Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1)

by Jean Evergreen

  I’m especially private about my space since moving to my current residence: with holes in the doors, rust on the appliances and more stains on the floor than I could hope to remove after several attempts at carpet cleaning, I prefer not to have visitors. I know that Blake doesn’t care about such trivial things as where I lay my head at night. He’s lived in far worse conditions. In college, his apartment was on the seedy side of town, above a known meth lab. A few stains aren’t going to offend him. Still, I want him to think of me as a tough, strong, independent woman. Not a pathetic, failure who’s almost 30 and can’t seem to get her life together. If I ever believed he thought of me in that way, I truly would feel like a failure.

  Realizing Blake could be here at any moment, I pull back the comforter on the bed and ready myself with a come-hither expression. If Blake wants naked, he’ll get naked. I only hope he turns up soon. It feels like the air conditioner is on full blast, and I’m getting cold.

  Twenty minutes pass and still no Blake. After five minutes of practicing my most enticing poses on the bed, ten minutes of experimenting with different hairdos before deciding to leave it down and five more minutes of surveying my body in the mirror to make sure everything is tight and trim, I finally give up. Where is Blake?

  With mounting irritation, I locate my phone and call his number. It rings three times before he answers.

  “Are you here yet?” I ask lightly, attempting to hide any sign of my impatience.

  “I’m close. I’m stuck in traffic,” Blake replies.

  “I thought you said you were only five minutes away.”

  “I had to make a stop. Hold tight. I’ll be there soon. Are you naked?”

  “Yes,” I giggle.

  “Good, stay that way. I’ve got to go babe. I’ll be there in a few.”

  Great, here I am, standing around naked like a fool and feeling anything but sexy. Grabbing the remote, I plop myself on the bed, flipping through channels, not caring if I find something to watch. So much for my naughty minx persona. I suppose Blake will have to be content with a lethargic, disinterested Bridget. The cold air blasting through the room has me wanting to cuddle up under the comforter and doze off. I feel my eyelids grow heavy as the controller falls out of my hand before I finally surrender to sleep.

  “Hey there sleepy head,” Blake murmurs, with a pleasant smile on his face. I look up through the haze of sleep and see him sitting next to me on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs.

  “Blake, you’re here,” I say meekly, still not fully awake. I pull myself to a sitting position, blinking rapidly to focus my vision. Blake looks handsome as always. He’s an avid weight lifter, so his body never ceases to be in phenomenal shape. I sometimes call him my Old Spice guy. With his well defined arms, and hard muscles rippling down his stomach, he has the rugged, virile build, reminiscent of the models in Old Spice commercials.

  Compared to Blake, my fitness regimen seems less than adequate. Once, he convinced me to exercise with him, and I told him “never again!” He was too intense for my liking — all of the sets and repetitions had me ready to pass out. I prefer a routine that doesn’t make me feel that I’ll need a week of bed rest to recover — like yoga. It always seems like he and I exist on two different sides of the spectrum. He’s a gun toting, meat eating, whiskey drinking, Christian, from the south. Whereas I’m a pacifist, vegetarian, who doesn’t drink alcohol or ascribe to any religion, from the north. It would seem that two people couldn’t be more different, but we’re compatible in all the ways that matter.

  “How long was I asleep?” I ask.

  “I’ve been here 30 minutes, so at least that long,” Blake replies, his tone amused.

  “I’m sorry, I tried to stay awake. I wanted to see you when you got here.”

  “That’s okay, babe. I’d rather have you well rested. You’re going to need all your strength for what I’m gonna do to you.”

  “Is that so?” I reply, suddenly fully alert. “Is that Private Johnson standing at attention?” I ask, noticing a stiff protrusion in the nether regions of his boxers. I reach out to grab his Private Johnson, a nickname I aptly assigned to his member after his surname Johnson, gently squeezing until I feel him hard and fully erect. In an instant I see his eyes go from adoring boyfriend to a wild and ravenous predator ready to devour its prey. “It seems a bit unfair that I’m here, completely exposed and vulnerable to your every libidinous whim, and you get to stay covered in these.” I run my fingers up his shaft to the top of his brief, where I pull the elastic waistband, letting it snap hard back into place. “I think we should level the playing field, don’t you?”

