They say RPS may be the sketchiest sort of fanfiction you can write. That’s especially true if it’s about people you know in real life.
Piece hastily scrawled on March 3, 2012. Names have since been changed. Sexually explicit.
(This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.)
RPS or Something Like It
I am pretty sure this is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever written.
She didn’t stumble over her words, she didn’t apologize, and she didn’t look furtively away from your gaze, her eyes drawn to her feet.
Her dress clung to her curvy frame – enough fabric to mask the spots she usually covered up with loose sweaters, baggy sweatshirts and over-sized fleece zip-ups, but tight enough to tease the imagination. She was curvy, but then again, so was Marilyn Monroe. With a careful (optical) examination, you could probably tell she was helping nature along with a push-up bra, too, but that skin. Pale, soft. Her legs ended encased in strappy heels, and her hair caught the light, briefly, subtly glinting gold. Parted sideways, covering one eye when she turned to look at you. Long, straight, with a bounce to it – curled slightly at the bottom. Her dress was black – a safe choice, but classic. It swished when she danced.
She smiled, and it dimpled her rounded cheeks. Her nose was broad, her skin ruddy, showing something like rosacea without foundation. But only when she was nervous. If she was embarrassed, or drunk, or stressed, or eating tomatoes, her cheeks broke out in hives, which spread contagiously down her neck, across her white chest. Tonight it didn’t, however.
Up close, wrinkles showed. Laugh lines, stress lines. Pockmarks. She had put some kind of shimmery powder over it, however, and the lighting…the lighting…
And her stance was different. She didn’t slouch. Shoulders back, chin up. She smirked, rather than smiled. And even a wide smile, throaty chuckle (perhaps even that hiccupy laugh she had when something was really, truly funny), Julia Roberts mouth. A wide mouth. A talkative mouth, that couldn’t keep up when rapid-fire thoughts intruded. Even those were endearing. If she held her head high like that.
When she was anxious, she compulsively ran her fingers over her head – up and back, up and back. Smoothing down fine hair, playing with her earlobe. Fingers running through the strands, if it was soft and conditioned. You didn’t know it was a new habit, to replace the fingernails she bit down to the quick. You couldn’t hear her heart race when she was anxious, but you could see it in her grimace, in her dodging eyes, the way she crossed her arms to hold herself together. She would cross and uncross her legs. She would shift her weight. Slouched down, inwards, protected.
You didn’t notice these things consciously, but you could tell a headcase when you saw one. When she spoke confidently, her voice deepened – a purposeful trick. Someday it could come naturally to her, but when she was in a state – drunk, panicking, or just annoyed – her octave went higher, her voice went a bit louder (didn’t shy people whisper?), and the pace of her speech quickened, words spilling out like a shaken-up soda can, pejorative words, self put-downs like “stupid,” “idiot,” and those two were so common, you could swear all the adjectives she gave herself were so limited. She was also fond of the phrase, “I don’t know.” Sometimes she over-shared deeply personal insecurities. Often her tone was negative in some way. If you cared, it would make you sad.
This woman in the short black dress had to be a different woman. She had a shit-eating grin on, like she knew some kind of secret you didn’t. She licked her lips, and nibbled on the lower one, and this time it wasn’t with a downward cast gaze, a sort of “What the fuck do I do now?” squint. No, this was deliberate. And even when the little licks weren’t planned, when her lips were chapped, maybe, and the tip of her tongue flicked out – a tiny movement, imperceptible – to moisten them, well, it was eye-catching. Her gaze didn’t falter if it met yours. It dared you.
She was approaching.
“Jon,” she said. “How are you?”
And then she held out an arm – the other had a drink in it. Was this for a hug? She hugged now? It was as impersonal as always, but she initiated it. Did Helen have a twin or something? Who was this chick?
“Hey, Helen, how’s it going?”
“It’s going good. It’s going great, actually. Here, let me get you something to drink.”
This wasn’t even her house, but she disappeared into the kitchen and quickly emerged with a cup of something. Normally you’d protest, you’d name your favorite, your desired drink. You’d later wonder if she’d drugged you, but not tonight. That’s not what happens. Not exactly.
She hands you a wine glass. It is plastic.
Some things don’t change.
“And what’s this, may I ask?”
“Taste it,” she says, smirking.
You do, and it’s like heaven in a cup. You can’t just sip; you gulp a little more.
