Baby Girl by Hildreth, Scott (1)

 

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

 

Copyright © 2013 by Scott Hildreth

 

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at . Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ERIK. “Two colors, are you fucking serious, just two?”

“Yes, Erik, that’s all we’ve got right now, the black and the silver,” the salesman responded.

“Well Christ, Darwin. Every car I have purchased in the last five years has been black. I’m sick and damned tired of black cars,” I said, walking away from the silver BMW, and back toward the black one.

“Erik, the black just fits you. The silver, well…it is too conservative. The black is more, well, you,” he stated as he hurried to catch up with me, trying not to look as if he was running.

“Slow down, Darwin, I am not going to escape,” I said, looking over my shoulder.

“I will take the black one, but I will give you one twenty, that’s it, don’t counter offer. Don’t bicker. One twenty, and that’s it. A cent more, I will go get a Benz.”

“Alright, come inside, we’ll do the paperwork,” he said, attempting to hide the look of satisfaction from making a sale.

Growing up, I never knew the extent of my mother’s wealth. We lived a fairly simple life, and lived in very modest home. I attended a public school, and appeared on the surface, as well as in my mind, the same as any other kid that was raised in the Midwest.

My father had passed away when I was three of a brain aneurysm. I had no real recollection of him ever existing. I tried remembering through my childhood, and when I was in middle school I developed some false memories of him. I even recall telling some stories about him, all false. Growing older, I came to terms with the fact that he was gone, and that he was not going to ever be a part of my life. At that time, the false memories, stories, and hopes vanished. My mother raised me with a stern hand and a set of rules and regulations that were not negotiable.

It would be impossible to know for sure, but I suspect something to do with being raised by a stern mother, and having no father figure in the home attributed to my odd sexual nature, my sexual desires, and my inability to ever commit to a woman. My psychosexual development attributed to the remainder. At thirty-six years old, I had been in no less than a dozen relationships, had never been married, and had yet to have a girlfriend last longer than six months. Between relationships, I enjoyed having one of my female friends spend time with me-one that was sure of her place, and that a relationship was never going to materialize.

“So, is that new work on your arm, Erik?” Darwin asked, pointing to my right arm.

“New work? Where did you hear that phrase? That doesn’t sound like something a sixty year old car salesman would say,” I said as I lifted my arm.

“Well, the younger kids that work here all have tattoos. They always describe their new tattoo as ‘getting work done’, or look at my new ‘work’. I was just trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about,” he said from his desk, smiling.

“Well, as a matter of fact, it is new. I got this sleeve completed since I was in here the last time. It’s an Asian theme. A dragon, some cherry blossoms, and wind bars,” I said as I held my arm in front of his face.

As he admired the color and detail in my forearm tattoo, he began to speak, “So, how bad does it actually…”

“Holy shit, Darwin, who is that?” I asked, nudging my head to the left side, motioning to the door.

Looking up from my arm and lowering his reading glasses, Darwin looked toward the door, squinting.

“Erik…no. That’s Gene’s daughter. You know, the owner. She’s barely out of college, and here for the summer working as a receptionist. She’s probably twenty-two years old or so…definitely too damned young for you.”

“Darwin, I know someone your age doesn’t necessarily agree, but there are new rules. Half your age, plus seven years is what everyone says now. I don’t totally buy into all that, but fine. So, half thirty-six, plus seven. Twenty-five. Twenty-five years old is the age that’s socially acceptable for me,” I said as I watched her walk by.

She may have been twenty-two, but she looked to be about thirty. She was tall, appeared athletic, and had straight black hair. Her skin was fairly pale for this time of summer, but extremely smooth and blemish free. Dressed in black slacks, a red top, and conservative two inch heels, she walked as if she was real sure of who she was and where she was headed in life. Her chin held high, and looking straight ahead, she took each step with authority. Her walk had purpose.

I would settle for nothing less than owning her. I had every intent of doing to her what I had done to everyone else I had ever been with sexually. I would provide her, sexually, with a degree of satisfaction she had never seen or ever knew existed. I would continue this level of sexual satisfaction to and for her, making certain that she knew the value of it. I would rub her face in it, and make her well aware of what she was receiving.

As soon as I was sure she was falling deeply for me, I would cut her completely off. Within a few days to a week, she would know what I had already known. That she was ruined. That she could find nowhere else what she had found with me. Complete sexual satisfaction. At that moment, I would own her; she would live her remaining life using me as a sexual standard that all other men would be compared to. Compared to and held to compete with. To compete and fail.

“Does BMW offer a convertible hard top in any of their models?” I asked, turning back and forth, alternating glances between the black haired girl and the salesman.

“Well, we have the M3, Erik. It’s a retractable hard top, why?”

“In black?”

“Yes, we have a black one, why?”

“I want it.”

“In addition to the seven series?” the salesman asked wishfully.

“No, Darwin, I am not going to spend two hundred grand today on cars. In lieu of, Darwin. In lieu of,” I responded.

“Well, uhhm. Well, yes, I suppose so. It’s considerably less than the seven series. Let me look,” he said as he began to shuffle his mouse across the desk and intently look at his computer monitor.

“Seventy-three grand, Erik. Fully loaded with the dual clutch,” he offered with a smile.

“I will give you sixty-five, Darwin. Same as before, no negotiating, no bullshit, and no fucking counter offer,” I said, turning to make eye contact with him.

“Fine, Erik. That’s fine. Will you pay with a check at least?”

I had bought four cars here since the death of my mother five years ago. I, being the only child, inherited the estate. There was no forewarning of her death, she was hit by a drunk driver at a stop light, and killed instantly. There was also no indication of what I was to inherit. Apparently my deceased father was a fairly wealthy man, by the story that I was told. The attorney, upon the death of my mother, told me of his knowledge of my father, and his wealth.

I had attended college, and was, from an education standpoint, a psychiatrist. My heart, my mind, and my spirit, however, prevented me from immediately practicing. Upon the completion of the medical portion of my education, I had decided to relax, and take a year or so and travel the country on my motorcycle. I had ridden a motorcycle all through college, and found it to be a useful tool in my arsenal. Thirty minutes on a motorcycle could provide me with what ten hours of therapy could not. Relaxation. The motorcycle rides and exercise were all that could really allow me to completely relax. When I wasn’t riding, I was generally exercising. This combination of being fit, being tattooed, and being single afforded me opportunities with women that other men could only wish for.

After the death of my mother, I inherited two million dollars, a two bedroom house, and a ten year old Chevrolet Impala. I had just returned home from a motorcycle trip to Austin, Texas. It was mid-June, and she had gone to the pharmacy for medication. Two blocks from home, while waiting at a stop light, she was hit by a drunken driver in the rear. She and the other driver were killed instantly. I never fully accepted that no one was punished for the crime. Five years later, I was still running from the fact that my mother was gone, and that I was a parentless only child.

I decided after my mother’s death to do what it was that always made me happy. I spent the last five years riding my motorcycle every day that the weather would allow. Six months after her death, at the age of thirty-one, I got my first tattoo. That continued until the majority of my upper body was covered in tattoos. One arm was tattooed to the wrist, the other was tattooed to the elbow, my back was covered, and my chest and abdomen were covered with a large Chinese themed snake.

I continued to live in Wichita, which was where I considered my home to be. I grew up here, my mother and my father died here, and a good portion of the people from my childhood remained in this area. Although I could travel out of the state, my mind would not allow me to remain away for very long. I became home sick in a short period of time.

“No, I am paying in cash,” I said in an irritated tone.

“Erik, you know it’s about impossible for us to take that kind of cash. We have to report it…”

I did not even let him finish his sentence before I spoke, “You’ll take the cash, and you’ll figure out a way to make it work. Cash or no deal.”

I got a tremendous amount of satisfaction out of forcing people to do what it was that I wanted. Something that was contrary to what they would normally do. Something that wasn’t necessarily a knee-jerk reaction for them, even if it was insignificant. It really didn’t matter if it was convincing the car salesman to take cash for a seventy thousand dollar car, or convincing a woman to go down on me in a movie theatre. If their natural response would be “no”, I wanted to make them say “yes”. Getting them to do so was what fueled me. It allowed me to live a satisfied life. The money and the material objects that I had obtained in my latter years provided no real satisfaction; they merely provided me a means.

“Alright, Erik, we will figure out something,” Darwin said as he stood. “Do you want to see it?”

“Just go get it and bring it up front, I am ready to go eat lunch.”

“It’s way out back, Erik, you want to ride back there with me on the cart?”

“No, get it and bring it up here. You can get someone else to give you a ride back to get your cart later.”

“Alright, Erik. Give me about ten minutes.”

I watched as the salesman walked out to the golf cart, and drove toward the back lot of the dealership. As he drove away, I walked from his office toward the receptionist desk. The desk was positioned in the middle of the sales floor amidst the new cars that were randomly parked on display. As I maneuvered through the cars to get to the desk, I caught a glimpse of the receptionist. Standing at the desk, now wearing glasses, she was talking to a customer. As I approached the desk, the customer nodded and walked away. She began to sit, and as I walked up to the desk, I spoke.

“Can you tell me where the bathroom is, I need to wash my hands,” I said, rubbing my hands together.

“Sure, you passed it as you walked from the other side of the sales floor. It’s half-way back to the east, and first door on the left,” she said, pointing to the east side of the showroom floor.

“So do you pay attention to all of the customers walking the sales floor, or were you just watching me for some reason?” I asked, forcing myself to present a little smirk of a smile.

“Well, actually, I was admiring your tattoos earlier, when you were in Darwin’s office. It was hard not to notice, with your tattooed arms against your white t-shirt. They, well…they stand out. I really like tattoos, and the stories behind them. I don’t have any, but I am going to get some soon. As soon as I…well. I am going to here real soon. I just need to decide what and where,” She said as she stared at my right arm.

“First door on the left?”

“Yes,” she said, with a somewhat disappointed tone.