  “I’m going to level your playing field,” Blake says, climbing on top of me. I run my hands over his body, feeling the hard rigidity of his neck, shoulders, and chest. “And that’s General Johnson to you,” he whispers in my ear.

  “Are you going to make me tremble?” I ask with a wicked smile. When we were in a more innocent phase of our relationship, long before we became intimate, Blake bragged that when he got me into bed, he would fuck me so hard he’d make me tremble. It’s that sort of libertine talk that got me curious about how accurately he described his talents. In the two years we’ve had carnal knowledge of each other, I’ve learned one irrefutable truth regarding his sexual prowess — he can unquestionably make me tremble.

  “Baby, I’m about to take you to the rodeo,” Blake says. Covering my lips with his, he slides his hands up my arms and over my wrists, pinning me beneath him. His kisses come hard and wet, his tongue vigorously searching for mine. Moving his hands down to my hips, he gropes them firmly in each of his palms. I feel the strength of his hands when he uses his fingers to knead my hips and buttocks. It hurts, but in a good way.

  With his hands firmly enclosed around my hips, he abruptly yanks me to the bottom of the bed. I let out a high pitched yelp in surprise. “Blake!” I cry. He looks down at me with a mischievous grin, apparently very pleased with himself.

  His gaze is hungry and irreverent, as though hypnotized in a lascivious trance as he slowly takes in every inch of my body. He pushes hard on my inner thighs to spread my legs wider. I wince at the pain, but do nothing to deter him. His fingers find their way between my legs, lightly grazing my sex. I bite my lip, savoring the erotic pleasure coursing through me like electricity.

  “Tell me you want me to fuck you,” Blake orders.

  “Fuck me, Blake.”

  “Call me sex master.”

  “Fuck me sex master,” I reply obediently.

  “Tell me who your beast is,” Blake says, rubbing intensely between my legs, making my sex feel raw from the friction.

  “You’re my ferocious beast!” I exclaim.

  In a flash, Blake yanks off his briefs and kicks them across the room, plunging inside me with ruthless abandon. His thrusts come in rapid waves, brutally slamming into me and hastily retreating. With each break, he surges, lifting my body off the bed, then letting me fall as he pulls back, ready to go in for another. His breath grows shorter and more urgent before delivering his final thrust with a savage blow. He explodes into me with a barbaric roar, and I tremble. And still, I find myself wanting.

  A calm comes over him, and he collapses on top of me. With his member slack, he slips himself from between my legs. Rolling beside me, he peers at me with a satisfied grin. I throw a quick glance to the clock on the bedside table. That took all of three minutes. I can feel my disappointment. Why does Blake always leave me feeling so unfulfilled?

  “What are you thinking babe,” Blake asks, affectionately stroking my hair.

  I turn to him and smile sweetly. “I was just thinking that you weren’t kidding when you said you’d take me to the rodeo. I felt like you were the cowboy and I was the bronco you were trying to break.” At least I can be honest about that. Blake can certainly rattle a headboard like no other.

  “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready to take you on another ride. I’ll break you before the nigh
t is through,” he says, leaning into kiss me.

  I sit up on the comforter. “I feel like I need a shower.”

  Blake pulls me back down beside him as I start to head for the bathroom. “I don’t see any sense in you getting all clean when I’m just going to dirty you up again.”

  “I feel icky. Just give me a moment to wash off,” I say with a giggle.

  “I have a better idea. Go over to my duffel bag and look inside.” Blake’s eyes are bright with humor leading my curiosity to get the better of me.

  “Why, what do you have in that bag?” I ask, narrowing my eyes in suspicion.

  “Open it and find out,” he says, the smile never leaving his face.

  On the desk sits a brown leather duffel bag. Of course, it would have to be leather. Blake has a fondness for all things leather — he views leather as masculine. From his leather shoes to leather furniture, I’ve always suspected it’s a way to reaffirm his bachelorhood.

  “Is this bag the reason you took so long to get here?” I ask.

  Blake smiles, choosing to maintain an air of mystery.

