Bailey
I finished my work for today at the law firm earlier than expected, so I decided to use some of my ensuing free time to put in some work at my studio. I may have not been able to get myself into the showcase at the Covington, but there are plenty of other showcases I can get into.
Hopefully.
If I'm being honest, the whole pimping myself out and begging for table scraps from prestigious galleries isn’t only exhausting, it's downright degrading. Discouraging, even. It's also a thousand other negative things that are completely soul-crushing.
And yet, I persist.
I tell myself that, sooner or later, I'm going to knock on the right door. Eventually, somebody will take an honest look at my work and be impressed enough to give me a chance. But more and more often these days, I'm starting to worry that I'm doomed to spend my life like my grandmother – one of obscurity.
My grandmother was a talented artist. Her works were gorgeous. She even made a bit of money at it. Enough that she didn't have to decide between food and house bills most months, but she was hardly commercially successful. She didn't make very much profit from her art, even though I think it’s among the most beautiful I've ever seen.
I know some might call me biased, and that's fine, but when it comes to art, I can be critical. I try to be as objective as possible. But, to this day, I believe that my grandmother never received proper recognition for her brilliant creative mind.
I'm sitting at the worktable in the front of my studio, soft classical music playing while I scan the community message boards. The art community in Boston isn't all that big. And for those of us on the fringe, we tend to look out for one another. We've got each other's backs. The message boards are always filled with words of encouragement, and inspirational messages that tell us that no matter what, we have to persevere. Put our heads down and just keep grinding.
And while I appreciate that, I mainly frequent the message boards for one purpose – to get the scoop on upcoming showcases or other chances to have my work displayed and seen. I'm jotting down notes on a couple of upcoming shows, when there's a knock on my studio door.
I look over at the sound curiously. I'm not expecting anybody, and honestly, I get very few visitors in my studio. It's not like this is a widely-known, well-traveled place. Getting up, I walk over to the door and open it – and am shocked to see the person standing behind it.
“Selling Girl Scout cookies?” I ask. “If you are, I'd like some of the peanut butter ones, please.”
Colin grins, and my heart melts on the spot. “Sorry, fresh out.”
As my heart stumbles all over itself, I give myself a swift mental kick, and hold the door open for him. He steps inside and looks around the place. Not expecting visitors, I haven't done much in the way of tidying up. There are boxes of supplies stacked everywhere, about a billion frames lined up against one wall, and the place smells heavily of paint and photo-developing chemicals – which reminds me to open the window. Drop cloths litter one side of the room – stacked and piled around the easel my current work in progress is resting on. It's only half-done and looks like shit in its current state. He stands there looking at it though, the expression on his face one of a man who is seeing the bigger picture. It's almost like he understands where I'm going, and what I'm trying to say on the canvas.
Or, maybe I'm just projecting, and he's actually wondering why I'm bothering wasting my time when I'm nothing but a hack.
I close the door behind him and grab the long, unwieldy pole from its hook before rushing over to open a couple of the windows set high in the wall to facilitate better airflow and help circulate the fumes out of the place.
“Sorry,” I say. “I wasn't expecting company today. I don't get very many visitors out here.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah, right,” I say and laugh.
We stand there in awkward silence for a long moment, just staring at each other. Those piercing gray-blue eyes bore into me, reaching down into my very soul. It feels like I'm being exposed.
“So, if it isn’t Girl Scout cookies, what brings you all the way out here?” I ask. “Just felt the need to slum it with the working poor today?”
The smile on his face falters for a split-second before he regains his composure. I can tell he's doing his best to bite back a snarky reply – obviously trying to avoid provoking me into another fight. Which is curious. I've always gotten the impression he enjoys verbally sparring with me.
“Actually,” he answers sheepishly. “I was kind of hoping you'd like to get lunch with me.”
My stomach threatens to fold in on itself and take my heart with it as I stand there. Colin’s asking me to lunch? He's asking me on a date? Me? It shouldn't – it really shouldn't – but him asking me out fills me with a sense of joy I can't understand, let alone explain. Not even to myself.
I should hate this man. He stands for everything I think is wrong with the world. And yet, here I am, giddy as a schoolgirl that he asked me out.
