Cuffed to my Roomies

by Natasha Black

  His mouth moved back to mine as I stroked him, his fingers still buried inside me, keeping me wet and ready for him. I trembled when he withdrew them, wanted to whimper at the loss.

  Brett pushed me back on the mattress, my knees bent back under me. My hips were open, his palm splayed on my chest, pressing me down. My breath was ragged, my body tingling. Breathless, I lay there spread for him. He moved his hands to my thighs, pushed them further apart. I felt how wide he opened me, how my whole body seemed to shift inside and out with my legs held that far apart. I shuddered, wet and needy beneath him.

  Brett rubbed his thumb over my clit. I jerked, bit down hard on my lips as pleasure soared through me. I was so ready to come. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across me again and I shuddered at the force of the spike of ecstasy that ripped through me. He stopped, stilled me, taking me to the edge and backing off. I was trembling with need. He rubbed his thumb down my slit, my aching pussy that needed him. My body shook under his iron control. I couldn’t speak even to say please because I felt like I was on a tight wire, stretched to breaking, that there was only this breathless state of need, and the orgasm I needed so much. I would have begged, would have clawed at him, but I was pressed back with my legs bent under me, one of his big hands on my thigh, the other teasing between my thighs with deliberate touches that made my body throb.

  He bent his head, fastened his mouth over my nipple and drew on it hard and deep, his hot velvet tongue working its magic. I writhed and twisted under him, my fists gripping the sheets like I was afraid I’d lift right off the bed if I didn’t hold on tightly enough.

  At once, he reared up off of me and I saw it, his jutting cock, impossibly big and rigid just before he plunged it into me. I cried out at the hardness and the size of him as he filled my pussy, stretching me, making me fit him. It felt wet and slick, hot and filthy in the best way. He held my thighs down and thrust into me, pumping hard and fast. Something animalistic in me responded to it, to his alpha dominance, trusting that he knew my body and what I needed, that he would bring me the greatest pleasure a woman had ever known.

  Brett fucked me so thoroughly I was sobbing with the intensity, with the unbearable tension of the orgasm I was on the edge of. I found the strength to let go of the sheets, to bury my fingers in his hair. He slowed his thrusts, bent his head to kiss me in response. His kiss was rough and tender at the same time, flooding me with desire and love all at once. His mouth rocked over mine, his tongue stroking in my mouth to the same rhythm as his cock moving in and out of my quivering, slick pussy.

  Then his fingers slid between us, slipping along my swollen clit, pinching and plucking it until I screamed, arching off the bed as he surged into me with a final, powerful thrust. I felt him spill inside me, heard the roar he made with his climax and it made me come again instantly. I was still riding the waves of one orgasm when his completion made me come even harder. I felt my body tense, the quick waves of release wringing me out, leaving me weak with the throbbing aftermath of incredible pleasure.

  Even as he came down from his own orgasm, Brett caught me in his arms and held me against him, his cock still wet inside me, as he crushed me against his chest. I clung to him, weak and exhausted, more satisfied than I’d ever dreamed of being.

  18

  I slept late and worked the next day on article topics after a long, leisurely shower. I’d used the strawberry scented shower gel and conditioned my hair. I lingered, luxuriating in happy afterglow. There had been a bag of fresh bagels on the counter when I woke, and I munched on one while I tried to come up with items for my list to submit to Liz Markham.

  I wanted to do one on breakups on the brink of the altar like poor Sadie’s. That was my first choice. Then I vetoed a lot of my own ideas as boring or repetitive, knowing that sex was what really sold, and what the readers were looking for. Hours later I still only had one of the three topics decided on. I tentatively put down an idea about threesomes, but wondered if it was too racy. I had to compartmentalize what I did in my private life so it didn’t spill over into my work. I settled on taboo sexual fantasies for the third subject, thinking that probably there would be lots of cops and firemen on the fantasy list. I could attest personally to it. I nearly had to fan myself thinking about it.

