Hold Onto Me_A Secret Baby Romance

by Juliana Conners

  “Juliet,” he says to me as I imagine him bringing his big hands on to my tiny, curvy ass, and wet, slim pussy, “I’m sorry things have been so rough for you. I’m sorry to be so forward with you — to be putting my hands on you in this way — but you need this. You need this to get well, to feel better. And I’m going to make sure you get what you need.”

  Under these words, I imagine he starts to rub my clit with his strong, rough finger. It’s intense. Almost like being rubbed with a bit of sandpaper, but unbelievably addictive. I imagine that one finger is enough to cover my entire clit and hood. Massage every inch of it, without him even trying. Even my lips get stimulated from this single finger.

  “You’ve been holding a lot inside, Juliet,” he says in my mind, while increasing his speed on me. When I squeal inside and outside my fantasy, I imagine he responds with, “it’s not good to hold that in. Not good at all. So, I’m going to touch you like this until you have nothing left inside that you’re holding onto. Nothing to keep away from me.”

  I pant in my fantasy and in reality, feeling my shoulders sink deeper into the water in real life. In the fantasy, they sink deeper into his protective chest. His arms that have a hold on me. It’s similar to the way he was at the face of the cliff, except, I’m not over the edge of an abyss or the side of a mountain.

  Here, I’m over the edge of his hands. His fingers rubbing and stroking my whole pussy. My lips, clit, hair and all. The way he moves, it’s like he’s milking my mound. Squeezing it gently but firmly, hoping for juices.

  I feel some juice release from my folds. I feel it even in the water, but I imagine what it would look like on his fingers. How shiny and wet it would be, evidence of how good he makes me feel.

  “There you go, Juliet,” he says, using my own juice to make more. He rubs me harder and faster. Under each caress of one finger, then more, he pauses to pet my lips. He slaps my folds lovingly, encouragingly, before getting back to jiggling his fingers back and forth against my clit. As he does this, I imagine my pussy’s covering him with more and more wetness. More and more shine. And goop as well. “That’s a good girl. Release all that wetness inside you into my hand,” he whispers.

  As he does, I imagine that his big hands have come to grip me around the hips and place me just ahead of him. As he holds me there with one hand, he spreads me open with the other.

  Underneath me, I see where I’m being guided to— onto the head of his cock. Something I imagine to be massive. Straight and tall. Meaty, like the rest of him. More than a mouthful, more than a pussy full. Something I’m equally terrified and excited for.

  I whimper at this, feeling my body tightening toward orgasm. My whimper happens both inside and outside my own head. And again, I imagine he has a response to this. He lowers me closer to his thick, shiny head, saying, “Now that we’ve got all the juice out of you, I have some inside me that I need to give you.”

  Hearing this, I feel my lips begin to fit over his plump and warm head, down his silky and taut shaft. In my head, it happens easily, and I only catch a bit on the veins and textures I imagine he has in droves.

  I moan, feeling pressure building from how fast I’m moving my hands under the water, and from how much I imagine I’m being stretched by him, filled up by him, and I’m not even more than a third of the way down on him. Still, my savior guides gently. Slowly, but determinedly.

  “You have to take the whole thing, now,” he says, pushing a few more inches of himself down into my throat. I whine, feeling my lips fattening, tightening over him, and everything getting tighter with every bit of him I take in. “You have to take all of it, otherwise neither of us will feel as good. And I want both of us to feel very good.”

  I squirm in his grasp, but I don’t fight. I’m now feeling hot and sticky. Aglow, like I’ve shoved a Roman candle-turned-vibrator up my pussy.

  “Just a bit more. A tiny bit more, and you’ll be all done. All full,” he says in my mind. These words only make me tighten and bear down on him more, even though I can feel my body rising up out of the tub, pushing against the sides, so I can get more fingers inside of myself, which I do easily. Now I can imagine him in my pussy, so I can feel how it is to be stuffed to the rafters by my savior.