“I’m Erik. I would shake your hand, but they’re dirty.”

“I’m Kelli. With an ‘I’,” she responded. “Nice to meet you.”

“Kelli, walk with me toward to restroom. I want to watch you walk.”

“Excuse me?” She asked, raising one eyebrow, attempting unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

“Come with me, walk in front of me, please,” I responded, stepping away from the receptionist desk.

“Well, actually, I am supposed to stay here and answer the phone.”

“I want to watch you walk, Kelli with an “I”. Your walk has purpose. I watched you walk past Darwin’s office. I enjoy seeing your legs propel you. Walk for me.”

She scanned the area as if to see if there was anyone that may question her leaving the receptionist desk. Walking around from the rear of the desk, she stepped beside me, and began to walk toward the restroom. As she did, I studied her body. Her stride. Smelling a combination of her hair products and perfume, I walked behind her toward the restroom. When she was even with the entrance, she turned, facing me, and pointed to the restroom.

“It’s right over there, Erik,” she said. She barely pronounced the “K”. It was almost as if she ended the name with an “I”.

I walked two more steps to reach her, and leaned in toward her face when I spoke. Taking my right index finger I moved her hair to the side, allowing me to speak directly into her ear. I spoke softly, but with an exaggerated exhale, so she could feel my breath on her ear.

“It’s Erik with a “K”, Kelli. Enunciate…,” I said, smiling, and continued, “Follow me to my motorcycle,” I started walking to the exit.

“But I can’t, I have to stay…”

I continued walking, knowing eventually she would follow me. I didn’t turn around or look for her reflection in the glass of the office windows. As I reached the door to the outside, I stood to the side, opened it, and waited. Incapable of hiding her excitement entirely, she quickly caught up to me and walked through the door. I released the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. I walked past her, and began walking to where the motorcycle was parked.

“So…uhhm…what are you thinking?”

I continued walking the remaining ten steps, reaching the motorcycle before I spoke. “I’m thinking that it interests me that you’re interested in me,” I said as I reached down to put the key into the ignition.

“I’m interested in you? You asked me to lead the way to the bathroom, and then you told me to follow you out to your motorcycle. I think you’re mixed up,” she said as she turned and studied the motorcycle.

“I placed a business card on the elevated portion of your desk. On your left as your facing the showroom from your desk. Before your head hits the pillow tonight, Kelli, I want you to text me. Text me and let me know that you’re going to call me. After I return the text, I want you to call me, so be in a position to do so,” I stepped over the motorcycle, and rested onto the seat.

“What makes you think that I am interested in texting or calling you?”

“The fact that you are, Kelli. The fact that you are,” I said as I reached down and started the motorcycle. She was still admiring the motorcycle and studying me. It was apparent that she wasn’t ready for this to end.

“So, what exactly is it? Not that I would, but can someone ride on the back?” nodding toward the motorcycle, she spoke over the sound of the exhaust.

“It’s a chopper, Kelli. Kind of like a Harley, but modified. And yes, there’s an additional seat that attaches in the rear so someone can ride.”

As Darwin pulled the black M3 into the stall beside the motorcycle, she looked up.

“Erik, here’s your car, where are you going?” Darwin asked as he rolled down the passenger window.

“I’m going for a ride; just deliver the car to my house. Send the paperwork with the driver. And have someone follow him, I’m not giving him a ride back on this,” I said as I pointed toward gas tank of the motorcycle.

Turning back to Kelli, who was looking at Darwin, I spoke, “Kelli, I will talk to you tonight. Left side of the desk,” I said as I pulled in the clutch lever and placed the gear shifter into gear.

She spoke as she was turning, and began walking toward the entrance, “Yesss...”

Over the sound of the exhaust, the audible note of her voice was lost as she turned. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it almost sounded as if she said, “Yes, sir” I released the clutch and hit the throttle, quickly speeding out of the lot into the street in front of the dealership.

Maybe that’s just what I wanted to hear her say.

Yes, sir.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KELLI. “Boys are stupid, it’s that easy,” I said, trying to make Heather feel better.

“Well, he acted like he wanted to be my boyfriend, he was such a douche. I hope I never see him again. What an asshole.”

“Just get drunk, Heather, you’ll feel better when you forget about him. Getting drunk will loosen you up,” I waved my arm so the waiter could see that we needed a drink.

“Do you like my hair,” Heather asked, flipping up her hair with her hand.

“Trim?” I asked.

“Yeah, I had that Asian chick at Planet Hair do it,” she responded, spinning around in her chair on the floor.

“Yeah it looks great. Your hair always looks healthy,” I said, lying.

Heathers hair was a disaster. Her hair was naturally brunette. She spent way too much time and effort to make it the perfect blonde. Her hair was always a different shade of blonde, varying from platinum to dirty, but always some form of blonde. She may change it twice a month or once a month, but she was never satisfied. Her hair was an extension of her life. Like most girls, when she was unhappy with life, she changed her hair. And her hair was always changing.

“I like it, it’s perfect,” she said as she stopped her chair from spinning, and focused on me again.

Heather had been my best friend all through high school. She was tall for a girl at 6’-1”, and played volleyball in school. She was blonde, attractive, and had huge boobs. She had the boobs since we were 14, and they were like a form of magnet to guys. Most guys just wanted to have sex with her because of her boobs. No one ever seemed to want to take the time to get to know her.

When I went away to college, she decided to stay home and go to the local University, but she never attended. She ended up working as a waitress at Hooter’s, and now was working at a new Hooter’s type restaurant called Twin Peaks. We never hung out there, because all of the guys are perverts that go there. We usually went to Old Town, and hung out at the Pump House, and that’s where we were today.

“What can I get you girls?”

“Bud Lime.”

“Vodka and water, with a splash of cranberry.”

“What?” the waiter asked, with one eyebrow raised at me.

“Vodka and water. Then, put a splash of cranberry juice in it for color and flavor,” I responded.

“Want to see a menu?”

“No, we’re just going to drink.”

A few weeks ago, Heather had met a guy in a bar downtown, had sex, and now he wouldn’t text her back. This was a typical douchebag move from a typical douchebag. Boys between the ages of twenty and twenty-six or seven seemed to all be douchebags, and all after one thing, sex. There was never any commitment on their part, short of committing to shove their cock inside of the first girl that agreed to let them. Men, on the other hand, acted differently.

“He’s not worth it,” I said, trying to ease her grief.

“That’s fucking hilarious, Kelli. How many times have you told me that same thing?”

I laughed out loud as I was sipping my drink. When I did, I started coughing. The coughing caused a chain of reactions, including the resurfacing of my half-swallowed drink. The vodka came out my nose, and onto my top and pants.

“Shit, you bitch, look what you did,” I said, pointing to my top, laughing again.

“That vodka burns coming out my nose. Damn. Okay, I am going to run and dab this off, do not fuck anyone while I am gone.”

“Fine, no fucking…”

The walk to the bathroom was just like every other time I walked through a bar to the bathroom. Every table I walked by that had a male sitting at it would end up with a remark, someone pointing, or a whistle. Boys, once again acting like boys. Sometimes, depending on the mood that I was in, it could be flattering. Most of the time, however, it was annoying. I suppose that I differ from most young women in that I am comfortable with who I am, and I know that I am attractive. This made the random compliments seem more irritating to me than to my friends. Most of my friends liked to receive them, and they were flattered by them. I wanted someone to notice me, want me, or feel a desire to know me based on who I was inside, and not what I appeared to be on the surface.

As I came around the corner to the bathroom, a man came out of the men’s bathroom. He was at least six foot tall, but appeared to be taller because of his build. His face had chiseled features, a strong chin, and a massive chest, especially compared to the size of his waist. He had a long torso, and reasonably long legs. Probably what a male would consider a perfect build. He wore a V-neck tee shirt, and jeans. His arms were covered in tattoos, and something about him drew me to him like a magnet. Staring at him, and attempting to walk into the bathroom, I ran face-first into the bathroom door. It sounded much worse than it felt. With my face in the doorway, I saw him turn and look as he passed. I quickly rushed in the bathroom so he couldn’t see my face. Embarrassed, I went to the sink to wash my cranberry stain.

Walking back to my table, I was pleased that I was able to remove the stain from my top. Wearing a smile of satisfaction, I scanned the area for the man from the bathroom. I didn’t see him anywhere. This was a fairly open bar with no hidden seating areas. Disappointed, I sat across from Heather.

“Ok, so get this. I was going into the bathroom, and a man was walking out of the men’s bathroom. He was so damned hot. He had on a black V-neck, jeans, and I don’t even know what else. Short hair, kind of blonde; but not really. Maybe it was brown. Brown-ish. He was covered in tattoos-all the way to his wrists. He was looking down at his belt when he came out, and didn’t notice me, which was good because I ran right into the door of the bathroom. I was so staring at him. And, the next thing I knew, whack, right into the door...”

“Older guy?” Heather asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, not older. Maybe thirty something,” I responded, in his defense.

“Yeah, Kelli, older. Not twenty-one.”

“Yeah, he was older than us, why? Did you see him?” I asked as I placed my purse on the table.

“Yeah, I saw him. He went outside. I heard a motorcycle start, so I suppose he left.”

“Do you know him?” I asked, starting to stand from my seat.

“No. I don’t know him, I know of him. My dad knows him. He goes to my uncle’s shop to have his motorcycle worked on. My dad has talked about him before. He’s normally gone for the summer from what they say. He’s some weird doctor. He went to college, Medical school, graduated, and then his mom died. He bought a shitty motorcycle and travels around the country. He lives in a shitty house over by Bel Aire. I heard them talking about him just the other day.”

“I want to fuck him. I want to fuck him until he can’t even think. He. Makes. Me. Wet. That guy just….Jesus, Heather did you see him?” I asked, now standing.

“Girl, sit down. Sometimes I wonder about you. You just need to get a boyfriend. This jumping from guy to guy has got to stop. And he’s old. That’s kind of gross,” she finished her beer and raised her hand to the waiter as she set down the bottle.