“What is that?”
She just smirks, and cocks her head.
“Just a recipe of mine.”
“What’s in it?”
“Oh, you know…I want you to guess. Why don’t you tell me what you think when you finish it?”
“Vodka,” you say.
She purses her lips. The game is up. Maybe.
“Guess the rest and get back to me.”
She blows a kiss and walks away. What the fuck is going on and where is Helen?
You don’t really give it much more thought, however, because there are other people to see, to catch up with, to dance with, to play games with. You adjust your hat and get to it. You actually find other people pretty fascinating, most of the time. You’ve traveled some, and wish you could travel even more. The stories people tell can be pretty diverse, can inspire new thoughts, can lead to some fun conversations. (Especially if you’re smoking up. But no, really. Sober, too.)
You know every one of Helen’s stories ends in tears. It gets boring.
She laughs and jokes and dances, not drawn to lean on the walls, in doorframes, nodding at something people are saying in a closed-off circle, nudging her way inside it. A small circle has formed around her, and could she really be leading the conversation? They don’t look particularly bored. You forget about it for another hour.
Looking for the bathroom, you encounter her sitting on someone’s bed – the only person in the room – smoking a small joint all by herself. She at least had the courtesy to crack a window. You can’t resist the whiff of it and enter.
“Helen Richards, you rebel.”
The picture of nonchalance, she shows no sign of guilt. She holds out her hands to offer it to you.
You gently close the door behind you, walk over and take it, thanking her, and sit down on the bed. It squeaks.
It is a twin, shoved up against a wall, the window behind. Her legs are crossed, ladylike. She sits straight, like she’s at a fancy dinner. Like she’s Angelina Jolie. Even Marilyn would slouch more.
You toke and comment, “This is the first time we’ve smoked together, isn’t it?”
She takes a hit and then exhales slowly, like a dragon.
“Yup,” is all she says, looking straight ahead instead of at you.
Some part of you wants to take her chin and turn that profile towards you. Chubby cheeks and all. Hair falls down and obscures her face. You take the joint and another hit. It’s almost gone.
“You wanna kill it, you can,” she says.
Your hand strays to her back. It can’t not. You mean to pat it lightly and withdraw, but it remains there, palm against the heat of her. If you were paying attention, you could feel her breathe.
She flinches slightly.
And turns her head.
Eyes locked, you take a long toke. Stuttering, sentences faltering, she has insisted her past is a lot more interesting than you give her credit for, and she annoyingly brings it up at the strangest times, now. Tonight she hasn’t, but perhaps that’s what this show is? Has she rehearsed this? Reached back into memory to draw out this persona that’s nagging at your brain like it’s not your film-school sister’s green eyes blinking at you.
Or are they brown?
It is very dark in this room.
One table lamp is on, sitting on the desk opposite.
You rub her back.
“Tell me a story.”
She blinks a few times. She’s surprised.
“Ah, I mean, uh…”
“I’m not sure what to share.”
She leaves it at that, looking back at you soberly. Her eyes are lidded, though. She sways sitting up. She was high before you even walked in.
You take another toke, finish off the joint. Getting up to toss the smoldering butt out, your hand leaves her back. It feels like it was resting there longer than it was.
You turn, hands in your pockets. This would be the moment both her hands reached up to tuck her hair behind her ears. She would grip the mattress with curled fingers, cross her feet at her ankles, and look away.
She leaned down, unbuckled the strappy heels, and schooched back on the bed to lean against the wall.
Unladylike. Whose room was this?
She sat back, feet crossed at the ankle, but she kept looking at you. She patted the spot beside her.
You joined her, feet slung off the side of the bed to keep the dirt off. Shoulder to shoulder, it was a small piece of furniture. There were chairs, tables, a couch, and lots of friends just outside the door. There were drinking games and surely, there were more drugs somewhere, in someone’s pocket. There was a balcony and the nights were warmer, now. But you sat here with Helen instead.
“How about you tell me a story?” she said, and so you did. And she listened.
You told her a sex story, which you never had before, and not one to kiss and tell, you didn’t tell ladies. Not that Helen was one, or that you even believed in conventional gender roles (yes you did). She was a bro, if an unconventional bro. Sister. Unthinkable. Didn’t even cross the mind.
She squirmed a little as you told it.
“And what happened then?”
