by Lisa Ferrari
“Should I pull out?”
“No, stay where you are. I like it. Listen, I have a confession to make.”
And then he stops talking.
I wait.
But Kellan still doesn’t say anything.
I wait longer.
He’s merely looking at me.
I decide to use the same tactic he uses on me. “You can say anything to me. Remember? You want me to get the boom box and the trench coat and play Peter Gabriel?”
Kellan smiles and looks sideways toward the window. The mighty Kellan Kearns is bashful.
It’s adorable.
I place my fingers on his chin and tilt his face toward mine.
I kiss him, long and hard and with as much passion and love and adoration as I can manage. “Tell me,” I whisper.
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and exhales. “I’m very embarrassed. But I can trust you. Right?”
“Of course.”
“You won’t tell Denise what I’m about to tell you? Or about what we just did?”
“No. Are you kidding?” Her head would probably explode with envy, though. It is a tempting notion.
“Claire.” It’s as if Kellan can read my thoughts. “I’m serious.”
“I know. Don’t worry. This is just between you and me. I won’t tell anyone. Ever. Not a soul.”
“Okay. You promise?”
“I promise.”
“You promise? Like, really promise?”
“Yes. Please, just tell me. I’m kinda getting freaked out.”
“I just wanted to tell you that what we did last night and what we did just now is… um… something I’ve always wanted to do. I’ve always wanted someone to do that to me.”
I can scarcely believe it. “Really?”
Kellan nods. “Is that weird?”
“No. No, of course not.” I kiss him a bunch of times, all over his face, and hug him tight, trying to reassure him. “Look, you wanting to have it done to you is absolutely the same as me wanting to do it.”
“No, it’s not. Not really. For you, it’s a female empowerment thing. For me, it’s an am-I-gay thing.”
“It does not make you gay.”
“It doesn’t make me Heterosexual of the Year.”
I can’t help but laugh. I try to put on a straight face. This is serious, and I don’t want him to feel awkward, or to feel that he can’t tell me stuff and trust me with stuff, with his innermost thoughts and secrets, with his heart and soul, with his life.
“Are you attracted to men?” I ask. “Do you want to kiss a guy and have sex with a guy and fall in love with a guy and maybe even marry a guy?”
“God, no. I don’t have a problem with it. I believe most people are born straight or gay or transgendered or whatever. And I don’t have a problem with male genitalia, especially since I have one. But I am in no way, shape, or form interested in or attracted to the harry man to whom the penis is attached.”
It makes my heart soar that even now, when we’re in bed, naked, with me on top of him, in post-coital bliss, having a serious heart-to-heart, he says ‘whom’.
I do my best to assuage Kellan’s fears and concerns. I assure him that this activity, while perhaps not exactly mainstream, does not make either of us a weirdo. It’s simply something that we both like. And now it’s something we can share and do together.
I can hardly believe my luck.
I found a guy who is not only amazing in every way imaginable, but he has the same kink as me.
Kinky fuckery.
Wow.
I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
I swear to myself that I will always, always, ALWAYS remember that.
AN HOUR LATER, after we’ve separated ourselves from one another’s tender embrace and extricated ourselves from our love nest, we have a snack.
Kellan calls down to the spa and books us a 90-minute couple’s massage. We go down and the spa is stunning. Everything is silver and gold marble. We’re served a glass of champagne upon arrival, and another one after we’ve changed into our plush white bathrobes and slippers.
Despite the champagne, I’m nervous. I’ve never had a massage before. I’ve never been to a spa. It’s not something you do regularly on a part-time catering job-slash-broke writer salary. The traditional notion of being a full-time writer, which I do indeed consider myself, is to take a vow of poverty. It seemed like a good idea at the time, noble even. But after seeing what law school has afforded Denise, and how Kellan has built a sizeable business empire, I often question my decision.
The therapists are both very sweet. They show us to the couple’s room and depart so Kellan and I can disrobe and get on the tables and under the sheets.