“If you fucked older guys, you’d understand. Boys will always treat you like shit, Heather. Men will treat you the way they treat you, but you almost always know what’s going to happen, they don’t make up ridiculous lies just to get in your pants. They will tell you from the beginning what they want. And you get to choose if it’s what you want or not,” I began to sit as I was finishing my sentence.

“Girl, you crack me up,” Heather took a drink, and continued, “You talk like you’re educated, which you are. Good for you. But I always thought, and kinda hoped, that when you went to college, you’d quit cussing. You say fuck and cock and cum more than any man I have ever met, and you always shave. It’s because a man raised you, isn’t it?”

I don’t know that I actually will ever know the real story, but I know what I was told. It may be what happened, it may not be. When I was about one year old, my mother left. I was an only child, and was left to be raised by my father. My father, for my entire life, never remarried. He did have female friends, and always went on dates, but he never allowed another female to move into the house. He never really had a steady girlfriend either. When I was young, I hoped that he would one day find someone that I could call mother, but as I got older, I was appreciative of the fact that he never did.

Some people told me that their parents had told them that he “paid” my mother to leave. That she had become a drunk when I was young and that he gave her money and asked her to leave and never return. Either way, she was gone.

My father was attractive, wealthy, and owned the BMW dealership in town. He always had attractive women in his life, and I often wondered, especially now, why he never had a permanent woman in his life. I had begun to recently wonder if he still truly loved my mother after all these years. It was something that he never spoke of, and that I never tried to bring up. The few times when I was younger when I tried to ask questions, he would respond in short responses, and change the subject.

“I just like to cuss, it makes me feel good. I think, deep down inside, if I talk really dirty, I will get dirty results from a man. The older and dirtier, the better.”

“Fucking old men is gross,” Heather said as she took a drink from her new bottle of Bud Lime.

“Fucking men makes me have repeated orgasms. Fucking boys makes me angry. Boys always end up doing everything that they say they won’t ever do. Eventually, they all do it. I don’t want someone to appreciate me for who I am, I want someone to fuck my brains out, and that’s it.” I said, looking at the melted ice in my glass.

You have always said that you wanted someone to appreciate you for who you are, not what you look like, what about that?” Heather asked dryly.

“I did. But. But. But. There’s a difference. I want someone to appreciate me for who I am. For the person that I am, and the person that I am able to be; not for what I look like. But, I do not want them to appreciate me and want to marry me. I want them to appreciate me and fuck me. Fuck me because they appreciate me. Not appreciate me because they fucked me. If a man appreciates me for who I am, and then fucks me, he’s going to fuck me like he appreciates me. Get a boy to do that,” I responded as I finished my drink.

“I just want someone to love me,” Heather said as she finished her beer.

“Oh. My. God.” I said in a loud, exaggerated tone. People turned and looked our direction to see what happened.

“Heather, seriously? Love? Love is something that is created by the Hallmark card company to sell shit on Valentine’s Day. Love isn’t real. Love is what people say to you so they can keep fucking you. So they can keep your interest. I don’t want lies; I want my ass slapped, my hair pulled, and treated like a little whore,” I held my glass up to the passing waiter as I finished speaking.

“You’re a little closet whore. That’s freaking gross. I can’t believe you’re like that. It makes me puke just to think of it. I remember when we were in high school, and you figured out you had no gag reflex. That word passed quickly. Jesus, you were sucking everyone’s cock in our sophomore year.”

“I love it,” I tilted my head back and stroked my throat with the palm of my hand. “Feeling a cock slide in and out of my throat makes me so wet. I love my eyes watering and acting like I am gagging, even if I am not gagging naturally. It’s so easy to own a guy. All you have to do is suck his cock really good, and he’s yours forever.”

“Quit rubbing your throat, you tramp,” Heather said, laughing.

As I sat at the table and waited for my drink, I began to feel the tingle. I was so wet from talking about sex. The thought of it just made me wet. The talking combined with the tattooed guy at the bathroom was more than I could take. I felt that I may have to text one of my old boyfriends and have them meet me in the parking lot. Generally speaking, if I was awake, I was thinking about sex or some form of sexual act. I often fantasized about men even when there were no men around. Boys, on the other hand, got me out of the mood quick. I started thinking about the douchebag that pointed at me when I went to the bathroom. I crossed my legs and started to speak.

“So. Tattoo guy. Where does he live?”

“I don’t know, Kelli. Bel Aire, I guess. In a shitty house. His mom died, and he lives in her house. I think she died the year you left for college. You’ve been at KU so long, you’ve missed him. He’s just some biker. He drives a nice car, though. One of your dad’s. My dad said that he filed a lawsuit against the insurance company or something, I don’t know.”

“Well, I have always said, if you want something bad enough, you can make it happen. I am going to find him. I am going to find him, and I am going to have a summer of insane sex with him. And then, I am going to go to grad school,” I said, smiling.

“Are you still serious about that? Running your dad’s dealership? That’s retarded,” Heather said, looking into the neck of her beer bottle.

“Yes, I was accepted at Columbia, and have done everything to go in September,” I said as I finished my drink. “Let’s get out of here before they get busy.”

The waiter quickly brought the tab. I reached into my purse and got my credit card from my wallet. As I was handing him my card, Heather spoke.

“You don’t have to do that, Kelli, let me pay for mine. You never let me pay,” She said, waving a handful of bills in front of me.

“I know I don’t have to, but I can, and I will. So, get over it, bitch,” I said, smiling.

When the waiter handed me my card back, I reached into my purse and got out my wallet. As I dropped my wallet back into my purse, I saw my little vibrator in the bottom of my purse. Staring at it I began to think about masturbating in the parking lot. I didn’t say anything to Heather, but I wondered. How many girls truly have this insatiable desire to have sex? A desire from deep within that can never really be satisfied, only put on hold. I looked at the vibrator, and mentally drifted away. Thoughts of the Bel Aire motorcycle guy began to fill my mind. As I started to wiggle in my chair, Heather brought me out of my comatose state of mind.

“Are you ready?” she asked as she stood from her chair.

“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, standing and placing my purse over my shoulder.

As we walked outside, I could hear the music playing. The guy had an amazing voice. He was doing a Sublime cover.

“Now that’s an older dude I would fuck,” Heather said, pointing to the lead singer.

As we started to walk toward the platform, he looked up. He was wearing a ball cap, and had it pulled tight down over his eyes. Average height, and stalky, he was extremely attractive. A very manly presence, but he was kind of cute at the same time. He played the guitar as he sang, and he sang from his soul.

“Oh, I’d fuck that guy until he begged me to stop,” I said.

As we passed the stage to go to the parking lot, a gorgeous petite blonde who was standing beside the stage gave me the stink eye. I suspect she was either some groupie or his girlfriend.

“And I’d make that little blonde bitch watch,” I said, laughing.

As we exited the fenced portion of the patio, they finished the song. “Ladies and gentlemen, Timmy Jonas and the Whiskey Militia. Timmy Jonas…” someone said over the sound system.

Timmy Jonas. I decided I would look him up on Facebook in my car before I left the parking lot.

Right after I masturbated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KELLI. I couldn’t believe that he actually came into the dealership. I had not been home from college for two weeks, and I had seen him at the bar, and he came into the dealership. I acted like I had never seen him before when he came up to my desk, and he obviously believed me. I felt so different in his presence. So different. This was unsettling. I felt as if he told me to do something, I would do whatever he said. There was a certain comfort in being near him. I didn’t want him to leave when pulled away on his motorcycle. When he was gone, after he pulled away from the lot, I missed him. His smell, his presence, his little smirk that he wore oh-so-well. I desperately wanted him to be near me again. I wanted to feel his hands touch me.

Driving home was taking forever. He said, as best I could remember, before your head hits your pillow tonight… What did that mean, exactly? Right now was before my head hit my pillow. Was I supposed to wait until I was about to fall asleep and text him in my almost sleepy state of mind? Maybe he wanted to convince me of things as I was groggy that he couldn’t convince me of otherwise.

Who was I kidding? He could get me to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I have never felt this immediate attraction, this anything toward someone before. Even though I never wanted to allow myself to become attached to someone, I had felt attracted to men before. I had never, however, felt anything remotely close to this. His breath on my ear, enunciate, Kelli. Erik with a “K’.

I almost wet myself right there. Right there in the dealership. On the sales floor. Enunciate. His hot breath barely felt on my outer earlobe. It was enough to almost drop me to my knees. Did he know that? Was he aware of what he was doing? I bet he was well aware. Hell yes he was. Who else would come into a dealership and whisper such absolute nothingness into some random girl’s ear? The way he walked. The way I felt, as if in his presence, no one would be able to get by with anything without him just crushing them. Doctor or no doctor, I bet he knew how to fight. I bet he would fight for me. The thought of him filled me.

As I sat at the light, waiting to turn left, I heard a motorcycle getting closer. I turned left. Nothing. I turned right. Nothing. Where was it coming from? I spun around and looked to the rear of the car in the blind spots. Finally, there it was. Shit, not Erik. What had he done to me? All we had done was walk outside. That’s it. A walk outside. We didn’t even really talk, we just stood there. He told me to text him. That was all. I was hanging on his every word. Hopeful that they were intended to mean as much as I wanted them to. Hopeful for having more with him than I had ever wanted with or from anyone else. Ever.

My heart racing from hearing the motorcycle, I began to pull away from the light. Thinking of what I actually wanted from Erik, I exited the frontage road, got onto the highway, and drove west down Kellogg, headed toward Old Town. What I wanted. What was it that wanted? Did I want it, or did I just want to think about it? I felt as if I was being sucked into some form of game and I had no idea what the rules were.

And I hadn’t even talked to him yet. Not really. The thought of him excited me greatly and not in ways that normally excited me. I had a tremendous desire to see him. To understand him. I wanted to know him, to see what it was that made him be the way that he was. His motorcycle, the tattoos, and that physique. His way of walking that made him look like he had no care in the world, and didn’t fear anything.