“Well, the ship docked, she, ah, disembarked, and I never saw her again.”
“I meant once you got to your destination.”
“Punta Cana. It’s in the Dominican…”
“I know. I’ve been there.”
“Oh really? Where haven’t you been?”
Her travels were something she sometimes mentioned, but with an almost defensive tone. As if nobody would ever believe her.
“A lot of places. Anyway, I want the…juicy details.”
“You what? I don’t just kiss and tell…”
She chuckled. “I do.”
You tsked. “That’s not very respectful.”
“I’m respectful, now?”
“There you go. I’ve been waiting for that all night.”
Her face squinched up for the first time that evening. Self-conscious.
“The self-deprecating remarks you’re so fond of.”
“Ah. Right. Well, tell me what it felt like.”
“Fucking that girl.”
If you had a drink, you’d have spit it out.
“How do you think it felt?”
“Hmm. It wouldn’t have been tender, from the sounds of it. You were rough, raw, anxious to undress as you left the bar…”
“You fumbled with the doorlock, still kissing…”
“Sounds pretty cliche…”
“But you didn’t even wait, did you? You threw her on the bed…”
“She threw herself, but…”
“…You unbuckled your belt and only pulled your pants down just. enough…She did the same, didn’t she?”
You didn’t bother correcting her that your friend had to pee, you had to wait for her, your erection went down, she came back out, you told her you didn’t know where the condoms went, and you had to run down the hall to find some, only to get back to discover out she was on the Pill anyway…etc etc etc…
Helen’s version was sounding a lot better so far.
“And you bent her over.”
That part was true.
“Slipped your cock right in…”
“Well if you don’t, you’re doing it wrong,” you chuckled. Was it warm in here? The window was still open, though.
“But your thrusts were hard. Rough. You gripped her hips so tight her skin turned white under your fingers…She took it, though, crying out. She got louder, it was late, you had to shush her…”
“That’s not sexy…”
But it was probably true.
“But it wasn’t just her tight, hot, wet pussy that got to you, made you come so fast – and she understood when you did, no shame there – because it had been a slow boil. Weeks of uncertainty. Like you said – flirtatious, doubting. The tension built. You didn’t know if she wanted you; she didn’t know you did, either. Electrically charged and ready to shoot off sparks. It was like coming into orbit.”
A little too romantic for the truth. A one-night stand with a coworker? But Helen spoke low, deliberately. She slowed down the pace of her speech. She utilized pauses, and this narration got you semi-hard.
You put a hand on her bare thigh, and wondered why you hadn’t much earlier.
“Tell me a story. About you.”
You rubbed her skin with your thumb – small, slow circles.
She reached over and took your hat and plunked it on her own head. You felt naked. Curly hair mussed.
She squirmed at the touch. That wall of confidence had a chink in it.
“What kind of story?”
You lowered your voice to a whisper, but kept that teasing tone of yours in it.
“What kind do you think?”
She was breathing a little heavier, now. You rubbed her thigh a little more purposefully.
It wasn’t any less strange, touching Helen like this, but you wanted to push her. See what it took to make her jump up and quit flirting like this. Make her gracefully, or not-so-gracefully, exit. Call attention to the joke.
She let out a little moan instead. You turned to look at her and she blushed, embarrassed. Your hat tilted over her eyes.
“Well, let me think…”
“Your first time.”
“Planned, actually. Hurt like a bitch. We waited until my roommate was gone for the weekend…” She dropped the flirtatious tone. You stopped rubbing.
“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done in bed?”
She chuckled. “That’s easy. Fingered a guy.”
“What? Just that?”
“He had never done it before. Neither did the other…”
“You fingered two guys?”
“A couple years apart!” she said, defensively. She grinned, though.
“Okay, what’s the craziest thing anyone’s ever done to you?”
She didn’t even hesitate.
“Tied me to a bed. With bicycle straps.”
Your mouth formed a perfect “O,” but she didn’t see it.
She laughed again, instead. It must have been nerves.
“Then he tried penetrating me with a fuckin’ bullet vibe. That kid…”
She shook her head.
“That doesn’t go there.”
You let out a laugh. You removed your hand from her leg and took your hat back. She looked up.
“Hiding your hair again?”
Receding hairline. Jewish genes. Cheap haircut. All-around bad.
