I’m not sure what possessed me to come out of my room and to breakfast topless, but I don’t know and I don’t care. For some reason, I feel completely comfortable and at ease here. With him, even though we just met.
Besides that, I don’t know what it is, but I have this overwhelming desire for him to see me. Stare at me, partially naked, all the way naked. It doesn’t matter. I just want him to look at me, and see how much I don’t care that he can see my tits. My boobs.
I want him to see and feel just how unfazed I am around exhibiting my body to him.
With this strength and determination to rattle him and show him how in control I am, I sit down at the breakfast table. When I take my seat, it’s to a plate of fried eggs, spam and toast and jam. A great breakfast as far as I’m concerned. Something similar to what dad would make when he was home. Except instead of spam, we’d have thick-cut pepper bacon. And instead of toast and jam, we’d have Bavarian breakfast pastries.
For a drink, he’s made me a cup of tea. He’s also poured me a glass of milk, which is smart of him, considering I don’t really drink tea. Except for when I’m sick.
I thank him quietly for the breakfast and dig in again. Though I’m hungry, I do my best to eat like I wasn’t raised by wolves or in a barn. I try to eat like my mom and dad raised me with some concept of manners, not wolfing and choking everything down like it’s my last meal. I start with the eggs and make quick work of them. From there, I go on to the spam and toast.
I decide to put it on my bread instead of jam. I folded over into a makeshift sandwich, just as Brandon starts up a conversation with me. “You’re looking better this morning. Much better than last night,” he says.
I nod. I’m feeling better, though part of me still wonders when those terrors are going to come back. I can’t have sex every day all day to keep them at bay.
“And I’m really glad you decided to share a little bit about the dream you had last night. The nightmare, and what you’ve been going through.” He takes a bite of his spam, seeming to enjoy the black crunchy bits he has on his pieces. “It really helps me understand you a bit better, which will help me help you a bit better from now on.”
He smiles, taking another bite before washing it down with some warm drink. Probably coffee. Maybe a homemade mocha, by the smell of faint chocolate and coffee blended together.
“Since you decided to be open with me about what happened to you, I thought you deserve to know a little bit about my situation,” he says, taking up a piece of toast and buttering it. Jam comes on next. Blackberry by its dark, gloppy appearance. “How I came to be where I am. What I’ve been through. That kind of thing.” He takes a bite of his freshly-buttered and jammed bread. “As you know, I used to serve in the military. Navy specifically as a seal.” As he speaks, I see him set down his bread and go to cradle his arm. One that I notice has scarring. I noticed those scars earlier, I remember, but lost track of them and all the tattoos and sex. Until now. Until I see him petting them absently. Like memory shards. Like things that still can hurt him, even though they’ve “healed” to the naked eye. “I was on a rescue mission before I was discharged honorably and sent home. My helicopter was shot down in the middle of the rescue mission by enemy forces.” Again, he pets his arm. Massages some parts where the scarring is heavy. “Practically a fireball, I was lucky to escape with just deep tissue damage. Some of my guys burned alive. Got crushed under the metal and gear in the crash. I tried to save a few of them from the burning wreckage.” Nervously, he flexes that arm. “That’s how I got some of my tissue damage. Trying to pull my fellow rescuers from heavy, burning metal, not realizing I had torn muscles and tissue in my arm to shit.” He shakes his head, almost as if part of his mind is still consumed by smoke and flames. Or will be, if he lets it. “Again, I’m lucky I got out of there with my life, but you wouldn’t know that when I got back. I had terrible night terrors for a long, long time. Felt like I was crashing and then helicopter over and over again. Tearing my arm to bits over and over again.” As he speaks about these night terrors, I get the sense that he hasn’t told this part too many people before. Hasn’t really shared this bit of information. “I was scared all the time, Juliet. I didn’t think that I would ever feel sane again. Even my waking hours were filled with noise. Rushing and exploding noises. Thinking that shrapnel was hitting my window. That bombs were rumbling under my floorboards. I spent many nights like the one you just got through. In a sleeping and waking hell. Was so bad at times I thought I would be better off dead.” He looks directly at me, looking sober as he takes another bite of his toast and then a bite of spam and egg. “Which is why I was so worried about you last night. Why I was afraid you were trying to jump when I saw you on the cliff. And why I didn’t want to leave you alone last night. Because I know what I was like when I came home.” He shovels in a few more bites, and I know he’s feeling a little too vulnerable for his liking. Even in front of me. “So, anyway I guess I just wanted you to know that I do know what you’re going through. And that I’m sorry for how everything’s been for you. Even so, I’d love to know more, if you want to tell me.”