  He slips as much of his cock into my pussy as he can, and still I’ve got about three inches to go before being completely filled. He doesn’t seem to mind though. He begins to move me up and down on him, careful to leave those three inches untouched.

  I moan loudly, unable to tell the difference between my fist and his imagined head pounding against my womb. My deep hurts and secret pains.

  “Good girl, Juliet,” he says, bringing his big, bear -like hands up to my breasts and nipples as he slips in and out of me like a slow, steady piston. “You’re feeling better already, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say. And, like everything else in this fantasy, it’s echoed in both places. In my real world, and the one in my head. “Oh, yes,” I say, partially aware that I sound fussy. Like a baby. “So much better, and I want to feel even better!”

  On my cheeks, I feel tears falling. My chest constricting under waves of pleasure and sorrow.

  “Then you have to cum,” he says quietly. “You can’t hold it back anymore.”

  And I do.

  I cum violently. So violently, that my feet and arms actually kick and punch into various parts of the tub. The sides and floor. And I’m crying hard. Sobbing from how relieved I feel, and how much I still feel pent up inside me, stuffed into little crevices.

  Part of my brain knows this exercise isn’t going to be enough. I’m going to need more than this little bit of self help if I want to get better. But I let myself cry a bit more.

  Now that my nerve endings are sufficiently primed, I take advantage of it, playing with my clit a bit more while continuing to finger myself. I cum a couple more times before pulling my fingers out of my folds, whimpering with the feeling of being spent and limp, and hoping that the water has hid the sound of my tears and flailing from him.

  It must have, since he didn’t come busting in, thinking he had to rescue me yet again—this time from drowning. Or from dying due to too much self-induced pleasure.

  Still, as I feel the cold water slip around my arms and hands, I hope he’s gone to sleep already. I don’t want to try to explain any of what that was to him. I can barely understand it myself. The timing is not ideal. The situation is downright embarrassing were he to find out about it. And yet, I just couldn’t help myself. And I feel a lot better now that I got that out of my system.

  I decide to get out of the tub now. I’m cold, and even though I hate to admit it, part of me is more than a little curious as to where my savior is— what he’s gotten up to while I’ve been in here.

  As I wrap a towel around my bottom half, and don’t bother to do anything about the top, I think, his name was Brandon, wasn’t it? I shake my head, opening the door and turning off the light. I’m sure he told me. But, like a lot of things he told me, I don’t remember them.

  I’m still tingly from my fantasy. Awake from my masturbation session, and all of the textures and sizes I ascribed to him. I blush, thinking about the giant cock I think he must have. One that almost rivals his arms in size. Seeing him resting on the couch as I walk back toward my room, part of me hopes he will look this way. That he will see me walking around as I am, naked from the waist up.

  Just the thought of that warms me, sets my skin on fire. Almost makes me want to take the towel off completely, just in case he hears me walking and turns around to take a look.

  I wonder if he’s really that big? That well-endowed? I tremble, enjoying the feeling of my exposed breasts. How big they are, even on my small frame. How plump and perky they would be if he just happened to move. If he would only turn this way, and open an eyelid.

  No dice though. He seems to be fast asleep. He must have drifted off while waiting for me to finish up in the bathroom, trying to make sure I was okay in there.
At least it’s a relief to know he probably didn’t hear me thrashing around and moaning while orgasming. So, I head back into my room and close the door.

  As the darkness folds in around me again, I’m filled with two distinct desires: that I not have any more of those night terrors. And that maybe, just maybe, Brandon feels the same way about me. That he might have enjoyed my naked body had he seen. Just as much as I enjoyed the imagined naked body I gave him while in the bath.

  Chapter 9

  Brandon

  Come on, Brandon! Don’t be thinking about her that way. You’re supposed to be helping her, man! Not getting jacked up for her!

  I’m having these thoughts laying on the couch, just after hearing her in the bath. Hearing her moaning and groaning in there, but from pleasure, not so much from pain. I may not have been with a woman for a long time, but I know what a good masturbation session sounds like for a girl.