She would run her hands through Jacob’s curls, sometimes. Touch his face, and his beard. She was probably the type. (Then again, what girl wasn’t?) It would feel good…
You let her remove the hat and caress the spot right behind your ear.
“Craziest place you ever did it.”
“Hmm. Cars don’t count, do they?”
“Probably a tie between the Camp Wakeda showers, and the…it was either the girls’ bathroom up in John Quincy Adams tower in Southwest, at UMass. An RA brushing her teeth caught us.”
“No!” you replied, sarcastically.
“The crazy thing was that a year and a half later, the new boy I was dating had heard about it from her. They worked together in that building two years earlier.”
“That’s not so crazy. Not easy to forget walking in on two people you didn’t expect to be fucking…”
“Second, third and fourth craziest are just other bathrooms at UMass…”
“You ever heard of a bed, Helen?”
“Yeah but the second craziest went down like this: I almost blew a guy in a Webster toilet stall…”
“And then two years later, I’m sitting outside having a nice chat with some new friends, when they tell me someone told them about that same incident. ‘You’re Helen Richards?’ they say. ‘Didn’t you blow that guy in a Webster bathroom?’”
You just shake your head.
“You lent mine such detail. I’m disappointed.”
“Well, what about getting tied to that bed?”
“Just an ordinary bed.”
“Yeah but how did it feel?”
Your hand was on her leg again. Hers was still on the back of your neck.
“Not as good as the times I’ve been bitten…or scratched…or held down by the wrists, by a man’s bare hands…”
You let out a noise. A gulp.
“More than anything else.”
Oh god oh god oh god. This was so very wrong, this feeling. This was Helen. Geeky Helen. Fragile Helen.
You kissed her.
She accepted it, she relished it, she tried to shove her tongue down your throat. What could you do but open up? You slid your hand up her skirt, to her panties. Some things don’t change: they were cotton. But they were wet.
You rubbed and her pulse sped up. You pushed her down, down, down into the bed. Did it matter whose it was? Were they arriving any second? Would this have happened had she told you this in a different way, in a conversational way, standing up by a bookcase sipping cranberry juice, unsteady on her feet, looking nervous, looking away, sounding angry and crazy? No. No you wouldn’t have. You would have raised your eyebrows and been surprised – pleasantly, surprised, maybe – but you would not be grinding against the girl on someone else’s bed, gripping her wrists hard, like a villain.
You removed your lips and replaced them on her neck. One thing you couldn’t bring yourself to do was bite down.
She moaned, a little too loud to not draw attention. So you shushed her.
She stilled her movements, squirming beneath you. You started to speak and you rushed in there and quelled it with your lips. More tenderly this time, closed-mouth.
“Shh, shh, they’re gonna hear us.”
Instead of babbling on like she might, were she another Helen. Instead of expressing doubt – hadn’t she seduced him? – she quieted and looked up at him, hungrily. And it wasn’t strange, and it wasn’t off-putting. It made you hungry, too.
You made yourself more comfortable, then pushed yourself up, so you wouldn’t crush her. Up on your elbows, and you leaned down and took some flesh between your teeth – just a little. You went back to old standbys – hickeys, and this sufficed. She squirmed and moaned, she pulled her skirt up and pressed her panties against you – fully clothed, shoes kicked off – legs spread, knees bent. She gripped your back as you nibbled.
“I don’t want to bruise you…”
I don’t want them to know…
“Just one. Just once. Please…trust me…”
You bit down harder, on a spot by her collarbone. This would show, but it elicited an ecstatic reaction.
She was something else, alright.
You did it once more.
Again, she moaned.
The door opened.
The door shut.
She silenced, her face red. Embarrassment or arousal? You couldn’t tell. You were so turned on you couldn’t see straight. Not to mention your contacts were bothering you. But you’d had sex in them before. Couldn’t have sex with glasses…
Later she would tell you how sexy glasses were. Maybe that’s part of why she and Jacob…
What did she have with Jacob?
You pulled away, and she tried to pull you back down. You kissed her, kissed the side of her face, kissed her forehead.
“Babe, they know we’re in here. We’re in their bed.”
We’re committing class incest.
You and she listened to the voice just outside.
“Yeah, Jon’s got a girl in there! I don’t know who. I know, right? Yeah, but he could use a break. Yeah I know he doesn’t live far, but…I know, I know, but give them a minute.”
You sat up. She did too.