Watching him just walk to that motorcycle almost made me melt. I don’t know that I could accurately describe or define what it was that he did to me, the way he made me feel that was different. Maybe it was just that – the unknown. The not knowing exactly what it was that made him up. Not knowing what it was that he would want from me, desire of me, and require of me.

What in the world was I thinking? I never had these types of thoughts before. I never consciously wanted a man before. I settled for whoever I decided that I was going to spend time with, and I spent time with them until I didn’t want to anymore, and then I was on to the next person. Having a want for one person was what made people weak. It’s what made people make stupid decisions like getting married and having a family and becoming divorced. Who knows? Maybe he wouldn’t even answer.

What if he was just playing a game…?

I got my phone and pulled the business card from my purse. Erik Ead. I typed the number into my text screen, saved it as Erik Ead, and thought. As I exited the highway and began driving into Old Town, I contemplated whether or not to send a lengthy text, a cute text, or something sexy. These things we girls have to decide. What should I say? I am going to struggle with this all night.

I pulled into the parking lot, and eased the car into the basement parking garage. After I parked, I sat in the car and thought. I typed into the text screen.

Erik Ead: This is Kelli. How are you this evening?

I read and reread the message. It seemed too simple. Too long. Too stupid. I erased it. Quickly, I typed another message.

Erik Ead: I am not ready for bed, it’s still early. But, this IS before my head hit’s my pillow, so…

I looked at the message. I read it, and reread it. I’m not ready for bed, it’s still early. I’m not in bed. I’m in bed. I wish you were here. My head hasn’t hit my pillow. I wish you hadn’t left so soon, have time to talk? I thought of every combination of ways to text him. What has happened? Think, Kelli, think. This is easy. Think like he’s going to think. Send what he wants to read, but not what he expects. Don’t be some stupid girl. I pondered a moment, and typed a new text.

Erik Ead: As instructed, Kelli

I pushed send.

I stared at my phone. Nothing. I waited. Nothing. I reopened my text screen, nothing. I grabbed my purse, pulled my keys from the ignition, and got out of the car. Clutching my phone in my hand, I started walking to the elevator. My heels clicking on the concrete basement floor, every step was amplified. With each click of my heels, I remembered walking behind him in the parking lot. I pushed the button and waited for the elevator. As I waited, I checked my phone. Nothing. I held my purse with my chin, and used both hands to power the phone off. As I depressed the button, killing the power, the elevator opened.

“Hey Kelli, how’s it going,” Wes said as he walked around me. About three steps past me, he turned and waited for a response.

“Great Wes, thanks. I’m just headed up to the loft to relax,” I responded.

“Have a great night.”

“Thanks, you too,” the elevator door closed as I was finishing speaking.

Wes was one of those guys that was as nice as a human being could ever be. I met him a few weeks ago when I moved into this place. I had just graduated college, and was scheduled to go to Columbia at the end of the summer, and got a friends end section of her lease in a loft in Old Town, in the bar district. The lease ended the week I was supposed to leave for New York, so it worked perfectly. I thought it would allow me to really enjoy my last summer before I went away for grad school.

As the elevator began to rise, I powered my phone back up. The elevator door opened as the phone beeped. Thank God. I opened the text screen.

Heather Whore: Hey

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Heather. Why is it that whenever you want a text from someone, you always get one from someone you don’t want one from, and that just makes it worse. You’re mad at them, because they’re not the one you want to hear from, and it also reminds you that the person you did want to hear from didn’t text you yet. I looked at the text again, and didn’t respond.

I reached my door, and fumbled with the keys, holding my phone in my hand, hoping for a response to the text. Placing the phone between my chin and my shoulder, I unlocked the door. I turned the door handle and pulled the key from the door. As I was swinging the door open, my phone beeped. I dropped my purse on the floor, dropped the keys and stopped. My heart racing, I looked at the screen. Please, please, be Erik. Please. As I opened the screen, I realized that I was bouncing on the balls of my feet, hoping it was him. I kicked off my heels and looked at the screen.

Erik Ead: You’re a good girl. I’m pleased with you, Kelli.

I read and reread the text message. Something about it turned me on. It also started to make me angry. I read it again. You’re a good girl…I am not a girl, I am a woman. I read it again. Every time I read it, it turned me on a little bit more; the thought of him calling me a girl. I have no idea why, but this guy was crawling inside of my head. I’m pleased with you, Kelli. I read, reread and reread the message again. I pleased Erik Ead. The hottest hunk of man to ever grace this earth. My head started to spin. I ran to the couch, and flopped down onto the cushions, facing the ceiling. Holding my phone above my head, and facing the ceiling, I read the text again, and thought…

I could feel my heart beating in my throat. I wanted this to work so much. I wanted him to want me as bad as I wanted him. Why would he have me text him if he didn’t want to know me? If there wasn’t at least a little part of him that didn’t want to see me or get to know me? He wouldn’t. I looked at the screen again. I began to type a response.

Erik Ead: Would you like me to call?

I looked at the message, and pushed send. Think long, think wrong, that’s what I have always said. Instantly, the phone beeped.

Erik Ead: Please do.

I stared at the screen. My heart raced even more. I thought of what he might want to talk about. I felt like I may get sick. Bile rose in my throat. I unbuttoned my slacks, and dropped them to the floor, kicking them toward my bedroom. I took off my shirt, and threw it to toward the room as well. Lying on the couch in my bra and panties, I selected his name and pushed send. The phone rang three times.

“How are you, Kelli?” his voice made me wiggle on the couch. I crossed my legs.

“I’m good, how are you?” I responded.

Lying on the couch half-naked, I looked at my stomach. I felt fat. I was close to my period, and I felt so inflated. So bloated. I looked great, but I felt like shit. I wondered if he looked at me now, if he would even want me. A “C” cup breast size wasn’t much by today’s standard. In the purchased boobs world we all had to compete with, five foot nine, 120 pound girls had a huge D cup. My small frame made my medium sized boobs look bigger than they were. Hopefully they would be big enough for him.

He should be happy; I looked good for someone that was bloated.

“I am well, thank you. I’d like to meet you for a cup of coffee in the morning, your thoughts?” he said very in a very matter of fact tone. I loved hearing this guy talk.

“I don’t have to work, so sure, what time?”

“How about nine?” he asked.

I uncrossed my legs. Kicking one over the back of the couch, and placing my other foot on the floor, I laid there, legs spread, and smiled, answering, “That sounds great, where?”

“Espresso A Go-Go, downtown, you know the place?”

“Yes, it’s a block from my house,” I responded.

“I will see you there. Sleep well,” he said. And that was it. He was gone.

Excited and disappointed at the same time, I crossed my legs again. Thinking of him, I started to tingle and feel warm. What would it feel like to have his hands touch me? Would he touch me, or was he just trying to get to know me? Did he want to be friends or lovers? I couldn’t continue to have these thoughts. My mind was running all over the place. I walked to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

I got my wipes and wiped the make-up from my face. As I brushed my teeth, I imagined him and I having coffee together. The thought excited me. I couldn’t wait to hear his voice and see him walk. I finished brushing my teeth and weighed myself. 120 bloated fat feeling pounds. I fucking hate the menstrual cycle. I walked to the bedroom, and got into bed. Looking at the clock, I was reminded of the time, 6:34. I couldn’t stay awake any longer. The thought of seeing him in the morning was more than I could take. I set my phone on the dresser, set my alarm, and fell asleep.

 

************

 

When the alarm went off the next morning, I bounced out of bed, excited to start this day. A typical Saturday was sleeping in until about nine, and being lazy. Who would ever think I went to bed on a Friday night at seven o’clock? I sat up in bed and looked at my phone. It was flashing. I had forgotten to text Heather back, I was sure she had texted me wondering where I was. I opened the text screen, and looked for messages. There was an unopened text from Heather, and one from Erik. I opened Erik’s.

Erik Ead: Kelli, I like watching you walk. I like watching your mouth open and hearing the words form on your tongue.  I want to know you. I don’t want to know you from having you text me your favorite color, your favorite restaurant, and your list of favorite songs; I want to know you from exposure. I want to witness you exist. I want to absorb you.

I stared at the screen. I reread the text countless times. What was this guy doing to me? What was his plan? Whatever it was, it was working.

And it was working well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ERIK. The beginning of the day was always the best part. It allowed me to look at an empty canvas, and see the day as being full of opportunities, and not necessities. I finished my work out, showered, ate breakfast, and got dressed. After deciding to ride the motorcycle, I wore the basic attire for the bike, jeans, tee-shirt, and boots. Eager to meet Kelli, and start the process of mind fucking her, I went to the garage and started the bike.

On the ride to the coffee shop, I began to plan the meeting. Kelli was young, and she was pretty, but she was not stupid. She acted as if she had an agenda. She appeared to have some form of determination to achieve whatever it was that she placed on her list of goals. Her body structure, stride, and posture indicated she exercised regularly. This form of discipline was attractive to me. She was attractive to me. Her personality type was a coin toss. She may be receptive, and easy to convince, or she may be a little more difficult, and take time. She would, without a doubt, eventually be eager to listen to my offerings and apply herself to obtain the results. Breaking her may be difficult. It was always important for me to find that breaking point, and back of a little bit. Knowing where the line was drawn was almighty important to the success of a good partnership.

I exited the highway onto Douglas Ave. and proceeded to Espresso A Go-Go. I wasn’t sure of what Kelli drove, but scanning the coffee shop produced no young women, so I assumed she had not arrived yet. Good, she was not overly eager. I glanced at my watch, 8:50. I waved at Warren through the window, and went in to get a coffee.  In my recent adult life, coffee and women had become my two faults. Coffee to a greater degree than women, as I always felt as if I can go without women. Going without coffee would certainly lead to my early demise.

“Your regular, Erik?” he asked.