“There was something I hoped we could discuss,” he says, and then adds quickly. “A business arrangement, of sorts.”
And just like that, the warm, fuzzy feelings in me evaporate like a shallow puddle of water in the desert. A business arrangement – not a date. I'm not going to lie and say it's not a crushing shot, but at the same time, it's also saving me from a moral quagmire, I suppose. At least, I'm not going to have to choose between my convictions and being arm candy for a man like Colin Anderson.
Silver linings, right?
“What sort of business arrangement?”
He shifts uncertainly on his feet, looking a bit uncomfortable, which is odd, given that he doesn't strike me as a man who is ever uncomfortable or uncertain. About anything. At all. Ever. He comes across as a man who, when he finally comes to a decision, sticks with it, come hell or high water – and expects everybody else to do the same.
“I'd rather discuss it over lunch, if you don't mind,” he says.
“You mean – now?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. Now.”
I look at his designer suit – doing my best to not admire how it clings so well to his tight, toned body – and then down at myself. I'm wearing black leggings, tennis shoes that are spotted with paint, and a baggy, oversized sweatshirt. I have my hair in a ponytail and a blue bandana covers my head.
Yeah, I'm a walking fashion nightmare right now. Get me onto a Paris runway.
“I don't think I'm exactly dressed to go out in public,” I say. “I was working, and –”
“I think you look fantastic,” he says. “Beautiful.”
An inscrutable expression crosses his face, and something like panic rises in his eyes. It's like he suddenly realized he said too much. Like he just gave up some important piece of leverage in one of his business negotiations or something. He clears his throat and looks away, trying to gather himself on the fly.
Like I'm going to let him off the hook that easily.
“I'm beautiful, huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet my eyes. “I think you're a very attractive woman in a traditional sense, yes.”
“That's not what you said,” I tease him. “You said I'm beautiful.”
“Can I take you to lunch?”
“You think I'm beautiful,” I say in a sing-song voice.
Colin shakes his head and looks down at the ground, but I can see the grin on his face. And if I didn't know better, I'd say that his cheeks are flushing behind that big, thick beard of his. It's actually kind of adorable.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks, no longer bothering to hide his smile. “You're a beautiful woman. An absolute pain in my ass, but beautiful. Happy?”
I cock my head and pretend to think it over for a moment. “Okay, I'll take that.”
“So – lunch?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why not? After all, us beautiful girls need to eat too.”
He lets out a long, dramatic breath. “Such a pain in the ass.”
“I think you kinda like it though.”
I close down my computer and lock up my studio behind us. The whole time, I'm aware of Colin's eyes on me. The few times I've caught him looking at me, it's been with a look of near awe on his face – like he's admiring a beautiful work of art or something. Unlike that day in the office, when it was a smothering, suffocating pressure, something about having his eyes on me feels – sensual.
And even though I'm in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, the way he's looking at me makes me feel sexier than I've felt in a really long time.
* * *
“So, tell me, why exactly are you so passionate about the poor and the homeless?”
It's a curious way to start off the conversation, but I actually kind of like it that he’s taking an interest in me this way. I enjoy that he wants to know what makes me tick. And I figure the best way to get through to him is by being honest.
“I grew up dirt poor,” I say. “Never knew where my next meal was coming from, wearing hand-me-down clothes – usually, not much better than rags, really.”
He pauses with his water glass halfway to his mouth and looks at me with a stunned expression on his face. He quickly recovers and takes a drink, but the pause is telling to me. It shows me that poverty is an abstract concept to Colin. It's something he doesn't understand because he can't relate to it. Oh, he knows there is poverty in the world, and that there are poor people all around us, but he’s never had a personal connection with someone in poverty before.
Which is why I'm here to educate him.
For someone like Colin – who I can only imagine grew up extremely privileged – being poor is something that happens to other people. Not to anybody he knows. And if I had to guess, I'd say that he thinks people are poor simply because of their own choices. That they're lazy or shiftless. That they would rather sell drugs than get a job.
He doesn't understand that people sometimes wind up impoverished through no fault of their own. Yeah, some people make poor life choices, but sometimes, all it takes is a bad break to send them into the poverty spiral. And what Colin doesn't understand is that not everyone who's poor is a drunk. Or an addict. Or a criminal. Some of the poor – heck, many, if not most of the poor in this country – are stuck where they are because of a confluence of really bad luck and crappy circumstance.