You looked at her and she didn’t look embarrassed at all. Did she not know what was going to happen when they walked out that door?
But tonight she was a different Helen. And she did know. And she probably didn’t care.
“Do you, uh, do you…”
“Need a drink? Yeah.”
“Okay, I’m gonna…leave first. And, uh…You, uh…”
“…Come out after.”
“They’re gonna know.”
“I’ll distract them.”
You opened the door a crack and saw the crowd waiting. You shut the door again, took a deep breath, then opened it to find only Michael and Lana peering back.
The two of them glanced inside the room and Helen gave a little wave. Then she started to put her shoes back on.
“Oh, honey,” Lana sighed.
You gave Michael a warning look.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said, reading your mind.
Who else is out there?
“Look you guys,” Lana said, “it’s none of my business, but understand this is…”
Michael would have made a crass joke had it been any other girl, you knew that, but this was Helen, and Michael was protective of her, even though he didn’t know her very well.
Highly unorthodox, was the expression they were all looking for. But the old Helen could be tenderhearted about love, even if in this case it was just lust. They smirked at her playfully, but held their tongues.
“I’ll distract them,” Michael said, stepping aside. You exited the room, apologizing for almost doing the unthinkable in someone else’s bed. As if you hadn’t before. As if she hadn’t (not that you knew that for sure).
You started to slip out but paused, looking back at Helen questioningly.
“Do you, uh…”
You shook your head. No, that was…foolish.
She stepped forward, the confidence back, and kissed you. Your eyes slid shut, unresisting.
“Come back to my place,” you said. And she nodded.
You took her hand and led her out the door. Looking this way and that, you said to the pair standing guard, “We’re, uh, we’re gonna go.”
“Okay. Hey,” Lana said, “you two be safe, ya hear me? You take care of that girl.”
“Oh, he’ll take care of her, alright,” Michael commented.
Helen blushed. Michael winked at her. They grinned slightly.
Michael took you aside while Lana helped Helen find her coat.
“Seriously. You hurt her and…”
“I know, I know.”
“But do you?”
You paused. You weren’t sure about that.
“If you’re so worried, I’ll take her straight home, then.”
“No, no, look. If this feels right, if what went on in there between you was what you both want, then fine by me. You’re adults. But Helen is…”
“She’s different, tonight.”
“No, look, I’m high too. I’m a little drunk, actually…”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t tell me this shit. Don’t tell me this shit and expect me not to worry.”
“It’s gonna be fine, look…”
You gestured at her. She brushed her hair back behind her ear, but she was smiling. She crept around the corner, however, because people were returning from the kitchen.
“Have a good night,” you said, and you put a hand on her back and led her out the door.
“You sure you can drive?” she asked. Old Helen and new Helen. Cautious Helen. You knew at least one trick to get her to open up again. Teeth.
“Yeah, look, we’re just around the corner.”
If this were any other story, you’d end up with a DUI by the end of this, but it was real life, and you didn’t.
You slipped out of the car. Old Helen, same Jon. Awkward. Not quite like the girl on the cruise ship. Not the same situation at all.
You fumbled with the lock, however.
She placed a palm on your back and rubbed lightly. You turned around and pulled her close. Kissed her.
There was that tongue of hers again. And then…her teeth?
She nibbled on your lower lip, then sucked it between her own. A weird sensation. A strangely good sensation.
You pulled away to open the door.
Heading inside, you led her up to the bedroom. Your walk was deliberate. Slow. Anticipatory.
When she entered, she stood, still wearing her coat and bag. You took your jacket off. Your hat off. You sat down on the bed and slipped off your shoes.
“Shit, where are my manners. Do you want a drink?”
“You have any juice?”
She had been sipping juice all night.
“I’ve got some iced tea.”
“Perfect,” she said, and slipped out of her coat.
She followed you into the kitchen.
“Where are your roommates?”
You told her, she made polite conversation. She asked you about them, about the place. She sipped her drink and you mixed yourself a stronger one.
“You know too much of that might be a problem.”
She arched an eyebrow. New Helen was back.
You slipped an arm around her, slid your palm down over her backside, caressing lightly. She flinched.
You didn’t take it as a sign to stop, however.
“Mmm, I don’t think so.”
You moved your body in close and pushed her gently towards the kitchen counter. When she met it you slid your hand up her side, and sipped your drink. Rum and Coke. Classic.