  Work was uneventful. I used my break to call Ainsley and catch her up on the details of my spec article and get her opinion. I texted my dad that things were going really well with the internship. I left the bar shift early to cover for a waitress who got sick and had to leave. The tips weren’t as good, but there was more downtime than I had at the bar. I also got off a little earlier. The guys drove me home and I fell asleep on the way. Derek woke me when we arrived and held my hand to help me up the stairs. I vaguely remembered him telling me we’d all have Sunday brunch together and talk about things. I slept long and hard. I got up early and showered and dressed for my day at Envy in record time. I was eager to see what the reaction would be to my list of topics. I brought Celia a pumpkin spice coffee and told her I was through with my article proposals. She promised to let me know when Liz was ready to discuss them.

  I made copies, tons of them, and picked up lunches and lattes. I sorted and stapled packets for an upcoming board meeting. Five o’clock came and went, and I headed for the bar. Clearly Liz Markham had a busy day and hadn’t had time to review my ideas, which was hardly surprising. I had to cover for the same waitress again, so I didn’t get to joke around with Cammie and Jason, but I got off work earlier than usual for the second night in a row. Brett showed up alone to pick me up.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. Where’s Derek?”

  “He’s baking. He decided to make brownies, and they weren’t done in time to come along to get you.”

  “Baking?” I asked, with my eyebrows raised.

  Brett laughed. “Could you imagine? No, he’s watching the end of the game. I told him I’d come get you,” Brett said, cracking a smile.

  “That sounds more like it,” I said.

  “Are you really that disappointed it’s just me?” he asked, looking a little hurt.

  I shook my head. “No, my mind is just somewhere else. My boss didn’t respond to the list of article topics I sent her.”

  “She’s probably just busy,” he said, pointing the truck toward home.

  “Yeah. I figured. But I’m so excited about it, I just wish she was so thrilled with my ideas that she couldn’t wait to meet with me.”

  “What were your topics?” he asked.

  “Breaking off engagements right before the wedding, men who refuse to use condoms, sexual fantasies,” I said.

  “So, men who are assholes, men who are assholes and will never get laid, and women fantasizing about men who are NOT assholes for a change?” Brett quipped.

  “Basically,” I replied, laughing.

  We filled the short drive home with small talk. Brett told me about their shift on patrol, and I told him how bored I was making copies and fetching coffee. He reached over and took my hand in his, lifting it to his mouth for a gentle kiss.

  “It will all pay off, I know it will,” he said sincerely.

  Once home, I went upstairs and ate a bowl of cereal, sitting down on Brett’s recliner while he worked out. I asked Derek about the game, about his day at work. We chatted for a bit, and when he got up for a beer, I changed the channel to a game show I liked. Soon all three of us were clustered at the TV, shouting answers and criticizing the idiot who lost a chance at a million dollars. There was another episode on after that one and before we knew it, it was midnight.

  I kissed them both good night and went to bed. They were scheduled to work that weekend, which was good because I needed some time to sort out exactly what I was feeling. I knew that this thing with them wasn’t just fun anymore. I was catching real feelings for both of them.

  The next day, Celia called me to go to Liz Markham’s office. I was excited to hear her feedback, knowing that my inclusion of ‘taboo fa
ntasies’ was sure to keep her from renewing criticism that I’d played it safe in my writing. It would take a lot of courage and curiosity to interview women about the fantasies they kept secret, to do that kind of research. I strode into her office, more confident than I’d been before. I had addressed her suggestions and had chosen topics I would normally have shied away from. I’d have to tell the guys later that they’d given me a confidence boost, made me feel more aware of my sexuality, and that it was helping me at work.

  I took the seat she indicated. I crossed my ankles and kept my head high. My hands weren’t as sweaty as they had been the last time. Maybe I was beginning to think of myself as a real writer, as someone of value to Envy. I waited for her to begin instead of eagerly asking what she thought. I had to show poise, professionalism.

