by Lisa Ferrari
Kellan says he wants to work out.
I sense that perhaps he’s not entirely back to his normal, sweet, loving self.
But I’m high and happy. So I agree. No time like the present. I don’t think I’ve ever begun a workout at midnight. But I want that part. I don’t want that bitch Calista to get it. She’s actually not a bitch at all. She seems super sweet. But I use that word to get myself fired up and into the proper frame of mind to go lift a bunch of heavy-ass weights when I could, with little to no coercion, get naked and float in the Jacuzzi. Hopefully with Kellan’s beautiful penis somewhere nearby. My hand. My mouth. My vagina–
“Claire.”
Kellan is standing there, looking at me, waiting.
I realize I’m staring at his crotch, fantasizing.
“Ready?”
“For you, baby, I’m always ready.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
We head into the home gym and start.
Kellan puts on some rock and roll, Ozzie, the crazy train song, loud, and attacks the weights with a vengeance I’ve never seen before, a fury. He pumps out the reps, doing military press with a straight bar loaded with 185, standing before the mirror and pressing it toward the ceiling again and again and again and again and again, grunting, shouting, screaming with each rep.
“Fuck!… You!… Fuck!… You!… Fuck!… You!…”
Who is he talking to? The woman from the party?
He paces back and forth while I do my set using a bar with a 25 on each end. Ninety-five isn’t super heavy but I crap out on number seven.
Kellan cleans his 185 back to the pressing position and goes again, yelling like he did before.
It’s a good thing I’m high or I’d be scared.
Halfway through the workout, Kellan wants to have sex. He begins fondling my buttocks while I’m lifting. He smacks my butt. Kinda hard. I find that I like it. Plus I’ve always wondered if Anastasia wimped out in book two.
Besides, I’m always ready to make love with Kellan.
“Do you have your toy here?” Kellan asks.
“Yes.” It’s in the drawer in the enormous closet, wrapped in my Jane’s shirt.
“Go get it. I want you to tie me up and do that bondage thing on the weight bench and do me hard and fast. Grab some neckties out of the closet.”
I go and get my harness and toy, and a condom and the bottle of lubricant, and two ties.
When I come back, Kellan is naked on the bench.
With a huge erection.
I tie his hands. I take off my clothes.
Kellan tells me to ride him for a few minutes first, but not to orgasm.
Yet.
I straddle him and ease him in until he’s oh-so-deep.
“Fuck me, Claire.”
Oh my.
Kellan grunts and growls through clenched teeth, watching as I ride him.
Within a few minutes, I’m so worked up I can hardly stand it.
“Do it now,” Kellan says. He glances at the toy.
I put on my harness and thick silicone phallus. I make certain the condom is right-side out, roll it on, and squirt a bunch of lubricant all over it. I have butterflies in my stomach. This is sudden and unexpected and odd.
But also very arousing.
The crazy train song ends and begins again, on a loop.
I suck Kellan’s beautiful erection for a few minutes to make sure he’s ready. It’s odd tasting myself. But I kind of like it. I French kiss Kellan, sharing it with him, and resume the oral attention.
“Harder,” he says.
I do it harder.
“Squeeze it.”
I squeeze him with my hand as I move my mouth up and down.
“Harder.”
I do it harder.
“Harder, Claire.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t. Put it in me, then.”
“Are you ready?” I try to sound sexy.
“Yes I’m fuckin ready.”
I get between his legs on the bench and ease the big pink head into him.
“Deeper,” Kellan commands.
I push it deeper.
“Faster.”
I begin moving rhythmically, gently at first, so he can get used to it.
“Fuck me, Claire!” Kellan shouts.
It startles me.
I get pissed and start ramming it into him. “Like this?”
“Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me hard.”
I do my best to pound him, driving into him and withdrawing again, slamming my pelvis against Kellan’s buttocks.
Kellan grunts and grits his teeth. “Faster.”
I go faster.
“Harder. Fuck me harder, Claire!”
I go faster and harder. I stroke his erection.
“No, don’t. I don’t want to come yet. Choke me.”
I look up from the mesmerizing scene of my phallus penetrating my man. “What, baby?”
“Choke me. Squeeze my neck.”
I put my hand on Kellan’s throat and massage it gently. “Like this?”
“Harder.”
I do it a little harder. “Like this?”
“Harder!”
Kellan’s anger startles me again and the fear morphs into anger. I squeeze his neck. Really hard. “Like this?” I ask through gritted teeth.
The music blares. “…goin off the rails on a crazy tray-ain…”
Kellan grunts, “Pull my hair.”
With one hand on his throat, I seize a handful of hair and yank his head back.
“You like that?!” I shout over the blaring music. I don’t know if I’m asking him or telling him.
I hold tight to his neck and pull his hair while I slam into him as hard and as fast as I can over and over and over.
Kellan breathes heavily through gritted teeth.
His body bucks beneath me, his abs tightening and flexing.
His penis is huge. It’s flexing and pumping. White semen squirts onto his beautiful six pack.
He’s coming.
Wow.