I’ve never had a complete stranger rub hot oil on my naked body before. I’m not sure I’ll be able to relax enough to enjoy it. I lie face-down with my face in the padded face cradle thing. There’s a soft white terrycloth towel folded into a neat shape so it conforms to the round hole.
When the therapist asks what I want, I have no idea what to tell her, so I repeat what Kellan said to the other therapist, Swedish effluage, with a bit of deep tissue on my back and glutes. I have no idea what that means, but she folds the soft sheet back and starts slathering hot oil all over my back and then the right side of my butt and the back of my right thigh.
It feels sooooooo goooooood.
Immediately I regret never having done this before. Kellan likes to get a massage about once a month.
Ninety minutes later, the massage has concluded, but I wish there were more. I could easily enjoy another 30 minutes.
The therapists depart and Kellan and I are naked and shiny and very, very relaxed. Being naked makes me horny, but being massaged, and drinking two glasses of delicious champagne, makes me sleepy.
“How do you feel?” Kellan asks me. He holds my robe open for me to slip into.
“Good. I can’t decide if I want to make love or sleep.”
Kellan laughs. He kisses me. “First one, and then the other.”
“Which order?”
“Doesn’t matter to me. How did that compare to other massages you’ve had?”
“I don’t know. That’s the only massage I’ve ever had.”
“Really?”
“I’m not like you. I can’t afford ninety-minute massages in fancy spas like this.”
Kellan hugs me and kisses my temple. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that.”
We grab our clothes and make our way back to our suite in our robes. We promptly collapse on the big bed and fall asleep in each other’s arms.
WE AWAKEN A couple hours later.
I feel like a million bucks.
We shower to wash off some of the massage oil, eat a protein bar and a protein shake Kellan mixes up for us in two shaker cups, and put on our gym clothes.
The hotel gym is quite respectable. It’s more than a little room with a treadmill and a bike. There’s a full complement of dumbbells and a universal machine with cables and lat pulldown and seated rows.
We’re the only ones here.
Kellan asks if I want to work on my butt.
I say sure.
He has me grab a couple of dumbbells and get on the treadmill. Oh Lord. He gets it moving at a moderate 2.0 speed and a ten-minute countdown.
He tells me to start lunging.
Ten straight minutes of lunges?
Oh Lordy Lord Lord.
Kellan grabs a set of dumbbells, gets his own treadmill going, and joins me.
Within about three minutes, I’m breathing heavily and my legs and ass are starting to burn.
“Feel the burn yet?” he calls out. Sweat is dripping from the tip of his nose and falling onto the belt of the treadmill.
“Yes.”
“I can’t hear you, Iron Born.”
“Yes!”
“You want to stop and rest?”
I can’t believe he’s actually giving me the option. “Yes.”
&
nbsp; “Do you want an ass so fine, guys will eat a mile of your doo-doo just to see where it came from?”
Crap. He pulled out the Ace of Spades and slapped me upside the head with it. I can’t quit now.
“Well?” he calls out.
I focus on lunging. I’m going to have to if I’m going to go for another six-and-a-half minutes.
“That’s what I thought,” he quips.
I don’t make it the full ten minutes. Somewhere around seven-and-a-half, with a measly two-and-a-half to go, I lose my balance. I stagger a bit and it takes me longer to stand upright. My back foot goes off the back of the treadmill and I fall forward, using the dumbbells to catch myself. They land on the treadmill and push me off until I’m lying on the floor.
Kellan hops off and chucks his dumbbells. They hit the rubbery black floor with a thunk-thunk.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You didn’t twist your ankle or anything?”
“No, I just lost my balance and fell off the back of the treadmill.”
“Good. Okay, let’s finish the set with walking lunges. Two minutes.”
Kellan grabs his dumbbells from wherever they ended up and starts lunging in a circle around the fitness room. I grab my dumbbells and follow in his wake.