  “I’d better not find any body parts in here,” I say jokingly, as I unzip the bag and cautiously part the sides to reveal its contents. I can feel my eyes widen and mouth go slack. It’s not body parts, but it is certainly a surprise.

  From the bag, I pull out a pair of handcuffs, a blindfold and a whip — all black and all leather. Beneath them is a bottle of coconut scented massage oil. “It looks like someone wants a light spanking,” I say, playfully slapping the tassels from the whip into my hand. Blake shoots me a dubious glance, causing me to break out in a fit of laughter. Blake prides himself on being a take charge, alpha male. He would never let me spank him. “Or have I been a naughty girl that needs to be punished?” I ask, tauntingly.

  “You know the answer to that,” Blake replies loftily. “Rub that massage oil all over your body,” he commands.

  I obey Blake. I have his attention after all. That’s exactly what I want. Opening the bottle cap to the massage oil, I turn it upside-down and squeeze the oil onto my breasts and stomach. I can smell the sweet, tropical scent of coconut filling the air around me. In a broad circular motion, I caress the oil over my breasts and stomach until it leaves a glistening luster over my skin. Just grazing the surface, I circle my finger around the perimeter of my areola, making sure not to make an impression. Then lightly I pinch my nipple, causing my breast to lift slightly. Just as abruptly, I release the pinch, and my breasts bounce playfully.

  Blake’s eyes fixate where ever I touch, thoroughly mesmerized by my every move. Having Blake as a captive audience is the most exhilarating feeling. The way he looks at me, his eyes filled with an insatiable hunger, gives me the most extraordinary high — even if it is only momentary.

  “That’s sexy babe,” Blake says, practically drunk with desire. “Rub harder.”

  I move my hand down and rub my stomach.

  “Get on down there, lower,” Blake says.

  Falling to my knees, I rub myself between my legs with one hand and tease my breast with the other. The thick layer of oil that coats my fingers allows my hands to glide over my body with ease. Blake watches me intently, gently massaging his increasingly bulging shaft. Throwing my head back, I arch my back and use one arm as a support behind me as I thrust my hips while rubbing the wet lips between my legs. My skin starts to tingle as heat rises through my body.

  “That’s enough,” Blake commands. I’m suddenly brought out of my erotic trance and find myself sitting on my knees, my hands in my lap. Blake walks towards me, barely able to contain the eager smile on his face. He looks like a kid in a candy store, ready to grab anything within his reach. I notice his General Johnson standing at full attention. It looks like we’re going on another ride.

  He picks up the whip from the desk behind me. The pounding of my heart spikes with the realization of what Blake intends to do. “Not too hard Blake,” I say, eyeing the whip in his hand with unease.

  “Get over there and get ready for your punishment, it’s coming hard,” Blake says with a playful smile that suggests he’s not serious. At least I hope he’s joking. “Go lay on the bed, then put this on.” Blake tosses the leather blindfold into my hands.

  I walk to the bed, obediently blindfolding myself before laying on my back, instinctively folding my arms in front of me, as though for protection. What is Blake planning; will it hurt? Well, hurt more than usual — Blake always likes to cause a little pain.

  I hear Blake’s heavy footsteps walking towards me. “Raise your arm above your head,” he orders. I do as he asks. I feel the cool, leather cuffs tightened around my wrists. He leans in, while still pinning my arms behind me, and I feel his warm breath on my face before his lips touch my mouth. “You taste like strawberries,” he says. His lips move down my neck, showering it with soft kisses.

  When his mouth reaches my breasts, I feel his lips linger. Taking his time, he sucks and bites at each nipple. My body hums with delight, coming alive under the rapacious thirst of his tongue. With shock waves of pleasure coursing through my body, I’m surprised when I feel his warm breath next to my ear, I hadn’t noticed him move. “I think you’ve been a very, very, naughty girl, and you need a hard, rough, spanking.” I feel myself flush all over in anticipation. He lifts me and effortlessly turns me over, so I am laying prostrate on the bed. With my wrists in handcuffs, I feel effortless to stop him. Knowing that he can take me any way he pleases makes me wet with desire.