I didn’t even touch his penis and I made him come. I desperately want to come with him. But I’m so mesmerized by the sight of him ejaculating that I lose track of that desire.
Kellan makes a strange noise.
His chin quivers. His eyes are half-closed and tears are coming from his eyes and dripping on the floor.
I let go of his throat and his hair. “Kellan?”
He sobs. I untie him and gently pull out of him, removing my toy. I try to hug Kellan but he covers his face with both arms. He rolls sideways and we sink to the black rubber floor mat. I do my best to hold him as he sobs harder and louder than any man I’ve ever seen cry.
EVENTUALLY THE LOUD music ends.
Kellan cries himself out.
I hold him and stroke his hair and whisper that everything is okay. I have no idea what just happened so I can’t know if everything is going to be okay. But it seems like the proper thing to say.
Sheer terror courses through my body, filling my gut, because I don’t understand what’s happening, what has caused this.
Kellan at last sits up so I can see his face. I wipe the tears from his cheeks. I grab a box of tissues so he can blow his nose.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I assume this is all my fault so I’m surprised to hear him apologizing. “For what?”
“For everything. For tonight. For letting that stupid woman get to me and for making you do this and for being such a dick to you and for crying like a child.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Kellan, look at me.”
When he doesn’t, I grab his chin and lift it so I see his eyes. “It’s okay. You can say anything to me.”
I lean forward and give him a kiss.
“So, um, what happened?” I ask. “Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?”
Kellan shakes his head emphatically as he wipes his eyes and
nose. “No. Not at all. It wasn’t you. You were only doing what I asked you to do. It was me. I just…”
He trails off. His eyes become distant and far away. He’s obviously reliving something.
“You just what?”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“If that’s what you want, of course. All your secrets are safe with me. You know that.” Kellan and I have already shared so much and done so much. There are a million zillion things I wouldn’t want him to reveal about me, so I would never betray his confidence.
“When I was twelve,” he says, “I came home from school one day and no one was home. My parents were gone. Which was weird because my mom was always home and had a snack for us. But that day, my sister fell off the stage during her drama class and hit her head and had to go to the hospital, so my parents went there too. My Uncle Pete came over to wait with me until my parents got home. I don’t know where my brother was. Football practice and then his girlfriend’s house most likely. But Veronica’s head injury was bad so my parents stayed at the hospital all night. Uncle Pete ordered pizza and we watched TV and he suggested we work out together to pass the time. So we went out to the garage and started working out. He suggested we take off our shirts so we could see our muscles. He said professional bodybuilders only wear posing trunks on stage so we should get in our underwear. So we did. He watched me pose and then came over and moved my arms and legs into the right positions. He wanted to see my glute separation so he pulled my underwear down. Then down a little more. Next thing I know, we’re both naked, posing in front of this little mirror my mom let me put in the garage. Pete said I had a nice dick and we started talking about girls and if I had a girlfriend and if I had had sex yet. I said no and he asked what I’d done and I said nothing, because at that point I hadn’t even kissed a girl yet. So Pete asked if I wanted him to teach me some stuff so that, when I finally did make it with a girl, I would know what I was doing. Otherwise, I might be nervous and the girl would laugh and tell all her friends I couldn’t get it up and stuff. He started showing me how you can pump up your dick just like you pump up your muscles, and it will get bigger over time. He eventually started touching me, pulling on it and stretching it and stuff. I didn’t like it and it was definitely weird, but… um… I… I got hard. I got an erection. Pete had one, too. He said that was normal, that it didn’t mean we were queers or anything, it was just a reflex, like when the doctor hits you on the knee with his little rubber hammer and your leg moves.”
Kellan takes a deep breath and exhales before he continues.
“I don’t remember what happened after that. I think we got dressed. But the next day, pretty much the same thing happened. My sister had to have surgery because she had a subdural hematoma. That’s when the blood vessels rupture between your brain and the thin layer of tissue that covers it, called the dura. Basically she had a big blood clot in her skull. I found out years later that she almost died and that the doctors thought she was going to and that the surgery was pretty much a last-ditch effort to try anything they could. But it worked and she lived, and now she lives in Florida and is married with two kids and a dog and a nice house with a white picket fence and she’s fine. But she had to stay in the hospital for a couple weeks.
“So, it was me and Uncle Pete every evening. He was there each day when I got home from school and he slept there. I guess he had a pool cleaning business, so he could come and go as he needed to. We worked out in the garage pretty much every night and we practiced our posing. He ordered pizza and we drank beer and he even rolled a bunch of joints and showed me how to smoke weed for the first time. He introduced me to lots of cool music I’d never heard before. He told me all about how to please women and what the clitoris is and how to stimulate it.
“One night, we decided to see who could drink more beers. I was on my third beer when he asked me if I could come from a blowjob.
“I said I didn’t know because I’d never had one.
“He said that was bullshit, and that every red-blooded American teenager needs to get lots and lots of blowjobs because blowjobs fuckin rule. He always said stuff ruled. Beer ruled. Pot ruled. Blowjobs ruled. But he said a lot of girls are kind of timid the first time they go down on a guy, so it can be hard to come. But if you don’t come, they’ll get their feelings hurt and will get mad and won’t want to suck your dick anymore. And then they’ll rat you out to all their friends and you’ll have to move to another city if you ever want to get another blowjob.