  “Lynette,” she said, removing her glasses, “I reviewed your short list of topics with the intent of selecting one to develop into an article with you. To be honest, I had hoped for more from you. I think from the quality of your research that you have a good brain and some promise as a writer, but it’s possible that you’re not ready for such a step. I believe at this point, due to the underwhelming nature of your subjects, you’d be best assigned to the research division working on source gathering for topics already approved.”

  “But, Liz,” I said boldly, “I even included an idea on sexual fantasies.”

  “Yes, and if you were trying to write for a teen magazine, that might be considered daring. Your subjects were far tamer than anything we would feature in a newsstand issue. And our online readers are accustomed to more provocative content than what goes to print. When I told you to push your boundaries, I suppose I misjudged where your boundaries lie. I would never ask an intern or employee to do something that made him or her truly uncomfortable or that violated their beliefs. That being said, it would seem that your talent will lie elsewhere.”

  “Please don’t dismiss me. Don’t stick me in research. I’ll do research if that’s all you think I’m capable of, but with all respect, you’d be wrong. If the ideas were too tame, I’ll generate wilder ones. Give me the weekend to improve on this. I want very much to write for Envy.”

  “That’s both flattering and somewhat surprising, since you chose topics as if you’d never read the magazine.”

  “I’ve read every issue since I was eighteen!” I protested.

  “Then you should have a better eye for what makes it into the magazine, Lynette. Look at our archives some more, make sure you’re not editing out ideas based on what your family will think of them.”

  I dropped my gaze. Maybe I had been worried about what my dad would think the first time he saw my name on an article about condoms or nipple piercings. He’d be ashamed of me. He’d say he should’ve made me go to church more.

  “I’ll give that some thought. I appreciate your willingness to give me another chance. I can do better.”

  “I hope so,” Liz said, standing to indicate I was dismissed.

  I was so disappointed. I went straight to the ladies room and sat in a stall. I was sick to my stomach and thoroughly upset. How could I have thought that editor extraordinaire Liz Markham would think my sex fantasy idea was edgy enough to put in the magazine? I knew better. I knew this audience and this magazine. I just had to quit acting uptight about it. God knows I wasn’t acting uptight in my private life.

  I sniffed and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to stop the tears. I was not going to be one of those women who couldn’t take criticism. If I was going to be a writer, a successful one, I’d have to develop a thicker skin. I’d have to put up with dissatisfied editors, revisions, Internet trolls. So whimpering in a bathroom stall wasn’t going to become a habit. Just as soon as I finished crying. Because my ultimate icon had told me I was too tame and a disappointment. A girl doesn’t just bounce right back from that.

  I fumbled with my phone, texted Derek and Brett. “Liz hates my ideas, too tame. Hiding in bathroom stall crying.”

  I swiped under my eyes with toilet paper to clean up the running eye makeup mess. My phone pinged and Derek had replied: Want me to kick her ass for you? I laughed, a watery, self-pitying laugh, but still, the guy could make me smile when I was down.

  I’m sure we can figure out some way to dirty up your mind later, Brett chimed in. I snorted.

  I blew out a breath and straightened my shoulders. Enough feeling sorry for myself. I had shit to do.

  I knew I couldn’t splash my face although it would’ve felt good—I wore way too much makeup to the Envy offices to get away without a streaky mess. I just fixed my high ponytail and went back to the elevator to ride down to the level where I had a stack of copies to make.

  I was glad it was my night off at the bar. I was able to go home and do research, expand my horizons. I checked out web sites that Liz had recommended when she gave me the assignment. I combed through the recent online issues of Envy again. As much as I laughed over the true stories from the emergency room about sexual mishaps and the real-life profile of college girls who’d survived melanoma after using tanning beds, I wanted to write about something less salacious. Yet, if I really wanted to write hard news instead of human interest and celebrity stuff, I wouldn’t have been so eager to work for my favorite magazine. I knew what kind of articles they featured. I just thought I could remain above the fray somehow, write about discrimination or even the new wave of romantic comedies, without having to face my squeamishness about having my name on an article about sex. Where my dad could see it and find out that I knew about sex at the age of twenty-two, and that I had maybe even had some.