  Blake slaps the cold tassels of the leather whip against my back, slowly making his way down to my buttock. The impact of the leather tassels slapping against my oil laden skin gives a sharp but pleasurable sting. After several light swats, Blake puts the whip aside, giving my bottom a hard smack with his hand, then kissing it lightly. He lifts me, so I’m in a kneeling position on my elbows with my hand still bound by the handcuffs. Then he pushes my face into the pillow and does something I don’t expect.

  Before I can protest, he shoves himself inside me from behind. We’ve never done this before. I’m shocked. “Blake!” I shout out, not knowing what to say. It seems to spur him on. He thrusts into me hard. I feel the tears fill my eyes at the pain. I’m so disoriented and confused. I can barely find the words. How could he actually think I’d enjoy this? Why would he try this without asking me first? “Blake, stop!” I yell out.

  5

  Unsettled

  It’s another day of tedium at work. I make a few trifling attempts to appear busy by keeping my email, and a couple of essential computer applications, open on my monitor. At least if a director or manager drops by, I can maintain the illusion that I’m working. The truth is, my thoughts are a tangled mess of confusion and indignation. Since the events of last night, my mind’s been running at 100 miles per minute. The only thought that I can form with any level of clarity is that last night couldn’t have possibly ended worse.

  Did I overreact? Blake sure thought so, and maybe part of me agrees. I can’t seem to shake my contempt towards him. It’s as though all of the disagreeable thoughts about Blake, that I’ve kept tightly bottled up for the past five years, are finally bursting free in a torrent of negative emotion.

  In the past, a smile and a laugh were all that was necessary to abate my looming discontent. If Blake were to ask me if everything were okay, I would say “Everything is fine, silly.” Why rock the boat? I knew that whatever unsettled me would soon pass and Blake would never have to know that, for a few negligible moments, my thoughts for him were less than kind. But I’m not sure whether I can ignore the tumult bubbling within me any longer. I’m unsettled; and I fear this time the feeling will not simply pass. The truth is, everything is not okay. It hasn’t been for a long time. I can’t help but think that Blake must, on some level, know this.

  Occasionally, a light bulb flashes in my brain, and the solution to all of my inner discord becomes crystal clear — I should tell Blake that I have doubts. Perhaps verbalizing m
y misgivings about our relationship would ease this trepidation that seems to gnaw at me incessantly. Then the light swiftly dims, and I can’t see how either of us would benefit from calling attention to each other’s numerous inadequacies. I’d like to believe Blake views me as pretty nearly perfect, at least physically. That’s the only way I’ve ever presented myself to him. And, though I’m fully aware that perfection is just another fiction contrived by distance, I want to hold onto the fairy tale. In reality, he doesn’t know me at all, not really. In the five years we’ve been friends, I’ve only let him see what I wanted him to see. Now that we’re knee deep in a serious relationship, and the facade begins to fade, reality stands before us in all it’s naked glory — and it’s not perfect, not even close.

  I shake my head, hoping to extinguish the bitter thoughts from my mind. I was supposed to have today off. Blake and I were going to have four days to romp around the hotel in various states of nakedness. That was the plan anyway. Now, I’m not so sure. I called a cab soon after Blake basically assaulted me from behind. I told him that I had a headache — I lied. I find myself doing that a lot lately. I don’t take pleasure in lying to him. I just couldn’t stomach the idea of staying with him last night.

  After I left the hotel, he blew up my phone: calling, texting, leaving about ten voice messages until I answered, assuring him everything was okay, that I really am not feeling well. I promised that we’d talk later. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth.

  And what is the truth? That something is missing between us. That I don’t trust him. That I feel like he only likes me when I’m naked. That he treats me like his sex toy — tossing me aside when he no longer has use for me. How can I tell him that?

  Maybe I’m overthinking everything. Overthinking is one of my more unfortunate habits. What woman wouldn’t love to have a guy like Blake? He’s handsome, successful, faithful and there’s no ambivalence about his intense attraction for me. If I were to list his qualities on paper, he’d seem like the total package. Maybe I have unrealistic expectations. What are the odds that I could find another man that loves me as much as he does? I need to calm down and focus on all the good things between us.