“I didn't know that,” he says.
I shrug. “How could you?” I ask. “You don't really know me. But, it's why I do what I do and the reason I’m so passionate about it. I believe in giving a voice to the voiceless and fighting for equality for all.”
Having lectured him on the issue of poverty, he nods slowly, letting my words sink in. I can tell that Colin is a thoughtful man. He's not simply dismissing what I say out of hand. I can tell by the look on his face that he's actually processing it. That he's really thinking about it, rather than writing it off as some liberal hippie garbage.
I like that about him.
The waitress comes over and sets our plates down in front of us, departing with a smile. The restaurant is busy and she's running around like a chicken with her head cut off. I'd half-expected Colin to take me to some high-end, snobby restaurant. Surprisingly enough, he brought me to Bobby Boy's – one of the more popular burger joints on this side of town. As I look at him, I pick up a fry and pop it into my mouth – it's salty and crunchy on the outside but tender on the inside – absolute perfection.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, a wry grin on his face.
“I guess I'm shocked you even know this place exists,” I say, pointedly looking at his suit. “Doesn't seem to be the kind of place you'd frequent.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “As a painter, I'm surprised you’d use such broad strokes, Bailey.”
“Sometimes, broad strokes are what's called for.”
“And sometimes, you need a smaller, more refined brush for the finer details.”
“Touché,” I reply. “I just figured you'd be more comfortable in a place with linen table cloths, that serves food with names I can't even pronounce.”
He laughs. “The picture of me you have in your head must be hilarious,” he says.
Colin probably doesn’t want to know the kind of picture I have of him in my head. And as I look at him, the fantasy I'd had about him – the one I got myself off to – rises like a leviathan from the dark depths of my mind. I feel my cheeks blush as the warmth spreads through my body. I squirm in my seat, my body tingling as I start to grow wet.
Jesus, how can this man possibly have this effect on me?
“I found this place when I was going to BC,” he says. “I've never had a better burger. It's kept me coming back for years.”
Yeah, maybe I'm painting him with too broad a brush. I guess. He always comes off as elitist and snobby to me, like he takes being one of the one-percenters very seriously, and seems to relish the fact that he belongs to the highest social circle.
“Is it possible – and I'm just putting this out there,” he says, “that your experiences growing up, and this zeal you've formed for helping the poor, having been poor yourself, has given you a negative perception of anyone who has money? I mean, don't get me wrong, there are some real assholes with money out there. I'm not denying that. But, not all of us are evil just because we happen to be wealthy. Is it possible that your own experiences have made you so cynical that you see anybody with any sort of economic advantage as bad, as the enemy, when maybe, they actually aren't?”
I sit back in my seat and pop another fry into my mouth, pondering what he said. Colin takes a big bite of his burger and chews slowly, watching me the entire time. If I'm being honest with myself, I can't necessarily dispute what he's saying. As I sit there pondering, I think over everything Cesar said at brunch the other day – which coincides with what Colin seems to be saying. Yeah, I tend to think rich people are the devil incarnate, and I have a habit of lumping them all together.
He’s right. Maybe I'm not being fair.
“Growing up like I did, I learned what it was like to not have anything,” I say. “And I also learned that the world is divided up into two different kinds of people – the rich, and everybody else.”
“The world is a lot more varied than that,” he retorts, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Not everything is so black and white.”
“When you grow up like I did, it kind of is,” I say. “Poor kids get made fun of by the richer kids. I remember being teased relentlessly about the holes in my clothing, or the fact that I was dirty. I remember them teasing me about not having a lunch, or – anything else they could find to torment me about. It was brutal, and it was very much a case of the haves and the have-nots. Black and white.”
“I'm sorry you grew up that way,” he says, and then slowly adds, “I can see why you have the worldview you do. It makes sense.”
“You don't even know the half of it.”
“So, tell me,” he says, sincerity etched upon his face.