  I wanted his approval. He was the only family I had, and he’d worked hard all his life to support me and make sure I had new shoes for school and got to go on the field trips. He worked on cars, fixing automobiles he could never afford. As long as I could remember he’d driven an old Dodge pickup that he kept fixing when it quit on him. I didn’t have student loans, because he sent me to college. I worked to pay my room and board, but my dad paid for every class, every book. It was a matter of pride to him that I had a degree, a chance to have a better job and a better life. Journalism was what I’d always wanted—to tell stories that were true. But I wanted my dad to be proud of me as well. I knew that my prestigious internship would cease to be something he bragged about once he knew what I’d be writing. That my first published article might be about dildos instead of women in higher education. That I wouldn’t exactly be interviewing Nobel winners. He’d be disgusted, humiliated that he’d squandered all that overtime on a degree for a daughter who reviewed nipple clamps.

  I had to decide what I wanted more—success at Envy or to realize my own true dreams that I saw for myself and my future. I wasn’t just about my dad’s pride, it was about mine as well. Did I really want to be the girl reviewing nipple clamps?. For the most part I looked on Pinterest and felt sorry for myself. Then I opened a bottle of chardonnay and got serious. The guys were working which meant I had the loft all to myself. I could kick back in my pajamas with a glass of wine (my second) and search the Internet for something that was more like a fresh perspective and less like some shy teenage girl’s idea of a titillating topic.

  I read some of the competitor’s articles and started clicking through the ads. The next thing I knew I was reading about a foam wedge that makes it easier for overweight people to have sex comfortably. I downed another glass of chardonnay and looked at the diagrams. I took some notes and looked up a few references—stuff about the average BMI of Americans in their twenties and figured what percentage of readers might benefit from such an accessory in the bedroom. I checked out some silly looking sex toys and one or two that seemed enticing. When I clicked over to Envy’s archive, I saw tons of reviews of that kind of thing and a few articles (mostly serious, a few humorous) about bringing toys into your relationship and some of the wildest ones on the market. There was a feature from a year ago about the best sex toys for disabled readers, the best positions for ove
rweight readers. So my crazy ideas were already a ‘been there-done that’ for readers.

  Not to be discouraged, I started checking out some of the latest stats on open relationships, couples that loved each other and lived together on their own terms, inviting another partner into the bedroom with them or seeing other people of any gender separately and keeping to a set of agreed-upon standards. I made notes frantically—some common rules were safe sex only, oral only, strangers only, same-sex only--it was baffling and fascinating. I guess I’d always imagined polyamorous couples to be the kind who threw their keys in a bowl at swinger parties in the sixties like I’d seen in the movies. To read how many people there were, people my own age, who made their own rules like that was really eye-opening. It made me think of a really good article topic, and I had just the built-in research team I needed right there in the loft.

  19

  Brett and Derek came into the loft quietly, so careful like they wouldn’t want to wake me at two in the morning. I was awake though. I had dozed in one of the recliners for a while, but I got up around midnight and looked up more information on the polyamorous lifestyle. I wanted to have a reasonable amount of facts to present to Liz, and a basis for my choice.

  “Hey!” I said brightly. I hopped up from the table where I’d been taking notes. I picked up my glass to take a drink, but it was empty again. I glared at it, confused for a minute, before I bounded over to the guys, “Wanna help me with something? I have an idea.”

  Brett looked at me quizzically, then cut his eyes to the wine bottle that was about two-thirds empty, “Did you drink all that alone?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Nothing. You’re just terrifyingly perky,” he said.

  “I’ll help. Is it naked help?” Derek teased.