“Sure Warren, make it a large, I will be here for a while,” I handed his wife Ann the money for the coffee, and received my change and a receipt.

The coffee shop sat on the corner, and had two solid walls of windows facing the streets that approached it. I could see outside in all directions. Warren handed me my coffee, and went right back to developing his poison for the next customer. This place had a constant flow of customers in and out all day, and I enjoyed it for that reason - people watching at its best.

A girl in a Mini Cooper pulled past an SUV parked at the curb in front of the coffee shop. Hidden by a truck in front of the SUV for a mere second, it quickly backed up, and with precision, maneuvered into the space between the back of the truck and the front of the SUV. Parallel parking had become a lost art, and this girl had it down to a science. A she removed her sunglasses, I noticed it was Kelli. She got out of the car, noticed me through the glass, and began to walk to the door. Jean shorts, a tank and a light hoodie. Chucks. This girl didn’t know it, but she had dressed to impress. Simplicity made me weak.

When she entered, we shared a simple smile. After she ordered, she came and sat at the table. As I folded the receipt, and placed it on the table, I noticed her calf muscles as she stretched to get on the stool. Her hair smelled the way it did at the dealership. My nostrils filled with the smell of her hair and clean skin. A light perfume topped the neat, clean, presentable odor she offered.

“Good morning, Erik,” she said, extending a hand.

“Good morning, Kelli. What did you order?” I asked, grasping her hand lightly in mine.

“Cold brew. I love the coffee here, it’s like sex,” she responded.

“How so?” I asked.

“It’s extremely satisfying all by itself,” she said, smiling.

“I have three questions for you, Kelli, okay?”

“Okay,” she responded.

“Just answer them for now, they’re simple,” I stated.

“One, can you use chop sticks for their intended purpose?” I asked.

“Yes,” she responded, looking puzzled.

“Two, have you ever eaten a grapefruit, and if so, did you like it?”

“Yes, and yes,’ she responded as she frowned at me.

“Third, and last one. Have you ever, or would you consider, going on a date with an African American man,”

“I haven’t, not because I won’t, I don’t guess. Well, wow. Uhhm. Well, I suppose if I was attracted to a guy, and he was nice, I wouldn’t rule out anything. But I haven’t,” she responded as she looked at her well-manicured fingernails.

“How’d I do?” she asked, looking up from her fingernail inspection, smiling.

“You did fabulous, we will discuss it later,” I answered.

Warren handed her the coffee, and she responded with a “Thank you” lip movement. I stretched back in my chair and studied her body through the hoodie. She appeared to be in exceptional shape, but it was impossible to know her body structure for certain through the loose fitting hoodie.

 

“Everything okay?” she asked, looking puzzled over the top of her cup as she began to take a drink.

“Just fine. Observing, Kelli, that’s all.”

“I enjoyed your text last night,”

“That’s good. Let’s talk about that for a moment,” I responded, sitting back in my stool.

Placing her cup on the table, she looked at me intently. I studied her face. This girl was not a girl; she was a determined woman - someone with an agenda, a plan. At least in her mind, she wasn’t afraid of whatever I was about to discuss or propose. I picked up my coffee, and took a slow sip for effect, then began to speak.

“For the sake of this conversation, I am speaking of me and only me for now. This, at this time, has nothing to do with my expectations of you, or any wants, needs, or desires of you. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I haven’t been in a relationship for my entire life. For the most part, all I have done is date around. I am no man-whore; I am extremely selective on who I see, and who I have sex with. I may see someone for a year or so, and never have sex with them. It depends totally on the person, on me, and on how I feel about the situation. Also, it hinges on their capacity to handle things. This is going to take a few minutes, so let me finish before you start asking questions, okay?”

She nodded and smiled.

“Some people are not able to make mental sense of a sex only relationship. These types of people are not for me. If there is an emotional attachment, or any expectation, things seem to fall apart. If I see, up front, that this is what a person is apt to expect…I will not allow myself to continue. It’s not fair to either one of us. I know my abilities, my capacities, and what my hopes are. I have no expectations. Expectations of others are never met, and that leads to being let down, being disappointed, and being hurt. Living, for me, with hope instead of expectation allows me to keep myself safe. Does that make sense so far?”

She smiled, and nodded her head once, slowly. As she tossed her hair over her shoulder, I continued to speak.

“My father died when I was young. I grew up here, in Wichita without a father. I lived modestly, on the north side, and went to a private school. I was extremely intelligent, but rebellious. I ended up going to school for about thirteen years, all told, and became a psychiatrist. After school, I took a year to relax and ride my motorcycle, which is something I truly enjoy. In the first month or so after graduating, my mother was killed by a drunk driver,” I inhaled, and started to continue.

“Oh, Erik, I am so sorry,” She said softly, reaching toward my hand.

I raised my hand from the table, and held my index finger in the air. “Don’t be sorry. It’s certainly not your fault. Things, all things, happen for a reason. I am a firm believer in that. My point is this. I suspect that I am well aware of why I am the way that I am. Why I do not value woman as others do. Why I am incapable of a relationship, commitment, or marriage. Having experienced the loss that I have experienced, especially early in life - combined with being an only child, I fear being abandoned. My non-committal sexual lifestyle is my shield, my protection, my assurance that I will always be in charge of me, and no one has the ability or the authority to harm me,” I raised my coffee, and took another sip.

“So, here’s the thing. Now I am speaking of you, and not in general,” I said as I placed my coffee back on the table.

“Okay, I am ready, let’s hear it,” she said as she placed her chin in her hand.

Her blue eyes were piercing. Hypnotized somewhat by her eyes and the stark contrast with her black hair, I regained my thoughts and began to speak, “I am dominant, sexually. In life, through the course of the day, doing day-to-day activities, I am like any other male you will ever meet. Actually, I am considerably better. I am tactful, respectful, articulate, considerate, kind, romantic, and compassionate. But, I am not dominant. Not in life, just in sex. In sex, Kelli, I will accept nothing short of commitment on behalf of my partners. A commitment to be willing to receive and understand my desires, and an honest effort to fulfill them.”

“Are you violent?” she asked.

“No, not in any form, ever.”

“Abusive?”

“Never.”

“Wow, sounds like a dream come true,” she responded.

“Everyone thinks that, Kelli. At least they do initially. It isn’t something that is done half-assed. It’s a trust, a trust that’s developed. With some, it takes considerable time. With others, it takes a matter of minutes.  But, contrary to the opinion of the vanilla people that occupy the majority of this earth, it is not a bark on command relationship. At least not for me. It’s a relationship that is discussed, the two parties decide the limitations, and those limitations are adhered to. What both parties are comfortable with will be on the list of possibilities. If we’re both not comfortable with it, regardless of my desire to have it, it will never be asked for. Not by me,” I paused and waited for her to speak.

“Just like I said before. Dream. Come. True,” she paused and took a drink of her coffee.

“Kelli, I intend on owning you. Know that.”

“Excuse me?” she asked quickly.

“Own you, Kelli,” she looked at me, puzzled, and I continued, “Not own in a sense of you being my property, Kelli. Own as in something I have earned. I intend to ruin you. Provide you with feelings and levels of satisfaction that you have never seen. Satisfaction that you will never, in my absence, see again. This level of satisfaction, this degree of feeling…it will ruin you. Ruin you from ever being satisfied by another man the way I satisfy you. Once you realize that you’re ruined, I will own you.”

“Wow. Confident much?” she asked, smiling.

“Actually, yes. I am probably the most confident man you’ll ever meet. But, I am confident for a reason. Because I know. I know my capacities. I know my abilities. I am not, in any respect, arrogant. I am confident,” I began to stand from my seat.

“Are we leaving?” she asked, looking around the coffee shop.

“No, we’re not leaving. I want you to go the restroom, Kelli, and remove your hoodie. Come back out here without it on, do you understand me?” I said in a commanding but soft spoken tone.

“I thought you weren’t dominant in day-to-day activities,” she stated, raising an eyebrow. She stood from her seat, and placed her coffee on the table.

“I’m not. I didn’t tell you to do it, I asked you. There’s a small difference. I told you what I wished that you’d do. Now you decide what to do on your own,” I hadn’t quite finished speaking when she started going to the restroom.

She emerged from the restroom in a matter of a few minutes, her hoodie draped over her arm. She wore an orange ribbed tank, and what appeared to be a sports bra underneath. Her nipples, beneath the bra and the shirt, were erect and quite apparent. The shirt hugged her skin. Her stomach flat, and her legs tan from the early summer sun, she walked to the table. Her posture was near perfect, and her walk defined her attitude. A desire to please the person that she was mentally committed to.

“It’s sure nice outside,” she said as she sat down.

“Yes, it is,” I responded as I sat back into my stool.

I leaned across the table, and motioned with my finger for her to come closer. As I did, she leaned toward me. I moved her hair away from her ear, and spoke softly, my lips almost touching her ear. 

“Kelli, who is going to own you?” I asked.

“You are,” she whispered back, without moving.

“Kelli, when I ask you to do something, something sexual, what will you do?” I whispered into her ear.

“Do it,” she responded, quickly and quietly.

“Kelli, will you ever disappoint me?”

“No. Never.”

She leaned away from me and looked up like I had asked her to murder someone.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“I’m just asking, Kelli. Do not ever intentionally disappoint me, do you understand me?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

“I like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, smiling. “That I won’t disappoint you?”

“No, Kelli. The ‘sir’,” I responded, still leaning in her direction.

“Oh. I love saying that to you. It just comes out. Kind of natural,” she said. “I said it the other day at the dealership, as you were leaving. It just kind of slipped out.”

“I didn’t even notice,” I lied.

“Kelli, I am going to crawl inside your head. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Yes, sir. I am,” she said as she leaned her stool back, rocking it on its rear legs.

Her tone of voice, her body language, and her eye movements made it obvious that she was extremely comfortable with this situation, with me, and with the rate that this was progressing. There was something about her that I liked. Something more than the excitement of this being new. I was in tune with my feelings well enough to know this, something with her was different. Time would tell me what it was.