I take a bite of my burger and wash it down with some soda to fortify myself before launching into my tale of woe. I tell him everything, sparing no detail, and holding nothing back. Half of me expects him to get up and run out screaming. But, he doesn't. He sits there, chewing his food in silence, his eyes riveted to mine, absorbing every single word that comes out of my mouth. I can see that he's shocked, and maybe even somewhat saddened, for me.
I don't want his pity, though. I want his compassion when dealing with the issues we've fought over.
“Your grandmother sounds like an extraordinary woman,” he says.
“She was,” I say simply. “I wouldn't be who I am today without her. I don't even know where I'd be without her, to be honest.”
He sits back in his seat and chews on a fry. I can see the wheels in his head turning, as he ponders everything I just shared with him. I wish I knew what was going on inside that beautiful, frustrating head of his.
“You're an extraordinary woman, Bailey,” he finally says. “You have strength and resolve. You didn't let your background strip you of your passion. I admire that. Respect it.”
“Thank you,” I say and look away.
My cheeks flush – I've never really been good with praise. To be honest, it makes me uncomfortable. I never feel worthy of the compliments I receive. I know that's my own baggage, and my personal issues working against me, but I can't help it. It's just part of who I am.
The way he looks at me turns my insides to mush. Those eyes of his are practically peering into my soul. I can feel them analyzing me, and breaking me down. And, for some reason, I like it.
We finish our meal with some light conversation, and I'm surprised to find that we actually have a lot in common. Once you get past all of the political and socioeconomic differences between us, we have more shared interests than I would have thought possible, given the circumstances.
When we leave the restaurant, I see Colin in an entirely different way. Or at least, I'm starting to. There's still a ways to go before that gap is completely bridged, but I think we're starting to get there. All I know is that I enjoy spending the afternoon with him. Even more, I relished the way he looked at me the whole time – like I was the only woman in the world.
By the time I get into his car to have him taxi me back to my studio, I'm practically aching for him.
* * *
I expected him to drop me off and go, but Colin follows me back into my studio. When he shuts the door behind him, I remember that we haven't gotten to the reason for this impromptu lunch date just yet – this mysterious business arrangement.
I have to say though, I'm kind of disappointed it wasn't just a date, but a business proposal that prompted him to ask me out in the first place. More so now that he and I actually had a good time out together and found a lot of common ground between us.
But, it is what it is. Sadly.
I watch Colin as he walks around my studio, checking everything out. On one of the tables, he picks up a flier for a showcase in an indie art house I'm showing at. I don't know why, maybe he thinks he's being polite, but he slips it into the pocket of his slacks. He takes off his coat, draping it over his arm, and loosens his tie. It's starting to get warm in here, so I flip on the small, portable air conditioner I have. It's not much, but it's something.
I walk over and take his coat from him and hang it on the rack next to the door.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You're welcome.”
He starts poking through some of the framed portraits I have lined up on the wall – some of the oils, as well as some of the photographs. He stops and looks up at me, an expression of concern on his face.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “Do you mind that –”
I shake my head and smile. “No, not at all,” I say. “Art is meant to be looked at.”
He gives me a nod and turns back to my work. With his coat off, and him kind of bent over the frames as he picks through them, I can see just how well those nicely-tailored slacks frame and showcase his tight, sculpted ass. Talk about a piece of art that's meant to be looked at.
I'm so busy staring at his ass and feeling myself grow wet because of it, that it takes me a minute to realize he's looking back at me and had been speaking. I see the devilish smirk on his face a millisecond before my cheeks start to burn, turning what's an unnatural shade of red, I'm sure.
Thankfully though, Colin has the good grace to not call me out for creeping on his ass. He's probably used to it. Probably gets off on it, come to think of it.
“Tell me more about these,” he says.
I clear my throat and walk over. We spend some time talking about some of the subjects of my work. He seems thoroughly impressed by my ability to create art, and even more impressed that I can do it well in two different mediums.
“Bailey, your work – it's amazing,” he says, sounding genuinely surprised. “Seriously. It's absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” I say, uncomfortable with the praise. “Oh, let me show you some of my new pieces.”
I lead him into my darkroom, mostly as a distraction from him heaping praise on me. The thing that hits me is how sincere it is. I have some people tell me my work is great and all, but I can tell it's a rote response from them. They're saying it because they think they're expected to say it. With Colin though, I can hear the sincerity in his words. What's more, I think he understands my message – which is good, since he's a member of the demographic I target with my work. But, he genuinely seems to appreciate it – something that warms my heart and excites me.