  And whatever it was that she was thinking about, it was good. Enough to have her splashing around in there, thumping against the walls like a wild animal. And now I’m the one who’s wild. With a massive erection, that I’m trying not to touch. Trying not to do anything about, in case she comes wandering out of her room again.

  Though I did see her straight out of the bath. She thinks I didn’t, but I saw her in her towel. Covered below, but not above. I can’t help it. My mind touches over each curve I got a glimpse of. Each blush of pink from her nipples. Her areola. Her plump breasts, which compliment her hourglass frame perfectly.

  As I think of all these details, I start stroking anyway. I lose what little bit of self-control I have, and start rubbing through my pants. Even with a thick layer of jeans and heavy cotton underwear, I’m extremely sensitive. Extremely responsive to my own touch, even with it being deadened somewhat.

  It doesn’t matter. For how sensitive I am, it might as well be that I’m touching my cock completely bare. Taking off my clothes is something I would do, except for the fact that I have a lady guest. And that lady guest does not need to be subjected to seeing me naked, even if she is the subject of my fantasies.

  She’s under my care. She deserves my protection. She deserves my attentiveness, not my fantasies or pent-up desires. No matter how long it’s been, Brandon, you shouldn’t be doing that with her. Not even in your head, man. She’s not doing well right now. She needs time to rest. Recuperate. Time away from stimulation. And you thinking about doing anything with her physically is going to be against that. It’ll be counterintuitive.

  Harlow and his classes about helping someone through trauma come to mind. I remember him saying that they need quiet. Love. Security. It’s one of the reasons I moved out here, completely away from others. To get this quiet security. But I haven’t had love for a long time. And a big part of me wants it from her. From this woman who’s in my care.

  But you can’t do that, Brandon. You would be breaking her trust, however fragile it is, with you. And you can’t do that, under any circumstances. You wouldn’t do that, if you did let yourself do what you’ve been doing. Touching. Fantasizing. So, knock it off.

  With these thoughts, I move my hand away. I stop stroking, but I know it’s a lost cause. Even if I don’t touch — even if I don’t rub one out — I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.

  My boner is going to prevent that.

  Fine. I sigh, trying to will my cock to go back down and to stop going to war with my pants.

  That’ll work out anyway. If I don’t sleep tonight, that’ll just mean I’m around in case she has any more bad dreams.

  Chapter 10

  Juliet

  Another nightmare descends.

  This one is real, just like the others. But now it’s my birthday. I’m fixing up my hair. Putting on my makeup. It’s yesterday again, but in this dream, I’m still happy. I’m still able to smile, even though I can feel something bad on the horizon.

  Even though I can feel something hanging in the air, getting ready to snatch me away from the life I’ve known and loved, I continue to get ready for my birthday party— for my night out with my friends that I’ve planned. A night of fancy drinks, and exquisite dinners. Time to socialize.

  But even as I’m putting the rest of the makeup on my smiling face – my happy, excited lips – I know it’s not going to be my dream come true. It won’t be what I’ve planned for, for months.

  Part of me already can hear the doorbell I know will be ringing. I can hear it echoing through the house, through my soul, like a lonely siren.

  Still, I continue on, ignoring the knot in my stomach. The spiderwebs in my brain. The static in my heart.

  And now I’m waiting for the doorbell. Part of me is excited for it. That’s gonna be Dad with the flowers. The flowers he always sends me on my birthday, even when deployed. Even from Iraq he always sends me two dozen red roses. And always with a little card on it that says “to my juju-bear with love,” I think in the dream.

  Then, the moment I’ve been waiting for and dreading comes: the moment I hear the doorbell reverberate through the house. Up the stairs it climbs like lava. Like the trumpet at the end of the world. But I watch myself smile when I hear it. I race down to greet it, as if it’s the sound of my father’s voice. As if it’s the same as him standing on the front of my doorstep, home and safe.