“Okay, Kelli. Listen, I have a commitment this morning. I have to ride in a fundraiser. A girl has cancer. The motorcycle club I ride with is doing a poker run to raise money for her family. I have to go do this. What are your thoughts on you and I doing something tonight. Say, hanging out, maybe going out and eating?” I asked from across the table.

Continuing to rock back and forth in her chair, she sat the legs onto the floor, and responded, “Sounds great, I have no plans. You ride in a motorcycle club? Like that show on T.V.? And what’s a poker run?”

“Well, kind of. We’re not outlaws, were a group of guys that ride together in a club. Everyone is a member. We wear colors, or identifying vests and jackets with the club insignia, if you will. And, a poker run is an organized motorcycle ride. You ride to five different locations, and at each location, you pick up a playing card from a deck of cards, at random. At the end, you turn your five random cards in to the judges. The judges determine who has received the best poker hand, from the random cards each rider has received,” I took a breath and continued.

“There’s a fee to ride in it, and anywhere from 200 people to 3000 people show up, depending on the cause and the event. The money from the proceeds received goes to a donation. This time it goes to a little ten year old girl that has developed cancer.”

“Oh my God. That’s sad. The little girl. It’s good that you do that, I suppose. Sounds fun. And kind of exciting,” she said, as she looked out the window at the motorcycle.

“Well, I am going to meet the rest of the group up at the gas station, let’s say I will call you around six o’clock, how’s that?”

“Sounds great. I’m going to sit here and read for a bit,” she said as she reached into her purse and retrieved a Kindle.

“What are you reading?” I asked. I always liked knowing what types of books people read. It told a lot about them.

“Broken People. It’s a freaking masterpiece. This is the third time I have read it. I’m highlighting quotes in it,” she responded as she powered the Kindle on.

“Haven’t heard of it,” I said as I reached into my pocket for my keys.

“You have to read it, it’s the most powerful, moving, and inspiring book I have ever read. It’s a novel, but it reads like something that could be so true. It’s about five different people, and how their lives tie together. They’re all broken in some respect. And, in the end, they all come together. It’ll make you cry,” she said, holding the Kindle up, showing me the cover.

“I doubt that,” I said, holding my arms out for a hug.

She stepped from her chair, and put her arms around me and gave me a hug as if she actually enjoyed it. Nothing, to me, was worse than a hug from someone who did not have their heart in it. Hers was heartfelt. As we broke from the embrace, I spoke.

“Six o’clock”

“Read the book, Erik. And I will be ready,” she responded.

“Broken People got it. Author?”

“Scott Hildreth,” she responded.

“Ok, I will,” I will see you later this evening, Kelli.

Walking to the bike, I began to wonder just what it was going to take to break this girl’s spirit. I didn’t know, but I was determined to find out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KELLI. Rubbing lotion on my legs always made me smile. I worked hard to keep my legs in this type of shape, even though running was difficult for me, and I always ran. Eventually, I ended up with shin splints, but I kept running, even with the pain. I often wondered if there was something wrong with me, because the pain seemed to motivate me. Working the lotion up my thighs, I flexed my butt muscles as I rubbed in the lotion. My butt felt so good in my hands.

I loved the smell of lotions and soaps, and smelling lotion from Bed Bath and Beyond almost brought me to climax. I could remember what public places had the best soap, based on the smell. I always smelled my hands after I washed them in public.

My legs, thighs, ass, and pussy were so smooth. I shaved with a two day old five-bladed razor. I loved shaving with a fairly new razor. New razors always seemed to eventually cut me, but when one was a just a few days old, I loved the feeling afterward. Rubbing in the last of the lotion, I thought of Erik, and what he might think if he were to feel my legs tonight. I began to think of him, as my fingers slid up the inner part of my thigh. I felt a tingle, and I could feel the blood beginning to rush....Jesus, it was getting hot in here. I itched for him. I couldn’t take it anymore. His text message with the list of suggestions was getting to me.

Right before I had left the coffee shop, he had sent me a text with a series of questions. His text, initially, kind of freaked me out, but the more I read it, the more it kind of turned me on. I imagined that he knew exactly what he was doing, and that he did it for a reason. His text was long and had a series of questions. As I read them, I got really uncomfortable that I was as comfortable with the questions as I was.

Erik Ead:

Let me ask you a few questions. Think about these, Kelli, but do not respond. Be prepared to respond tonight. This isn’t a list of wants, needs, or desires, it is a list of questions. Be prepared to answer how these questions make you feel. Whether or not reading them makes you want to immediately rush out and do each of the things isn’t important. I want to know how they make you feel when you think of them.

You’re standing in front of me with my arms around you. I look you in the eyes, and place my hands on your shoulders and say, “Get down on your knees, you sexy little whore, and suck your daddy’s dick like a good little girl,” Turn on or turn off?

We’re in a movie theatre watching a movie. You’re wearing a dress. The movie theatre doesn’t have that many people in it, but they are scattered about. I lean over and whisper in your ear, “Slide over here, Kelli, and get on my lap. Ride my cock. Fuck me, Kelli. Fuck me now,” Turn on or turn off?

We’re driving down the street, it is daylight. We’re in the city, in traffic. I tell you to suck my dick as I drive, and that I want you to swallow my cum. Turn on or turn off?

You’re down on your knees, giving me head. My hands are resting on your shoulders. I tell you to look at me while you’re sucking my dick. We make eye contact. I slowly slide my hands to your head, and begin forcing myself in and out of your throat, making you gag on me until your eyes water. Turn on or turn off?

We walk in the bedroom. You’re wearing a dress. I step behind you. I place my hand on the small of your back, and the other around your cheek, cupping your face. I turn your face my direction, and I kiss you. As we kiss, I slide my hand from your back around to your hip. With my other hand, I push your upper body down, bending you at the hips. Not a word is spoken. You bend at the hips, you hear my belt unbuckle, and pants drop. I lift your dress, and force myself into you deeply. Quickly, I begin to fuck you with such force that my balls are banging against your clit, and my hips are slapping against your ass, forcing you into the bed. As I am fucking you harder and harder, my hand slides from your hip to your neck. You feel my hand tighten around your throat as I continue to shove you full of cock…turn on or turn off?

I read each one of them, and reread them. All of them turned me on. The more I read them, the more turned on I got. A part of the feeling, I am sure, was because of who sent them. The other part of the turn on was what the questions were asking me to do, or to consider. There wasn’t a part of the questions that didn’t turn me on. Just asking those things turned me on. Also, I began to wonder, as deep, mentally, as Erik was…if he wanted to know if it was a turn on for me to read it, or if it was a turn on for me to think it, or if it would be a turn on in my mind for me to actually do it?

I decided yes to all of the above. I was ready to discuss this with him. I wanted to perform for him, and I wanted to make him so happy with my performance. I wanted to have him push me to my knees, and force himself on me, telling me, Get down on your knees you little whore, and suck your daddy’s….The thought of it made me begin to be comfortably uncomfortable.

I have never been so concerned with what someone thinks about me. I have always, in a way, used guys for sex. I have always used them to get what I want, and left them before or as they decided that they were falling for me. I never wanted them to perceive me for being ugly, or awful sexually, but I didn’t really care, for the most part, what they thought.

Trying to decide what to wear is always a task for me. Tonight, I walked to my room and picked out a summer dress to wear, and got dressed. Panties or no panties. Decisions, decisions, decisions. No panties. Flats or heels. Flats. Hair up or down?  Down. Now, standing in front of the mirror, I looked for any imperfections. None. I checked my phone and found no messages. It was 6:00. Maybe he got hung up at the biker card game thing. I took off my dress and sat on the couch in my flats and bra. I no more than sat down and the phone beeped.

Erik Ead: Call me

I pushed dial, and immediately called him back. It rang twice, and he answered.

“Good evening, Kelli.”

“Hello, how was the motorcycle ride,” I asked.

“It was a great ride, thank you. Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Are you home?”

“Yes, sir, I am home.”

“Come out front, I am parked in front of the front door,”

“You know where I live? You’re here?” I asked as I looked out the window toward the street. From the third floor, I could see the street, and almost directly in front of the door. I saw a black BMW M3 parked there, and wondered if that was him.

“Yes, and yes,” he responded.

“But…okay. I will be down in a second,” I said as I grabbed my purse and raced for the door. As I got into the elevator and pushed the button, I wondered if that was him in the car, or if he was on his motorcycle. I never thought to ask. I began to wonder about the series of questions that he texted me, telling me, think about these Kelli, but do not respond. I also remembered that he asked those three weird questions. Grapefruits, chopsticks, and going on interracial dates. Weird. He said he’d explain later, but he didn’t. The elevator reached the street level, and I exited, and walked toward the door that leads to the street.

As I got to the front door and opened it, I could see him through the windows of the car. It was a black BMW M3. I looked at the back of the car for the badge of my father’s dealership, but I did not see one. I reached for the passenger door, and I noticed him lean over and open it for me. As the door came ajar, I finished opening it and got in.

“Good evening, Kelli,” he smiled as he spoke. He smelled so good.

“Good evening. First things first. What are you wearing?”

“Jeans, black leather shoes, and a grey V-neck tee,” he responded, motioning to his clothes with his right hand.

“No, the cologne. It’s wonderful.”

“Oh, I see. Yves St. Laurent, L’Homme,”

“Well, whatever it is, I love it.”

“Buckle your seat belt, Kelli. And thank you,” he said as he pulled from the curb.

As I buckled my seatbelt, I studied him. He was focused on the road, and speeding up slowly, shifting gears with the paddle shifters on the steering wheel. I had seen enough of these cars in my father’s dealership to know what he was doing, and what this car was capable of doing. It was basically a race car for the street - and fairly expensive for a guy who lives in Bel Aire In a shitty house.