I take a big drink of my milk, a bite of my spam (what’s left of it) and a small sip of my tea before answering. “There isn’t much to tell, really. I know I don’t look like it now, but I used to work in a hair salon in NYC.” Unsurprisingly, this detail seems to surprise. Intrigue. Of course it would. Dressed as I have been, you wouldn’t think of me as a hairstylist. Not even if I had the tools of my trade with me. I been a veritable shell of myself. A ghost of the person I was before that day. That horrible news. “It was a really good job. Got paid really great money. Had a lot of fun doing it. Especially since I went to a hair design college — a really famous one — in the area there, and was at the top of my class and my game.”
“So what happened?” Unlike most guys I’ve told about my job before coming to live in Albuquerque, he actually looks genuinely interested. Not just feeding me a line so that I think and feel appreciated, when he’s actually just bored out of his mind. “How did you end up here in Albuquerque? New York and Albuquerque can’t be more different from each other!”
I smile at this. “I know. I ended up in Albuquerque because of my mom. She used to live here. She would be alone at the home while dad was deployed, so after a year or two in NYC after college and working at an awesome salon, I decided to do the right thing and move back home. For mom. So she had company when dad wasn’t there. Also so that she had extra protection, in case somebody decided to get weird on her. Some people don’t like the military, you know? No matter how well you’ve served them, or what branch, some people don’t care. So I moved to Albuquerque and got a job at a local hair salon.” I clear my throat, finishing off the last bites of my bread and spam. “That was awesome. I made friends with the owner. She said I was one of her best workers. Indispensable. Smart. Bubbly. Brought her a lot of business, too. A lot of people in Albuquerque liked that New York style you know? And I helped them have that, even if they did live in the Big Apple.” I smile widely, thinking about this. How many men and women left my styling chair happy and full of new life. Full of a new personality because of my work on them. As I think about this, part of me really wants this back. Wants that feeling of being on purpose. Of having that sense of higher calling, even if it is to styling hair.
It’s not just styling hair, though. It’s giving people a fresh start. A new identity. A new way of being in the world, really. And it’s at this moment that I realize how long it’s been since I’ve actually done something that had that much of an effect. That much value. “Anyway, mom didn’t end up staying in Albuquerque, though. She got bored when dad wasn’t home. Stressed more than anything, so she went and got herself a job. Something to do besides sit at home and worry about whether he was getting shot up or blown up. So she moved to Denver for that new job. Something in computer science or whatever. Not really sure, but either way she left me in Albuquerque. So then it was just me in the house, going to work.” I pick up my milk and have another deep drink. I don’t care when some of it dribbles down my chin and on to my chest. On to my breasts. And I really don’t care that he’s looking. Tracing each drop of milk down and over my nipples. “But then I got bored of even a job. So I quit. I closed up, and that was just around the time I got the news that my dad was killed in action. I enjoyed doing hair in NYC, I felt like I wanted some higher calling still. I felt like I wanted to quit, but then I lost my dad. And then of that mattered. And now I’m here.” I take another swig of my milk, and then a small sip of my tea. Both are lukewarm, or getting that way.
As I set both of my drinks down, one after the other, I notice him looking at me. The warmth and intensity in his eyes is enough to spark my interest in him. A hunger for him, even though I’ve just stuffed my belly with his good home cooking.
As my eyes land on Brandon I notice him fidgeting. Not much, but enough to know that he must be feeling the same way. Still turned on. Not surprising, since I’m topless, and since he didn’t necessarily get to finish earlier. It was just me. “I’m so glad to hear that you’ve been trying to make the best of a bad situation. I think that’s admirable, Juliet. There are a lot of people who just give up on having a direction in life. It sounds to me like you still have a passion for hairstyling.” Sexily, he brushes his hand through his crewcut hair. “Maybe I’ll let you work your magic on me one of these days. When this gets a little unruly.”
“Sure,” I say, feeling my heart beginning to pound. Even over the smell of spam, eggs and toast, I can smell Brandon. His musk. His sweat. His deodorant, though it’s faint. “I’d love to have you work your magic on me now though,” I whisper, not able to believe what I’m saying. “I’m beginning to feel a little tense and anxious again. I might need you to relax me.”
As those words come out of my mouth, I’m suddenly on top of the table, and reaching for him. Plates and cups fly off the table under Brandon’s movements. Neither he nor I pay any mind as some of these break, and as foodstuffs make it onto the floor and some of the cabinets. All he cares about is splaying me out on the table, and taking down my sweatpants. Which he does, in short order.
The moment he does, I am delightfully chilly. I’m already goopy and wet, and I let him see it. I let him see the slime I know is clinging to my mound. My lips, all for him. In a flash of movement, he’s got his shirt off again. He’s above me, and I’m in the perfect position to admire his tattoos. His ink. Which even has more color and sparkle in the morning light. In the warmer colors of day.