  Each footstep I take is like a thunderous heartbeat in my ears. It speeds up the blood in my veins, the pulse I can hear in my head. I’m down the stairs now in the blink of an eye. I’m headed toward the door, hoping for flowers, but knowing that it’s not going to be that pretty. Some part of me knows that this is not going to be a birthday surprise I’m looking forward to.

  But, as if my whole body is destiny, and my whole house is the wheel of fate, I open the door anyway. I feel the joy I’m supposed to feel, thinking it’s the flower delivery guy. As it always is. As it has been for the last ten years on the dot.

  I open the door, seeing two airmen standing there. Their uniform decorations let me know they’re officers. The moment I see them, all I can feel is terror. There are no roses here. No birthday wishes. Only two strangers that I hoped I’d never see. And yet, here they are.

  Strangers no more, I’m beginning to realize they’ll haunt every dream I have. But this one quickly escalates. As the two officers open their mouths to give me the news – to say what feels like biblical truth by now — “Your father’s dead. He died bravely, defending his country, and was killed in a deadly counterstrike by the enemy” — words are not what comes out of their mouths. The moment they open them, snakes jump out.

  Hundreds of them wiggle out of the officers’ gaping mouths and wrap around my throat. I’m drowning in them, their moving bodies constricting every last bit of breath out of me.

  I gasp and choke under this, feeling moments away from dying. From losing my life. Even my heartbeat feels constricted. Slowed.

  Just as I get one strangled sound out — something like “Dad” and “no” combined — I awaken, and it’s to the sound of Brandon’s voice. It’s loud. Thunderous. It almost matches the big, heavy arms I feel around me. The comforting ones I’ve just fallen into. They’re holding me. Comforting me.

  “You’re okay,” he says, as if he knows what kind of nightmare he’s having to talk over. “You’re okay. I’ll keep you safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. Whatever happened, it’s okay now.”

  With that, I try my best to relax. To stop the part of me that wants to fight him off me as if he’s one of the giant snakes from my dream, wrapped around my neck. Somehow, I manage to keep from struggling, and instead collapse completely into him.

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” he says quietly.

  I look him in the eyes this time, once again struck by their beautiful contrasting light and darkness. Their liquid quality still shines through, even in the shadows of the room.

  “That’s good,” I say, “because I’m not going to talk to you about that. Or anything at all. All I’m going to tell
you is that my name is Juliet, and I want you to fuck me.”

  Chapter 11

  Brandon

  What? I look at her, feeling my pulse race, my head spin. Did I just hear what the hell I think I did? Did she just say “I want you to fuck me”?

  I close my eyes against her for a moment. Against her urgent eyes, her hungry dry mouth. No, she couldn’t have said something like that. And even if she did, she’s probably out her mind. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s struggling with trauma. There’s no way she could just come on to me like…

  My thoughts are interrupted by a very real, very persistent feeling of her body grinding against mine— her fingers and nails scratching themselves along my body, pulling at my clothes. My pants, belt buckle, shirt.

  Then, as if that weren’t enough — the feeling of being drowned by her wiry, hungry body — her voice comes in next. Slams into me with its hot, quiet her. “Please,” she says, “I want you to fuck me.”

  She grinds on me again, being sure that I feel her pussy against my leg. My knee. Her nipples against my chest, my hands, like she’s trying to get me to hold them. Squeeze them. “I need you to fuck me. I need to feel good. I need to have you, Brandon,” she says.

  Her voice is louder this time, matching the climbing intensity of her touch. Her fingernails dig deeper, and her hands hold firmer. They drag across me, as if I’m her life vest. As she begins to work me out of my belt buckle and pants, I realize I feel the same. I feel hungry for her, too— in need of contact, warmth.

  In this moment, as I feel her hands pull my pants down around my ankles, followed by my boxers, I know it’s been too long. Like a wave I didn’t know was burying me, I’m suddenly breathless with my years of living alone.