His jaw was tight as he drove. His strong chin slightly lifted, and with his hands tight on the wheel, his biceps flexed as he either turned the steering wheel or shifted. I was becoming lost in watching him. Watching him just drive was enough to satisfy me. I didn’t know what he was doing to me, but he was doing it really well.

“So, what are we doing, Erik?” I asked as I watched him turn the corner.

“We’re getting to know each other, Kelli. We’re beginning a relationship that will consist of a friendship with sex, but no commitment on either of our parts to be in love with the other person. In this relationship, sexually speaking, I will be dominant and you will be submissive. And Kelli, I will fuck you within an inch of your respective life,” he turned and smiled as he said the last part of what he was saying.

His smile and the looking my direction lingered for a long moment. I began to feel hot. I started to feel an aching in my groin, and I quickly remembered that I was not wearing panties. I started to daydream about having him forcing me to my knees and talking to me dirty.

“So, uhmm, what was the deal with the question?” I asked, turning to him to see his expression.

“Which questions, Kelli?”

“Well, let’s go with the grapefruit and stuff first,” I responded.

As he sped up through the traffic, he began to speak, “Those, Kelli were just a series of questions I asked you to allow me to understand about what type of person you are without spending a month or two doing so. They, believe it or not, tell me a lot about who you are, not so much what you are.”

“The chop sticks. That question tells me whether or not you’re a person that has determination. Whether or not you stick to things and apply yourself, or if you give up and or get bored easy. Most white people are not born with the need to use them, and if they develop a means of doing so, it is because they decided to master the task, and spent the time and effort to do it. If they have mastered it, it means that they’re determined. If they can’t it doesn’t mean they aren’t, but it may. Understand?” he turned to me as he asked me the question.

“Yes sir,” the ‘sir’ just came out so naturally. I didn’t even realize I said it until after it rolled off my tongue. It made me a little uncomfortable knowing and seeing the power this man was going to have over me.

“The grapefruit question. If you hadn’t ever eaten one, it wouldn’t mean anything, necessarily. This question lets me know if you’re naturally willing to eat something that most people find repulsive. Grapefruit taste sour. They’re somewhat bitter. People that eat them generally eat them because they know that they’re good for them, or because they want to be in good health. It tells me if you’re someone that is willing to, in a sense, make sacrifices for the betterment of you. Make sense?” he asked, as he turned toward the parking lot of an outdoor strip center.

I nodded, very intrigued by this Erik’s deep mental nature. His being so much different than anyone else I had ever been around made me want to know so much more about him. He actually thought about what he was saying and what he was doing instead of just doing and saying things for the sake of doing it. I had never been so intrigued by anyone. I had never wanted to just open someone up and see all that they had to offer as much as I wanted to do with him, regardless of the amount of the that I had been with them. I had been around Erik for two days, and I wanted to spend whatever amount of time was required to get to know him. As I stared at him in admiration, he began to speak again.

“The last question what more obvious. The interracial dating, and with an African American man, let me explain. Most of society, right or wrong, perceives a black man with a white woman as being wrong. I am not saying that it is, I am merely saying that’s the general public’s view. So, knowing this, if a white girl has, or will consider going on a date with a black man shows me, or tells me, that she is open-minded. That she will, regardless of what society thinks, go with what she feels in her heart. That she is open minded. That she is not easily swayed or convinced to do what society wishes that she do. She is an individual. Understand, Kelli?” he asked as he parked the car in the lot.

I looked around to see for sure where we had gone. I had been staring at him the entire trip, and was not certain of where we ended up.  He had driven to Bradley Fair, which was an open shopping and eating environment that had several nice restaurants and a lake with a walking path. I was surprised that we had arrived here so soon. I felt that I was in some form of a trance for the trip, because I hadn’t really noticed that we had traveled the ten miles or so to get here from downtown. I was so intrigued by Erik that I had lost all track of time.

“Yes, I understand. I find you to be quite interesting, Erik,” I said as I reached for the door handle.

I found myself, when talking to him, to be more conscious of my words, more conscious of how I said things. Not necessarily what I was saying, but how I said it. He was intelligent, very intelligent, but he did not act like it. He dressed like a younger guy, rode a motorcycle, and tried to speak like he was just one of many other men in this city. By just naturally being Erik, he reeked of his intelligence. I felt like such an idiot around him. I tried to choose my words carefully not to embarrass him or me. This was so unlike me. I was almost always the smartest person in the room, and always the smartest girl. Around him, I felt so mall, so vulnerable.

I opened the door and got out. He got out at the same time, and leaned over the top of the car, and looked at me. As he smiled, I noticed that his face had become more tan, probably from the motorcycle ride all day. His skin was tan, but lacked wrinkles. His face was just like he was; rugged, handsome, intriguing, and gorgeous. I could stare at this guy from now until the end of time.

“Well, what did you decide?” he asked in a raised tone of voice.

“Uhhm, excuse me? About what?” I responded.

“I asked you where you preferred to eat. You stared at me and didn’t respond.”

“Oh, I am sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Or something, I, uhmm, didn’t hear you,” I couldn’t even believe I said that. I sounded like a fool.

“Ok, I will decide,” he said, as he turned and scanned the horizon of buildings.

“Il Vicino. How does that sound?” he asked, motioning to the Italian restaurant in the corner of the parking lot.

“Sounds great. I love that place.”

I walked around toward his side of the car, toward the restaurant. As I got closer to him, he extended his arm, and placed his hand in front of his belt, positioning his elbow out, away from his body.

“Hold onto my arm, Kelli. Walk beside me, holding my arm. Always walk on my left side, and always hold my arm, understand?” he said as he looked over his shoulder at me.

I walked to his left side, and wrapped my right arm through his extended arm. As we walked side by side toward the restaurant, I felt warmth, a certain comfort that I have never felt. I felt like he had me here, positioned beside him, to protect me. To make sure that I was comfortable with him, and that I knew he was not only in charge, but that he wanted everyone to know it. I was falling for this guy and I was falling fast.

He had told me not quite twelve hours ago that he was going to own me. He may or may not know it, but he already did. He could tell me to do anything, right now, and I would do it. All of those questions that he asked me in that long email; I would do every one of them, right now. This guy had a certain presence about him, a certain power. He didn’t express it, he wasn’t pushy or arrogant, but I would do whatever he wanted.

Pleasing him would make me so happy. As we walked toward the restaurant, I began to wonder if I could actually please him. What if I couldn’t? What if, I tried as hard as I could, and he laughed at me? What if he told me I wasn’t even good enough to be his fuck-buddy? The thought of that began to make me feel ridiculously uncomfortable. As I stumbled over a hole in the parking lot, I realized that we were at the entrance of the restaurant.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yes, I didn’t see the hole in the lot, sorry,” I smiled as I responded. Walking through the entrance, I smelled him again. The smell made my mouth water. The smell made me want to please him.

“You’ve been here before?” he asked me, nodding toward the menu.

“Yes, several times.”

“Well, Kelli, do you know what you want?”

Looking over the menu, I decided to get the Cobb salad. It was a great salad.

“Yes, I do,” I responded.

The restaurant was a fairly nice Italian restaurant; but the format for it was unique. There was a menu at the entrance, and a cashier at a bar. You ordered at the cashier, and went to your table, and they delivered your food when it was ready. After the initial ordering of the food, it was like any other restaurant, in that it had waiters and waitresses. We stepped to the cashier to order our food.

“Go ahead, Kelli,” Erik said as we stepped to the bar.

“No, you go ahead, I am thinking,” I had no idea why I said that, but I did.

“I will have the Cobb salad,” Erik said, “and a glass of tea.”

Shit. Now, if I ordered the salad, it would look like I was copying Erik. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t an individual, especially after all of the questions that he had asked me. Damn it, I really wanted that salad. I stood and thought, and tried to decide what to do.

“Kelli?” he said as he turned and looked at me.

“Uhhm. I will, uhmmm, have the lasagna,” I said, not even thinking. Surely they sold lasagna; it was an Italian restaurant, after all.

“And a glass of water,” I added.

Erik paid for the food, and we walked to the outside seating area. Watching him walk was hypnotic. He had a very mechanical walk, as if he were programmed to do it. He stood very erect, and moved his arms a little bit, but not too much. He looked straight ahead, but his eyes were attentive to all of the things around him. I enjoyed watching him walk. I daydreamed about watching him walk the length of the parking lot.

The area was a patio outside, that was surrounded by a stone fence, and trees, open to the outside and sky. A sidewalk separated the seating are from the parking lot. As we picked out table and I began to sit, he pulled my chair out from the table for me.

“Thank you,” I said. He nodded at me and sat down. As he sat down, he placed the receipt for the food at the center of the table.  I noticed that he had folded it into a neat square.

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked. I felt stupid again, immediately after I asked the question. I felt it was kind of sophomoric of me.

“Your choice, Kelli,”

I thought about what we could discuss. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to eat and fuck. I didn’t even want to eat, I just wanted to fuck. I wanted to show Erik what I was able to do, sexually, and hopefully blow his mind. Making him happy and pleasing him more than he had ever been pleased was at the forefront of my list of things to accomplish today. I decided there was a subject we could talk about, if he would. I decided to try again.

“What about that long text you sent me, the one with all of the sexual questions? What was all of that about? More psycho-babble stuff?

“Well, let me ask you this, first, Kelli. How did reading the questions make you feel, as a whole?” he responded.

I thought about how to respond. I didn’t want him to think I was some weirdo, but I did want him to know I was a sexual freak. I decided to be totally honest, and let him know what I thought, and how they made me feel, and have him decide what was wrong with me.

“Every one of them turned me on. They made me think, and they made me horny. I answered ‘turn on’ to all of them, mentally. And, the more I thought about them, the more I wanted you to be with me, so we could be doing all of those things,” I answered as I crossed my legs.

I thought about it after I had responded, and realized that he didn’t say that he wanted to do those things, he was just trying to decide what type of person I was, probably sexually. I really needed to start thinking before I spoke.