She put hers on the counter and wrapped her arms around your neck.
You pressed against her and there it was, she had to have felt it.
She did. You were hard again. At this point, it wasn’t very difficult to get that way.
Old Helen would have babbled nervously, never paused speaking on the ride over, or at the door, or back in the bedroom, or here in the kitchen. Your hard on would have gone soft. You would have kissed her tenderly goodbye and driven her home. But she was graceful and stoic, and she hid her anxiety beneath her arousal beneath her seduction.
But you wanted to do the seducing.
She looked away and down, but that’s because she was trying to remember. I’m not that adventurous. I’d have to say reverse cowgirl.”
You sipped your drink, and chucked her under the chin playfully. Old Helen would assume you were being condescending.
“Kid, that’s crazy enough for me.”
And you kissed her. A wet, rummy kiss. This one heated up, and you wanted so badly to sit her on the counter and try fucking her here, but you weren’t tall enough. You cursed your height, as you often did. You weren’t sure you could go through with this, not because it was Helen, but because you were rusty.
“What do you want to do?”
Old/new Helen responded, soberly, “I need to keep it simple. Let’s do this in bed.”
“I wanna do it right here,” you said, going for the neck. You bit into her, eliciting a gasp.
“Please…I want to lay down…”
“Mmm, you ever done it standing up?”
“If you count bent over.”
Oh god, you couldn’t help but picture it.
“Mmm, like in your story?”
“Like in your story.”
She met your gaze and licked her lips.
The two of you returned to the bedroom, and here you had a full instead of a twin, and you undressed her yourself, kissing her shoulders as the straps came away. Unzipping the back. She had that black, push-up bra on, but with a conservative pair of black cotton panties. She removed your jacket, unbuttoned your shirt, and caressed your side, your chest. You kissed for each item discarded, then took her to the bed and laid her down as before, like at the party. Stripped down to nothing but underwear and boxers (and socks).
You kissed down her chest, her stomach, and then went to remove her panties when she stopped you.
“I like when my thighs are kissed first.”
You rubbed her thighs, and leaned down to peck them.
You pulled back the waistband, and got another surprise. New/old Helen had a trimmed bush, but that’s just it: she had an entire bush. You pulled down her panties, shimmied them down and off of her feet – combination effort on that one – and said softly, “Part your legs for me.”
“Yesss,” you murmured, as she did so, and you felt the rim of her opening with your fingertip, felt the dampness. Any more would flood the place, you chuckled. But you knew what you had to do.
You leaned down and with your fingers, parted her folds and there it was: her hard little clit underneath
You used your lips, first, to kiss it before you flicked it with your tongue. You sucked on it. Maybe you remembered how to do this after all.
Suckle, lick. You held her folds open, her hair aside, best you could with one hand, while you held her thighs open with the other. Just a light touch on her inner thigh, holding her down, but she bucked her hips involuntarily, so you gripped her harder. You put the hand on her lower abdomen, with a firm steady hand you pushed her hips down, telling her silently to stop moving so much, but you were glad she did. It meant your job would be much easier. Nobody liked doing this, not really, but the part that got you hard were the noises she was making.
Come on, you thought. You had to go back up for air. You slid one finger inside her and curled it up. She moaned harder.
Come on. You dove back in and with one hand fingering her gently, your mouth picked up the pace. Her hair was sticking into your chin, your saliva and her damp were soaking you, but even that was kinda hot.
She gasped and squirmed and was she holding back? No! She had to let go sooner or later. Preferably sooner. You fingered her harder, which elicited pained gasps from her. You wanted to stop licking, but you knew she was close. She had to be.
And so she was. She let out such a relieved sounding sigh, and shuddered against you. You sat up. Her vagina tightened up like a vice around your fingers. You slid them out.
You looked up. Oh yes, she was sated. The tiger was tamed. It was a shame you couldn’t watch her face as she came, but you could in the future. Maybe a few minutes from now. Her post-coital expression was priceless, however. You made Helen Richards come. How about that?
It was time to make your move.
“So,” she said, sighing.
You kissed her neck, and you kissed her chest. You moved up so you were above her, looking down at her. Her legs were still parted. She licked her lips, then leaned up to kiss yours. You sat back and pulled your boxers down.
“I’ve got condoms in the drawer here.”