He walks around a bit, scrutinizing some of the pictures I have hanging up on the line, and seems impressed. It's then I realize the picture I took of him at the protest is still up. I don't think he's seen it yet, so I move over and quickly pluck it from the line. He turns around and looks at me.
“What's that a picture of?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Didn't really turn out.”
He grins and tries to reach behind me. I spin to block him, which makes him laugh. I really don't want him to see the picture – I'm afraid he'll think I'm some weird stalker, or that he'll somehow know that I got myself off in this very room looking at that very picture. Like he'll be able to somehow just divine the information out of thin air or something.
Colin moves one way and I move to block him – only realizing too late that it was a fake move, and he was actually waiting for me to block him, so he could slip around the other side and pluck the picture from my hand,
I start to protest, but he holds the picture up. “Not a real great shot of me,” he says.
“It's fi – I didn't realize I'd even snapped it, to be honest.”
He gives me a smile as he hands it back to me. I clutch the picture, feeling utterly humiliated – like he'd caught me peeking at him in the shower or something. With my face already scorching hot, it's only then I realize just how close he's standing to me. My darkroom isn't all that big to start with but feeling his presence so close to me makes it seem even smaller than it really is.
And that's the best way I can describe Colin – he has this presence about him. He displaces the atmosphere in ways most people don't. Standing so close to him is like what I imagine standing at the edge of a black hole must be like – you're inexplicably drawn to it. Into him.
I turn my face up and see his crystalline eyes focused on me. Not even the red light of the darkroom is enough to strip away the sheer breathtaking quality of those eyes. They make my heart skip a beat – or twelve. In his face, I see such longing. A yearning.
He reaches out and strokes my cheek with his fingertips, sending a bolt of white-hot electricity from my head straight down to my lower belly. My whole body tingles with the sensation, and every nerve ending crackles with it.
When Colin leans down and presses his lips to mine, I swear, all of the air in the room is suddenly sucked out. I feel completely breathless, and my head is swimming. As his tongue slips into my mouth and twirls around mine, I swear fireballs are exploding in the darkness behind my closed eyes.
He grabs me by the waist and pulls me to him, pressing his body hard against mine. I run my hands up his chest, feeling the solid, corded muscle beneath the shirt.
Our kiss grows hotter and filled with more fire, and I quickly start to unbutton his shirt. I’ve never felt this much desire before – I need to feel his skin on mine. I slip my hands inside and move my hands down the hard angles and planes of his chest and abs. His skin is smooth and warm.
Colin pulls back and looks at me, and the craving I see in his eyes for me makes my legs go weak, and they almost give out beneath me. He steadies me on my feet, then grabs hold of my ponytail, pulling my head back roughly. A soft moan escapes my lips as he kisses my neck, nipping at the skin. His one hand still pulling my hair, I feel his other hand squeezing and cupping my breast. He pinches a hard nipple through the fabric, drawing a soft whimper from me.
I reach down and touch Colin through his slacks. I grip his cock, squeezing it through his pants. He's long, and thick – and incredibly hard for me already. I have no idea how he is supposed to fit inside of me. I stroke him through his pants, hearing him draw in a sharp breath as I do.
Colin pushes me back a couple of steps until the small of my back is pressed against my worktable. He pulls my sweatshirt off over my head and tosses it to the side, quickly disposing of my bra. The second his mouth hits my nipple, it feels like something explodes inside of me. He licks and sucks on it, pinching the other one with his hand. I run my fingers through his hair, losing myself in the sensations that are rocking my body.
Needing to feel him in my hand, I quickly unzip Colin's slacks, reaching inside his boxers, and pulling his cock out. He's so long and thick, part of me worries that I won't be able to fit him inside of me. I'm determined to try, though.
Colin grabs me roughly by the shoulders and kisses me hard. I love how it feels for him to grab me so forcefully. Taking what he wants from me. It's just like in my fantasy from the other day – I feel myself giving up all my control to him and the mere thought of it only makes me hotter. I want him to take control. To use me like he wants. I'm tired of always being strong, and keeping such a tight grip on everything. I want somebody else to take charge for a change.