When we’re done, we both collapse on the floor on our hands and knees.
Once we’ve caught our breath, Kellan says, “Ready to go again?”
“Absolutely.” I’m feeling strong today. Mentally, physically, emotionally.
This time, we lunge in a wide circle around the gym. I grab the 35’s off the rack before we begin. Kellan raises his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s a respectable weight, Iron Born.”
“Yes it is, Killer.”
Kellan puts his 60’s back on the rack and grabs the 100’s. Holy cannoli.
Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows, impressed.
“This is some serious macho crap,” Kellan says. “So, if your knees start to hurt or your back feels funny, stop immediately. Understand?”
“Okay.”
“No, I’m serious, Claire. I don’t want you injured. If you’re injured, you can’t train. Injury prevention is paramount. So, do a couple and see how it feels. If your knees feel funny or your groin hurts or your back twinges, drop ’em. We’ll get you something lighter. It’s okay. Rome wasn’t built in a day and neither is a perfect ass.”
We start lunging. Holy crap. I had 15’s before; the 35’s are no joke. But I can definitely do it. I think. Each lunge takes longer. It’s a lot harder to get back up to a standing position again. But I can definitely do it.
After each rep, I start to incorporate leg lifts, lifting my leg straight out behind me to contract my glutes.
Kellan smiles and starts doing the same thing.
I count in pairs, left leg one, right leg one, left leg two, right leg two, instead of counting each individual lunge on its own. I don’t know if this is good or bad or if it even matters. Probably not. But by the time I get to ten, it’s getting a lot harder and I realize we never set a rep range or a time limit. I watch Kellan, waiting for him to say something. But he just looks back at me. I get the impression he’s counting my reps, waiting for me to quit.
I decide not to quit.
I think about all those women who threw themselves at him over the years and used him for his body. They wouldn’t quit.
I bet Stacy wouldn’t quit. She’d probably do a million lunges if it meant Kellan would text her back. She’d probably do a million more if he texted her a picture of his erection with her name written on the shaft in red lipstick.
That notion pisses me off.
Suddenly I’m not as tired as I thought I was. Screw these 35’s. Screw the burning in my muscles. Screw Stacy and her giant tits and her stupid clinic. Kellan is with me now. I often can’t believe or comprehend it, but it’s true. And I’m pragmatic enough to know that I ought to offer him an attractive package.
Plus, I owe it to myself to finally achieve my fitness and weight loss goals.
Success is always the best form of revenge.
With renewed vigor, I stop watching Kellan for the it’s-okay-to-quit-now signal. I stare straight ahead, lunging, lunging, lunging. I see Stacy in my mind, wearing her little white lab coat with her nonexistently-short skirt and black fuck-me shoes, watching me undress and roll my big, pale body into her dunk tank so she can measure my body composition.
Screw that.
I’m never going back there again.
Or maybe I will. One more time. When I’ve reached my goal and I look so freakin hot she won’t even recognize me.
Lunge. Breathe.
Lunge. Breathe.
Lunge. Breathe.
I’m matching Kellan stride for stride on opposite sides of the circle.
My butt and thighs are burning. But mostly it’s my lungs that hurt. And my hands. My fingers are uncurling. The dumbbells are starting to slip out of my hands. I shift them in my hands, getting a better grip, but by the time I’ve done 42 lunges on each leg, I can no longer hold on. My left hand opens and I drop the weight. I drop the other one, too, before I fall over. I then promptly fall over, clutching my legs. My muscles are on fire.
Kellan drops his weights and comes over. “You okay?”
“Fine. I just couldn’t hold on any longer.”
“Don’t worry. Your grip strength will improve over time. You want to use my straps?”
“What kind of straps?”
“Lifting straps. They go around your wrist and then you wrap the strap around the bar and the weight of it cinches it tight. It’s not a good idea to use them all the time, because you want your forearms to get stronger and your grip strength to improve, but it’s okay to use them on the last few heavy sets. How do you feel?”