“That is interesting, Kelli. Every one?” he asked, removing his hand from holding his chin, gesturing toward me with his open palm.

“Yes…every one of them, Erik. I do not know how you selected those questions, or what they may mean to you, but each one of them not only sounded exciting, but they also made me very comfortable with what you might want me to do. Are all of them a turn on or a turn off for you?”

I decided to try to use his name more when I spoke to him, he did it to me all the time, completing sentences with my name, or preceding a thought or a sentence with my name. I liked it. I liked it a lot. So, maybe if I did it to him, he would like it as much as I did. I crossed my legs the other direction as I waited for his answer.

“They’re all a turn on for me, Kelli, especially if they’re a turn on for you. Contrary to what you or anyone for that matter thinks about Dominant males, I am probably different than that common stereotype. I want, ultimately, to please you. Making you happy makes me happy,” he paused, took a breath and started speaking again.

“The thought of disappointing you makes me uncomfortable, extremely uncomfortable.
Additionally, the thought of making you uncomfortable sexually, or in any way, for that matter, makes me feel terrible. The one advantage I have over many men is this, I have a great understanding of human nature; I know, for the most part, what it is that you want, need, and desire. Maybe more so than you do,” the waiter walked up, and Erik stopped speaking.

“Water, tea?” the waiter asked. I raised my hand and mouthed the word water to the waiter.

As the waiter walked away, I started talking, “So, pleasing me makes you happy? You want to….” In mid-sentence Erik interrupted me.

“Kelli, stop. Stop speaking. Lean over here. Come here, Kelli,” he said as he leaned to the middle of the table.

I leaned forward, wondering what I had done wrong. I hoped that I did not make him mad, that I did not disappoint him, or make him uneasy with my answers or my questions. When I got to the middle of the table, he moved my hair to the side, and spoke into my ear. As he did his breath went into my ear, and made me shiver. When he did this, it made me feel weak, and instantly made me want him…

“Who, Kelli, owns you? Right now, right here, who owns you?” he asked.

I felt a lump in my throat as I started to answer. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words came out as a whisper and a squeak.

“You….you do. You do, sir,” the words were barely audible.

“Kelli, who owns you?”

As he asked again, he took the finger from his free hand, and started sliding it back and forth across my right nipple. I felt as if I was being shocked. Oh my God, what was he doing to me? Whatever it was I loved it. I felt like I was going to vomit I was so excited. This was a degree of feelings that I had never felt before. He had me more excited by whispering these things in my ear than I had ever been actually being with a guy. He made me feel better sexually, by whispering things to me…these things, than any other man made me feel by actually touching my flesh.

“You do, Erik. I am yours. You own me,” I leaned my head to one side, and looked up into his steel blue eyes as I answered.

I no more than made eye contact, and he slid his hand from beside my face, and holding my hair, to the base of my neck. Cradling my neck in his hand, he squeezed my neck in his hand, and turned my head back to where it was. Continuing to hold my neck in his hand, he began to talk again, whispering into my ear lightly.

“That’s a good girl. Yes, I do. I own you. You’re making me proud of you with your answers, Kelli,” he responded. His mouth was almost to touch my ear. His warm breath against my ear and neck made me shiver again. Although it was 80 degrees out, I could feel goose bumps rise on my arms and legs.

“Now, Kelli, what are you going to do when I ask you to do something? Something sexual? What are you going to do?” he asked.

Each time he spoke, his hand tightened on my neck slightly. When he was done speaking, he would release my neck from his grasp and cradle it in his hand.

“Do it, without hesitation. Do it.” I said. The words came out of my mouth immediately. They actually came off of my tongue before I even thought about it. He was amazing at getting into my mind. I crossed my legs the other direction again. As I did, I could feel myself running down my leg, and down the crack of my ass. I was so wet that it was running down my legs. I re-crossed my legs, and as I did, I actually heard the wetness.  I hoped that he didn’t hear it. This was embarrassing. I felt as if I was putty in his hands as his grip loosened from my neck.

“Continue,” he said, and leaned back into his chair.

I didn’t want this to end. This was better than sex. Oh. My. God. No, come back; squeeze my neck, whisper in my ear. How could he do that? How could he, in the middle of this, just stop and lean back into his chair? This was more than I could take. Naturally, I crossed my legs again, trying to become comfortable. I heard the squishing sound of my wetness and felt it running down my legs. Oh shit, I was wearing a dress. I was going to have a wet spot.

“Hold that thought, Erik. I have to use the bathroom,” I said as I stood.

I walked inside and to the bathroom, feeling as if I had spilled something all over my lap. I grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, and went into one of the stalls. Standing in front of the toilet, I put one of my feet onto the rim of the toilet, and the other on the floor. I lifted my dress up and took the paper towels and tried to wipe up the mess. It felt as if I was wiping with sandpaper. I looked at the moist towels, and strangely felt somewhat satisfied. I tossed them into the toilet, and grabbed a handful of toilet paper.  I grabbed a handful of toilet paper and attempted to wipe up the remaining mess. The toilet paper broke up into pieces, and rolled into little wet balls on my thighs and ass. This. Was. Ridiculous. I grabbed another handful and dabbed against myself until it was dry. I opened the stall door and began to walk back outside, feeling both embarrassed and satisfied at the same time.

As I walked through the door from the inner restaurant into the outside, I started to walk past a table of guys my age. My nipples were still so hard that it almost hurt. My period was way too close. Hopefully Erik and I could have some crazy sex before it started. As I walked past, I heard one say, “Look at that bitch. I’d fuck the shit out of her. Sexy whore. Dude, look,” and I saw him nod his head my direction. I walked past, acting like I didn’t hear them. Just like being in a bar, people have no respect for women. Thinking it is one thing, but saying it, especially where someone can hear? That’s so far beyond inconsiderate. I stepped to the table and sat down. When I did, Erik looked a little uneasy.

“My turn now, will you excuse me for a moment? I must go to the restroom,” he asked.

“Sure.”

He stood, and walked for the door. As he did, my eyes followed him. His walk, his stride, gate, swagger, whatever people call it. It was such a turn-on just to see him walk. I got lost in just watching him walk away from the table. When he was almost to the door, he stopped at the table of boys and leaned down, placed his hands on the table, and started whispering something. His whisper was harsh, but quiet, like he intended only for the boys to hear, and no one else. I strained to hear what he was saying.

“Listen to me, you little fucks. I heard every word you said about her when she walked by. I am going to let you slide, one time, this one time. Maybe you didn’t realize she was with me…..”

The waiter walked out and Erik stopped speaking and smiled at the waiter. I acted like I wasn’t paying attention. As the waiter dropped off our food, Erik was speaking again, but I couldn’t hear the conversation. As waiter placed the food on our table and walked away, I turned my ear back to the table of boys, and caught the end of this whispered one-sided conversation.

“…and you’ll regret it for as long as you live. Do you understand me? I asked you both a god damned question, now fucking answer me…”

The boys both looked up at Erik, and nodded. At the same time that they nodded, I heard them say, “Yes.” Erik then extended his hand to each of them, and with a puzzled look on their faces, they both shook his hand.  Erik lifted his hands from the table, stood, and walked through the door into the building.

As he walked inside, I noticed my hand was covering my mouth the entire time he was talking to the rude boys. I moved it, and as I did, I could smell his cologne on my hand. I thought of what he said to those guys at the table that were talking about me, and it turned me on. I smelled my hand again. I felt the goose bumps rise in my arms.

And I began to drip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ERIK. In the past, the females who I had spent time with were women that I could initially see myself with for a matter of months at best. Often, they would last a few weeks to a month. Generally, it was several weeks or months before I would ever commit mentally or physically to have sex with someone. They had to convince me, through their expressed thoughts and their actions that they were capable of being in a relationship with me that was not emotional, and be capable of having sex. The thought of having someone fall in love, and then, when the relationship ended, having them mentally, physically, or spiritually hurt by the relationship ending was not something that I wanted to have to wonder about.

It was a strange balancing act for both parties. I knew enough about myself to know that when I felt as if someone was different, and that I was developing some form of feeling of necessity for them, I would force myself to let them go. This had not happened with any degree of frequency, possibly two or three times in my adult life, but it had happened.

Knowing that any day you may be dismissed from a relationship was not a comforting feeling to most women. Some women, when explained my requirements for a relationship, would just tell me that I was insane, and end it before it ever started. Most swore they were capable, and after a few months, would admit that they had fallen in love, and that they couldn’t imagine a moment without me. Always, when I learned that this type of developed feeling existed, I would have to end the relationship.

Typically, after one of these types of endings, it may be a year before I would commit to try again. Each time, the woman that I chose to be with would be the same age as the last, if not younger. I continued to grow older, while my sexual partners grew younger. The age gap continued to be more of a gap as time passed.

Regarding my sexual advances, I had begun to be more aggressive with Kelli than most women. Typically, I would not ask the questions that I had asked until a few weeks had passed. I would not have done what I did in the Italian restaurant until we had seen each other for a matter of weeks, or possibly even a month. I wanted her to either fail, or to succeed, but with her, I wanted the answer immediately. For some reason, this girl was different to me. I felt with her, that the sex could be emotionally charged without the actual emotion.

As the sun was starting to set, I drove east, toward the theatre. As Kelli sat quietly, I turned the music up a little louder with the steering wheel mounted controls. The Black Keys, Sinister Kid played over the stereo. As I was getting beginning to enjoy the music and thinking of what it would take to break Kelli, she spoke.

“I like this Music, who is it?”

“The Black Keys,” I responded.

She nodded, and went back to being quiet. Tapping her fingers on her knee, she gazed at the road ahead as if she had no care in the world where we ended up. She was as attractive of a woman as I had ever seen, and her personality was a definite ten out of ten, so far. At some point I would reveal a flaw or series of flaws, but so far she was full of pleasant surprises. As I turned into the entrance of the theatre, she spoke again.