And he does.
Putting his hands on my shoulders, Colin forces me down to my knees. I know what he wants, but I want to hear him say it. I look up at him, pinning him with my gaze.
“Tell me,” I say. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want your mouth on me,” he growls.
His voice is gruff and commanding and sets me ablaze with desire. Colin reaches down and grips my ponytail, pulling my head back. The hunger in his eyes is intoxicating. I grip the base of his cock, squeezing it hard, and draw a gasp from him. He steps forward and runs the head of his cock around my lips.
A salacious grin touches his lips as I run the tip of my tongue all around the head of his cock, teasing the sensitive underside of it. Never breaking eye contact with him, I lean forward and slide his hard erection into my mouth, swirling my tongue around it as I take as much of him in as I can.
When I tighten my lips around him and start to move my mouth up and down on him, Colin draws in a sharp breath. There’s a look of absolute rapture on his face as I start bobbing my head up and down. Instinctively, I wrap my fingers around the base of his shaft and stroke him in unison with my mouth.
“Fuck, Bailey,” he moans. “I need you. I can’t wait to be inside of you.”
I stand up, taking his hand in mine and leading him over to the small, dingy couch I have set up in the corner of the room. Colin pushes down my leggings and sits me down on the edge of it, a mischievous sparkle in his eye as he kneels down before me. I’m staring up nervously at the exposed beams of the studio as he parts my thighs.
I can’t believe this is happening. Goodbye, virginity.
His beard feels scratchy against my delicate skin, tickling me, but the moment his tongue hits my clit, I feel like a bomb has been detonated in my most intimate parts. A line of fire shoots from the warm, wet center of me and straight into my heart and brain, and back again.
My entire body feels electric as he runs his tongue along my wet, swollen lips. Colin takes my clit into his mouth, sucking gently on it at first. He gently nips it with his teeth, then rolls it around his tongue. I gasp, feeling like I can't catch my breath as my body trembles and shakes.
He buries his tongue deep inside me as he uses his fingers to massage my clit. The double dose of pleasure fills me up, and I feel myself hurtling toward an orgasm at a record pace. Colin licks me up and down, moaning as if I'm the best thing he's ever tasted. The rumble of his voice coupled with the warmth of his breath on my most sensitive parts, sends shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through me.
“Colin... Oh my god...” I gasp.
I cry out, gripping the cushion as I writhe beneath him. When he spreads me open and slides his tongue deep inside, I press my head back against the couch and whimper. I feel completely out of control, as I grip his hair, pulling it hard and pushing his head down further into me. He takes the hint and starts to lick me with even more zeal than before, touching off explosions of sensation inside of me.
My eyes grow wide and I open my mouth, a strangled scream bubbling up from my throat when he adds two fingers to his tongue, all of them working inside of me in unison. He drives his fingers in deep as he takes my clit into his mouth, gently nipping and sucking on it. He moves his fingers in and out of me, sucking harder on my clit, driving me ever closer to the edge.
My belly grows tight, and my entire body becomes taut as he works his fingers and mouth in a perfect erotic symphony, playing my most intimate parts like a maestro. I start to tremble as the pressure in me rises, my breath growing desperate and ragged. I can’t wait to feel him inside me.
“Colin, yes,” I cry.
I grip his hair even harder, grinding my pussy against him, taking his fingers ever deeper. He responds, using his hand and his mouth in ways I never knew were possible. He brings me to the pinnacle, and then with a flick of his tongue, sends me toppling over the edge.
My stomach lurches and I fall into a chasm of sheer ecstasy. I thrash on the couch, crying out, my body arching up, feeling like my skin is on fire. I call his name over and over, as my orgasm tears through me.
Slowly, the grip of my orgasm loosens, and I lay there quivering, whimpering, but feeling absolutely amazing. I sit up as Colin looks at me. His beard glistens with my juices, and he runs the tip of his tongue around his lips, as if savoring every last drop of me.
“I can’t wait any more,” he growls. “I need you.”
He turns me around and bends me over the couch.