She nodded, and the bliss faded. She looked nervous.
“Do you have any…” she started to ask.
You barked a laugh.
“Babe, you’re so wet! You don’t need any.”
“Just in case,” she insisted.
Hmm. You nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got some. And these are lubricated.”
You held one of the condoms up.
You tugged on your penis idly. Circumcised.
You took one of her hands and guided it onto you. You jerked along with her.
“Would you want to…?”
“Suck on you a bit?”
You smirked. “Yeah. You read my mind.”
She started to sit up and he thought of the bicycle straps…
“Would it be…would it be weird if…”
No sentences started that way and ended well. But she grinned up at you and propped herself up on her elbows slightly. She opened her mouth.
Everything this girl did raised an eyebrow. You schooched closer and gripping your dick, slid the tip into her mouth.
Just the tip was fine. More than fine.
You let out a moan.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Would you call me…um…”
Even now, with your dick on her lips, she blushed, embarrassed.
“Would you call me a ‘good girl?’ You know, uh…”
“…like you’re my, um, teacher.”
You nodded at her, and she smirked, sucking on you some more. She reached up and took you in her hands, cupped your scrotum with one and gripped your shaft with the other.
“That’s a good girl, Helen. You’re such a good girl…”
Oh, man, this was intense after so much waiting.
Waiting for how long?
All night. Of course. Through the party.
She intensified her efforts, she gained a new energy when you murmured down at her, your hands in her hair, one on the back of her head. You pushed her forward, however, and she stopped. So she had a line. Good. You let her just suck on part of your cock, then, and that was fine. More than fine.
“Good girl, Helen. That’s good.”
But if she kept going…you wouldn’t be able to…
Did you even want to fuck her? Would it be right?
It was all good fun if they had sucked each other off, wasn’t it? What had Michael said about hurting her…And that look on her face when you pulled out the condoms…
“Babe, baby, Helen, baby, my girl…”
Now you weren’t even making any sense. She was working your shaft like a pro, it seemed. You could blow any second.
She probably wanted it that way.
You stopped her. You tapped her face and she looked up, saw you gesture, “Cut.”
She bit her lip, nervous again, as you lay down beside her and rested a hand on her abdomen.
“Helen, I want to fuck you.”
Instead of saying the same thing, she merely nodded.
“Please, tell me you want to fuck me too.”
She hesitated. You slid a hand down to her inner thigh and rubbed softly there.
“Do you want to stop?”
“No,” she said, almost immediately.
“You want to keep going?”
She nodded. And then she pushed you down, straddled you, covered you with her body and pushed herself against your cock, rubbing her hot dampness against your skin. She sat up and smoothed her palms over your chest, before reaching over and taking one of the condoms. She opened it and put it on you, then positioned herself over you.
She slid down onto you, slowly, and she winced as she did so. You almost didn’t notice.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, shhhh.” She leaned down to kiss you. You held her sides, then as she slid further down onto you, all the way onto you, you wrapped your arms around her and thrust upwards, rubbing her hot skin. She laid down on you, rather than sitting up, and breathed deeply – in and out. You didn’t thrust hard. Apparently she couldn’t, or she couldn’t anymore, or she didn’t want it that way, or she was too tight.
Tight. Oh god, she was tight. She was right. After she came she must have…somehow…dried a bit? Did that make any sense? Lube would help.
But she didn’t stop rocking her hips. She sat up a bit, looked down at you, smoothed down your hair. You were sweating. You bit your own lip, you watched her face. It had changed. This is what it must have looked like when you were eating her out.
“You’re a good, good girl, Helen.”
“No, not that, just say my name.”
She tightened herself, this time on purpose. It had to be.
“Ohhh,” you let out.
You grunted. She quickened her pace.
“Oh, god, Jon…”
“Yeah? You like my cock?”
“You like my hard cock inside you?”
“You like me fucking you?”
Oh god, you wanted to roll her over, get on top of her, get her under you…
You were skinnier than she was, though.
You did it, flipped her over. She rolled, grunting, onto her back, the weight of your body and the suddenness of it pushing her down, her legs awkward around you. But she got into it. She wrapped her legs around yours. She stopped thrusting and let you take control. She had to be wet enough. It was easy, now, but she was grunting, gasping. You were almost there anyway. You were just at the cusp, but the feel of her pussy…Could you let it go? Could you stop this? Knowing this would never happen again?