“So, he offered to show me what it feels like. He kept saying it wasn’t gay shit, it was just like one guy helping out his buddy, and we were buddies now, so he didn’t mind doing it as long as I didn’t tell anyone he did it, because he didn’t want the ladies thinking he was a homo. It was weird but I was pretty wasted, and stuff he was saying made sense so, apparently, I let him.
“As you can imagine, one thing led to another and pretty soon I was doing it to him, too, so I would know what it was like so I could tell a girl how to do it when the time came. A couple nights later we were out in the garage, high, and he had sex with me on my cheap, shitty weight bench my dad got me from Sears for Christmas. ‘Rebel Yell’ was playing. We didn’t have any lube so he kept spitting on his dick. It hurt like a motherfucker. He came really fast though, so it didn’t last long. When I went to the bathroom that night there was blood on the toilet paper. That scared me the most.
“The next day, I came home from school and Uncle Pete wasn’t there. My grandma was. I asked her where Uncle Pete was and she said he was gone. I said gone where. She said just gone and for me not to worry about it. The way she looked at me and the way her voice sounded, I could tell she knew something was up, that she knew what Uncle Pete and I had been doing in the garage. But I didn’t say anything. I went to my room and played video games and tried not to think about it, but I was relieved.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“No.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead. He was on his way home from a bar one night about twelve years ago and hit a tree.”
“Did your mom or dad or grandma ever say anything?”
“No. Everyone was too worried about Ronnie. But she pulled through. I eventually got to go see her in the hospital. Her whole entire head was wrapped in a big white bandage because part of her skull had been removed so her brain could swell up.
“But that was when I got into bodybuilding. I started actually using that weight bench. I figured if I was big and strong, everyone would be intimidated by me and no one would fuck with me and I wouldn’t have to worry about Uncle Creepy sneaking into my room at night to play Tummy Sticks or seducing me in the garage with Old Milwaukee and shitty bammer weed.”
Before I can comprehend what I’ve heard, I begin speaking. I feel like a machine, a tape recorder or a record player playing without regard to what is coming out of it. “When I was a freshman, I used to sort of hang out with this guy who was a sophomore. We used to fool around in the back seat of his car. He’d been held back a year at some point so he was pretty much the only sophomore with a car. If you call a 1978 Datsun B-210 a car. I remember that because there was a little honeybee symbol on the dashboard right by the cigarette lighter. So, we were in the back seat one day after school, fooling around, parked on some dirt road somewhere. He had my shirt and bra off. He asked me what I’d done and if I wanted him to show me how to do stuff so other guys wouldn’t laugh at me. One thing led to another and he wanted to have sex. I told him I didn’t want to but he did it anyway. I kept telling him to stop but he had my arms pinned down and kept telling me to be quiet so he could concentrate. He came in me, though. The word ‘condom’ was never mentioned. It hurt so bad. He had an old brown blanket in the back seat. It smelled like cigarettes. It was covered in blood by the time we were done so he threw it out the window and drove me back to school. He refused to drive me home because he said he didn’t want my parents to see what kind of car he dr
ove. I assumed he meant because his car was an old piece of crap. But later I figured out it was because he didn’t want them getting the make and model and license plate of the degenerate simpleton who had just defiled their innocent little Claire bear. So I had to walk home. I went into the girl’s bathroom to get a tampon but the stupid machine was empty. I folded up a bunch of toilet paper and put it on top of some brown paper towels and made a little pad and put that in my underwear. It was soaked by the time I got home. My underwear was, too, so I threw them away. I’d gotten my period when I was twelve and had already had the whole ‘birds-and-the-bees’ talk with my mom. I did not want to go through any of that again. So I decided to hide it all.”
“Did you get pregnant?”
“No. Thank God. Truthfully, I don’t remember being all that concerned about that. For some reason, I was upset because we’d done it and I didn’t want to, and because he threw the blanket out the window. That was the saddest part. I felt like… like that blanket was me. And he tossed it into the weeds and left it there to rot. That was how little it meant to him…
“And, you know, when it was happening, I could hear a chainsaw off in the distance. It reminded me of Gerald’s Game.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a novel by Stephen King. It’s about this woman who goes out to a lake house in the woods and her husband, Gerald, the titular douchebag, handcuffs her to the bed. But she changes her mind. But he refuses to un-cuff her. So she gets angry and kicks him. He falls off the bed and hits his head and dies. And she’s stuck there, handcuffed to the bed, for days, listening to a chainsaw out in the woods.”
“Does she get free?”
“Yeah, she knocks over a glass of water and uses a piece of broken glass to slit her wrist so she can use her own blood as lubricant to slip one hand out of the handcuffs.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what did you do…after?”
“Nothing. Went to school and acted like it never happened.”
“Did you have any classes with him?”
“Just P.E. Most of my classes were only people in my grade but for some reason in P.E. they mixed freshmen and sophomores together.”