In another blur of movement, he’s got his pants down around his knees, but not completely off. It doesn’t matter though, as it’s enough room to set his cock free. However big I thought it was last night, it’s even more massive looking this morning. Even more muscled and chiseled -looking. Shiny. Curvy. Delicious. And already at full length.
“I love sausage for breakfast,” I murmur, reaching down to open up my folds. My lips, to give him better access. “It goes great with my pancakes.”
Brandon hums pleasantly. Hungrily, dipping his finger in me. “Looks like you’ve got some syrup ready to go,” he whispers. “I’ll be glad to dip my sausage in it.”
With that, that’s exactly what Brandon does. He penetrates me quickly, earnestly. He’s not one of those men who hesitates. Plays much around my hole. He just goes for it, whole hog. And that’s what I enjoy the most. Feeling the way he just pushes and plows his way through my lips and into my hole. Again, I’m almost breathless by the feeling of his girth. His length, and the way that it stretches and molds my pussy. Pushes her out and beyond her comfort zone. Though it’s already a lot larger than most, since I love to fist.
But his cock is almost better than my fist for how thick and smooth it is. This is the case, even as he begins to move in and out of me. Unlike before, it’s a quicker pace. It’s energetic. Sweet, like he really is just dipping sausage in syrup. And, as dorky as this might sound, that’s exactly what I start envisioning. That I’m a cup of syrup overflowing on him every time he goes in. Every time he goes out, I imagine that I cling to him. Stick to him.
This visualization deepens as he squeezes my ass. Slaps it a little. And that’s when I imagine that I’m the one dipping the sausage in the syrup. Sucking it off the length of it, twirling my tongue around it and dipping it again.
In the next second, I feel his thumbs and fingers on my clit, rubbing and buzzing the skin there. As he does, I hear myself murmur incoherently. Babble almost, and that’s because I’m even more tender than I was earlier. Even more sensitive than he when he was giving me oral. As he rubs me quickly into a small, tight orgasm, I reach for the butter.
Taking a glob of it, I smear it on my nipples. Rub it into my boobs. I then go for the jam, and put a dollop of it on each tender, hard tip. “Eat me all up,” I say, locking eye contact with him. “After taking such good care of me last night, you deserve a good breakfast too.”
“How can I say no after you’ve made yourself so available for me,” he says, dipping down immediately to suck and lick the butter and jam off me. He sucks on my nipples hard, as if there will be much more than just butter and jam for him. He flicks and caresses my breasts with his tongue as well, lapping up each smear of butter. Each fleck of jam, until I’m all clean. But in doing that, he’s started fucking me harder. Faster.
And I love it.
“Bavarian pastries are my favorite breakfast item,” I whisper, sighing over the pleasant aching and bruised feeling I have in my stomach from him, “fill me with your cream, and I’d be glad to give you a taste.”
Brandon gives a sighing moan at this. It’s almost a shuddering thing. But far from slowing down, it only speeds him up. Eggs him on. “I’ll have some whipped up for you in a jiffy, my lady,” he growls. “Just a minute…” He gasps. Trembles, and I feel him twitch in me. “Just a…” He trembles again, pushing harder and faster in and out of me. “Oh, shit!” His breath slams out of him. Catches. “Here it comes!” On those words, I feel something spill out of him and in to me. Hot. Warm. Thin, but also thick. Gooey. As it continues to spill forward, I feel him pumping in me. Thrusting. Twitching violently. And the pumping that’s going on in his dick is mirrored in the rest of his body.
Brandon groans with each twitch and thrust.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of quick, sweaty motion, Brandon pulls free of me. Climbs off the table, and pulls me with him. Though I’m not ready to get up. I could stay on the table forever as far as I’m concerned.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Should’ve had more control than that.” He can’t look me in the eye directly. “I can run you a bath, run into town and get some spermicide if you…”
I slide off the table, enjoying the “slide” of Brandon’s cum bubbling out of me. “I’m fine. It’s fine.” I yawn, stretching in just such a way so that he can enjoy how erect my nipples still are. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I think I’m gonna get a bit more while I can. While I’m feeling so relaxed, now that you’ve worked your magic on me.” I wink at him, padding toward the bedroom again.
“Whatever you’d like, you can do,” he answers, pulling of his underwear and pants. “I’m gonna go chop some wood, I think.” He puts back on his shirt, letting me enjoy another look at his stomach. His chest. “I didn’t get to finish chopping or carrying anything in last night.”
I nod, heading toward the bedroom.
He doesn’t say anything as I walk inside and close the door behind me.
While I’m pretty sure his desire to “chop wood” is probably just a ruse to keep himself away from jumping me again, my tiredness is real. It’s hit me like a ton of bricks, and before I can even make it all the way onto my bed, I’m asleep.
No night terrors, though. Just a sweet endless dream of Brandon and me on the breakfast table fucking. And then me following him outside, where he chops wood in the nude.