Of course. And you came. She watched you as your face changed, as you gasped, shuddering.
“Ohh.” You let out a sigh. Shook your head.
Breathing heavy, she grinned.
Like a cat that ate the canary.
“That was…” You pulled out of her. “…wow.”
You sat back to remove the condom, and she propped herself up on her elbows and wouldn’t stop smirking at you. Her skin was red, her chest broken out in hives. Her hair was tangled, a fresh bruise on her neck – two, in fact.
“Did you…?” you couldn’t resist starting to ask, before you noticed that look. But it wasn’t unhappy. She looked amused.
“You were great.”
Small comfort, in that tone, but then again, she had come in your mouth earlier.
Now the strange part.
“Do you, uh…”
She looked expectantly at you.
Wrong questions: Do you want a ride? Do you want my notes for the Film Business final? Do you have $20 I can borrow? Do you have anymore weed?
“Do you want something to eat?”
Okay, better that than, “Make me something to eat.”
“I’d love some.”
Uncertain, you got up and started gathering your clothes.
“Do you, uh…”
Don’t ask her what you actually want to ask her. Think of Michael. More importantly, think of Lana.
“Do you want to stay here tonight? With me?”
She let out an imperceptible sigh of relief.
“I’d love to.”
What had you gotten yourself into?
She got up and started putting the dress back on.
“Oh, no, here, borrow this…”
You grabbed a pair of shorts and a t-shirt out of your closet and handed them to her. You also picked up her panties off the floor. She grabbed for them and you pulled it from her reach. You tossed them to her and she laughed.
You turned your back to let her get dressed, which was absurd, as she was already buck naked, and you had just been inside her a minute ago. You turned back around to see her in your own clothes, which were slightly too small for her, actually.
Not willing to let the awkwardness a chance to embed itself… “I’ve got tea, coffee, juice. I have cereal, bagels. I also have pasta…”
“Cereal would be fine.”
“I’ve also got rum, gin and tequila.”
You furrowed your brow as the two of you walked into the kitchen.
“You never told me why you don’t drink liquor.”
“My medication,” was all she said, and old Helen would have rambled on about it. Someday she would. Like she promised months before, not that you’d remember.
Oh. Now you knew what Michael was getting at.
She didn’t meet your gaze, but you reached out and patted her back. She leaned into the touch. Not long ago, she dodged away from it. The only person in your class you ever saw her touching was Jacob. And she did that a lot.
“Would you like a beer, then? I don’t have any wine.”
“You can have tea, ya know. I won’t judge.”
She looked away at this, however.
But you made her cereal, and you talked about things that weren’t her future, and weren’t her medication, and weren’t your relationship.
“Craziest thing you ever did,” she asked.
And so you told her. You told her a couple more sex stories until your eyes started to droop. Another long day, another late party. You led her back to bed and kissed her tenderly.
So strange. All of this was strange. All of this that started with a single, lit-up joint. Drugs were bad. They were clearly more powerful than they seemed to be.
She didn’t spoon, though. And that was fine, because you don’t either. You lay beside each other, her flat, you curled up, and switched in the night to the reverse. You woke up at one point to her kicking you, and then struggled to sleep through her snoring. You got up, went to the bathroom, came back and she had stopped. You took advantage of the silence to try and fall asleep again. Sharing a bed with an unfamiliar person was still awkward, even at 26. Long-term, you got to know a person’s quirks. The sound of their breath. If their feet got hot, or ice-cold. If they cuddled or kept a space apart. If they woke up a lot and bugged you with dreams.
You woke up the next day half-expecting her to be gone, but there she was, and she was still asleep.
You got up, let her sleep. Came back and she still hadn’t moved. Maybe she needed more persuading.
You ran a hand up her leg, under her shorts. Your fingertips crazed her clit – outside her panties – and you started to gently rub it. She stirred. Instead of knocking you away (or knocking you out), she sighed happily. Her eyes opened and locked with yours. She looked surprised you were still interested.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Mmm. What are you doing?”
“Waking you up,” you said, smirking.
“Hard to tell. It just makes you lie back and shut your eyes.”
You stopped rubbing. She glowered.
“Fine. How about something more traditional?”
And she pulled you down into bed.
“Quickie for the road?”
This girl. This girl…!
This is all going to end so badly, you thought.
Probably worth it.