from the soup off it, which made him close his eyes. I liked how that seemed to make him go weak with want, made him sway a little. I sucked a little more forcefully.
“I bet you’re good at it,” he said, opening eyes heavy with pleasure. “I bet you can make a man die a little with that mouth of yours.”
I stopped what I was doing. So far all my fantasies had involved me receiving pleasure, not giving any back. Now I wanted very badly to give, to be generous, as the Step demanded, but I didn’t know a whole lot about how.
“I want to do something for you,” I said.
“What’s that, Cassie?” he asked, biting his bottom lip in agony as I closed my mouth around his index finger this time.
I gazed up into his eyes, my mouth closed around his finger for a second. Then with all the boldness I could muster, I said, “I want you in … my mouth. All of you.”
The air gathered in my lungs but wouldn’t release. I had actually said that. I had actually told a man, a very famous one, that I wanted to … give him a blowjob. Now what? I had given exactly one blowjob in high school. I’d tried it with Scott a few times when he was drunk and demanded it, but it had been a horrible experience, ending in a sore jaw for me and Scott falling asleep. I didn’t enjoy it. The prospect of trying this now—and failing—made me nervous. But as long as I was living out a sexual fantasy with a famous person, I decided to let the famous person do what famous people are good at: he would have to demand a certain level of service.
“I want you to show me how to … please you,” I said.
He trailed his wet finger down my neck, and then, cupping my chin in his hand, he said, “I think I can do that.”
This godly man wanted me to give him a blowjob!
“It’s just … I don’t know if I’m any good at it. I mean, if this is your fantasy, then it’s going to suck, I’m afraid.” It took me a second to realize what I had said that had made him laugh out loud. “I mean, suck in a bad way. That’s what I mean.”
He stopped laughing and I swear I felt that I could have fallen into his deep, black eyes, they were so intense. I could see why he was famous, without even being familiar with his music. He had charisma, presence, confidence.
At my request for lessons, he began.
“Let’s start with getting you naked.”
I stood and took a step back. As he watched, I slipped off the rest of my clothes, kicking off the sneakers, then sliding down the yoga pants, then my panties. He watched me. He wanted this. He wanted me. Me! I could feel it. In my mind I kept saying, Go with it, go with this, he will show you, you will be okay. My nerves were on my side as I fell under his delicious spell. He turned and pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and took a seat.
“You can’t really screw up, Cassie, unless you bring your teeth into the mix. They’re not invited. Anything else and you’re going to make me a happy man. Come here.”
I took a step towards him. Then another one. I was standing directly over him, naked. Taking my wrists in his large hands, he tugged me down to my knees in front of him. He smelled warm and spicy, or maybe it was the stew and the bread, but we were both getting hotter. He took my hands and placed them on his chest, then dragged them over his impossibly taut stomach.