I'm starting to feel self-conscious as he gets behind me. Should I tell him this is my first time? I hear the rustle of plastic, and when I turn and look at him over my shoulder, I see him tearing a condom wrapper open. He gives me a roguish grin and pushes me back down, so my belly is flat on the couch.
A moment later, my eyes grow wide, and I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Not even having three fingers inside of me could have prepared me for what his cock feels like as he slowly penetrates me. Colin grabs hold of my hair and pulls my head back as he drives his cock deep into my pussy. He fills me up completely as he stretches me open, a sharp pinch of pain melding perfectly with the pleasure that has my body humming with an electrical current.
Colin is gripping my hair and pulling my head back as he starts to slowly and rhythmically thrust himself into me. Every thrust hits a spot deep within me that sets off a tiny, but powerful explosion of pleasure inside of me. My body is quivering, and I'm gasping for breath, but the pleasure rocking me is unlike anything I've ever felt before. It's as intense as it is amazing.
He drives himself into me again and again, driving me to the absolute brink of sanity. The sensations gripping my body make me feel like I'm balancing right on the edge between hyperventilating and passing out. As he plunges his glorious cock deep inside of me, I cry out. I call his name, and I hear him grunting, feel his body stiffening behind me.
I push myself back against him, taking him as deep as possible, and the muscles inside of me tighten even further, making my pussy feel impossibly tight around his cock. Colin cries out and I feel him start to shake, and his cock pulsing in the condom inside of me.
Feeling him coming inside of me sets off another orgasm within me. My climax hits me out of the blue, and though it’s not as intense as the last one, it’s still enough to cause me to dig my nails into the couch as my body tightens and shudders.
I tremble beneath him as Colin keeps me pinned to the couch, his cock deep inside of me, the condom filled with his come.
Slowly, the ecstasy recedes, and Colin slips his now-soft cock out of me. He drops the condom in the trash can near my worktable as I stand up and pull my leggings up, and grab my sweatshirt, slipping it back on over my head. Although the initial bliss has worn off, I still feel warm and sexy, if a little bit sore. I walk over to him as he finishes buttoning his shirt and nuzzle up against him.
He kisses me on the forehead, but I feel the stiffness and tension in his body. He doesn't say a word as he tucks his shirt back into his slacks, and zips up. He won't even meet my eyes.
'You okay?” I ask.
He nods, but still looks away from me. “Yeah. Fine,” he says. “I'm fine.”
He's acting strangely all of the sudden, and I don't know why. What we did – what we just shared – was amazing. It felt incredible. I can’t believe it happened, honestly. But now he’s acting like we did something wrong. There's an awkward moment of silence as we stand there, staring at one another, the chasm standing between us wider than it's ever been.
“I – I should probably go,” he says quickly.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips.
“What do you mean?”
“You get your rocks off, and now you're just going to bail?” I almost shout. “You just use me, and now you're going to throw me away like a piece of trash?”
Most girls would probably be crying at this point. Not me. I'm just pissed. I gave myself to him willingly, and I don't regret it. But now, he's acting like I'm going to be some crazy, clingy girl with a crush or something.
“That's not how it is, Bailey,” he says. “That's not it at all.”
“Then what is it?” I ask. “Explain it to me, because that's what it feels like.”
He runs a hand through his hair and looks at me awkwardly, as if trying to find the right excuse that will let him off the hook. Maybe this is all he wanted. He just wanted a quick screw – maybe with one of the poor so he knew what it felt like. Maybe, fucking me made him feel all-powerful or something. I don't know.
All I do know, is that the longer he stands there, saying nothing, obviously trying to find some spin or excuse to mollify me, the more pissed I'm getting.
“You know what?” I say. “Get the hell out.”
“Bailey –”
“No, it was great. I had a good time. Thanks for making me come twice, I appreciate it,” I say. “We both got something out of it, so let's just say we're good, and call it a day.”
“It's not like –”
“I said get out of my studio,” I say, my voice low and tight with anger.
“Bailey –”
“Get out!” I scream. “Get the fuck out of here!”
Colin looks at me for a moment longer, then slowly turns and leaves my studio. When I hear the door close behind him, I grab a small jar, and hurl it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass, and the feel of destroying something, is satisfying for a moment – only for a moment though.
But, just like the rest of my life, I'm stuck cleaning up that mess in the end.