“Fine. How’s my ass look?” I roll over and stick it out so he can see it.
“Good.”
“Do you want to eat a mile of my poop to see where it came from?”
“You bet your sweet ass I do.”
The memory-slash-thought of Kellan devouring my rear end gets me instantly wet. In a matter of seconds I go from wanting to work out to wanting to go upstairs for a different kind of workout. Sometimes, I simply don’t understand the effect this man has on me. Nor do I care to question it.
KELLAN DIGS HIS straps out of his gym bag and shows me how to put them on. We do two more sets of lunges, followed by 20 minutes walking uphill on the treadmill, before we head up to our suite.
I feel good. I feel like that was a really great workout. I ask Kellan why they all can’t be like that.
“Good question,” he replies. We’re both famished so we eat a ready-meal out of the fridge. Cold chicken and asparagus never tasted so good. “I think it’s a matter of timing and intensity and nutrition and sleep. All the factors have to be in harmony to be able to work out like that. But sometimes, you do everything right, you sleep well, you eat regularly, and you’re excited to work out but when you get to the gym you feel like crap. You’re weak, it takes longer to get warmed up, you’re not into it, and the whole session is a struggle. Other days, you feel like crap and don’t even want to go. You got five hours of sleep, you had a bagel and coffee three hours ago and you could just go home and eat pizza and watch TV. But you don’t. You get your ass in the gym. And lo and behold, you have a killer workout. Don’t know why; you just do. So you never know. But you always train. Even a bad workout is a million times better than no workout at all, right?”
He has a point there.
“Today was a good workout. Now that you’ve had one like that, remember what it feels like. How much fun it was. Now you know what to shoot for.”
When we’re done eating, we take a long, hot shower together.
Once we’re clean, and Kellan is standing there with a monster erection, he sheepishly asks me if I want to go get my toy so we can use it in the shower.
I hop out of the shower so fast I
almost slip and fall.
I run naked and wet, dripping water everywhere, out to my suitcase, where I stashed the toy earlier after cleaning it. I hurry back to the shower and put it on. I bend Kellan over the bench seat and gently make love to him. I come quickly; I’m so excited to be doing this, knowing that Kellan loves it as much as I do.
A few minutes later, to my surprise, I come again. Two in a row. Wow. I think perhaps I’m becoming a multiorgasmic woman. Denise has always claimed to be one. I’ve always envied her. But now, standing here in the shower, pleasuring Kellan like this in our special way, I’m so aroused I can hardly stand it.
Finally, Kellan asks me to stop and I gently withdraw.
He tells me that he’s been right on the edge for almost ten minutes, but he wants to come inside me.
In my ass.
He wants to make love to me that way, too.
I’ve never had a man in there before.
But with Kellan, I’ll try anything.
He gets behind me and pleasures my front while exploring my rear end with his mouth and fingers.
I’m a little scared, but Kellan goes very slowly. He kisses and nibbles and sucks and outright bites my buttocks while he works my clit vigorously until I’m coming again. My forearms support my weight on the bench seat, the wet granite distantly cold against my skin. My legs quiver and shake as I climax. Kellan is a master of the female body. Master of mine, anyway. I don’t want to think too much about how he came to know so much about pleasuring women.
He stands up and slides his hard, slippery erection up and down between my buttocks, teasing my opening with the soft ridge of the corona.
Within a matter of mere minutes, I’m hungry to have him inside me, eager to know what it feels like, eager to know him in that way, too.
Gradually, slowly, we work him inside me.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt.
I always assumed my first anal sex experience would involve a lot of wincing and biting down on a pillow like a Civil War soldier enduring a leg amputation in a tent somewhere in the hot, muggy deep South.
But it’s not like that at all.
In fact, I love it.
It feels wonderful. I feel full in a way I’ve never known before. It’s very nice. And it’s so, so exciting to think of Kellan having his magnificent penis up my butt.