by Jessica Ashe
All the players except Charles greet their adoring public just half an hour after the end of the game. Then they rush to get to the party and celebrate in style. I consider waiting around for Charles but he messages me to let me know he’ll be late and that I should wait at his place. He texts me a code for the door and the alarm, so I drive to his place and let myself in.
I haven’t spent enough time here to feel at home, so I just open my laptop and sit at the dining table instead. I’m not sure I can ever feel at home in a house this large. I’ve lived in a few places, but they all had one thing in common; a lack of space. Nothing about this mansion feels right. The walls are still largely empty, and even though he has a decent amount of furniture, it lacks the clutter you expect to find in a home.
I can soon change that. Give me a week here in the run-up to the finals, and the place will be covered in notebooks, pens, and sticky labels.
Charles walks in and makes a beeline straight for me, lifting me up out of the chair before I’ve even had a chance to tear my fingers from the keyboard. He kisses me firmly on the lips as if we haven’t seen each other in weeks. Then he just lets go, and I exhale seductively. Just one kiss has me dying for more.
Charles is wearing a navy blue suit, with a white shirt and pink tie. He’s practically bursting through the seams at the shoulders and around the arms, but he still looks so good I want to ignore the rumbling in my stomach and go straight up to his room. I’ve never seen him in a suit before, but he looks damn fine. He’s still hot and slightly sweaty, as if he threw on the suit straight from the shower. I’ve seen men look sweaty in suits when commuting on hot trains, but the difference between them and Charles is night and day.
“Sorry I’m late,” Charles replies. “I had to meet with a scout.”
“How did it go?” I ask.
“Let’s just say I don’t think I’ll have a problem finding a team to play for next year. It’s just a case of deciding which team I select.”
“Do you get a say in that? I thought you get picked in a draft and don’t have much choice.”
“I can still make a decision,” Charles replies, before frowning and adding “I think.”
“Who do you want to play for?”
“It’s not so much who, as where.”
“Okay, where do you want to play?”
“I don’t know. On a completely unrelated topic, where do you see yourself working after college? Will you stay here in Washington?”
“You can’t make your decision based on me. Besides, I don’t really know where I’ll end up. I’ll go wherever the jobs are.”
“I’m sure you’ll have your pick of the jobs.”
“I wish. I’m already looking at a life on minimum wage if I don’t start getting some decent articles finished.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re preparing an excuse not to hang around with me tonight?”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. “I’d actually quite like to relax with you tonight.”
I’ve spent most of the day not being able to get any work done, and I’m not feeling any better now. Sometimes it’s just better to write the day off and start again tomorrow. Especially when you have someone like Charles to keep you entertained.
“Relax? So you don’t want to go to the party tonight?”
“What party?” I ask innocently.
“The team are all going to hang out at a frat house. It sounds kind of horrendous, but if you want to go and make some sorority girls jealous then we can do that.”
“I don’t want people to know about us. Not yet. Can we just stay here tonight?”
I’m expecting him to be disappointed, but if anything he looks relieved.
“Fine with me. How about I cook?”
“You mean you’re going to make a mess of the kitchen and then decide to get takeout?”
“No,” Charles replies pointedly. “I mean actual cooking. I’ve been practicing, and I reckon I can whip you up a decent British dinner now.”
“This I have to see.”
Charles leads the way into the kitchen, and I immediately notice he knows what he’s doing now. Instead of looking in all the wrong cupboards as if he were in a stranger in his own home, he opens them up and takes out exactly what he needs.
Whereas he used to use his laptop, Charles now pulls out a hardcover cookbook by an author called Victoria Spencer and places it on a stand on the counter. The cookbook has sticky labels marking up at least twenty different pages, and the recipe he’s turned to has ingredients and directions highlighted in yellow, green, and pink. Oh my God, he has a system. I am so fucking horny for him right now.
“How can I help?” I ask.
“You can help me get this apron on.”
I laugh, as Charles flings his suit jacket over a chair and rolls up his sleeves. I fling the apron over his head and tie up the strings at the back in a nice dainty little bow. In all my fantasies about Charles, I’ve never once pictured him in a suit with an apron over the top. I will be in the future.
“Anything else?”
“Nope, just stay out of my way.”
“Yes sir.” I sit down at a small table in the corner of the kitchen and watch him work. I should probably use this time to write my article, but I just can’t take my eyes off him. He’s still a little uncertain, and has to keep checking the recipe, but I soon hear the sizzling of fish as he dips it into the deep fat fryer.
Good thing I don’t bother with dieting. I’d have to run a marathon and not eat for a week to make up for the calories I’m about to consume.
The recipe says the meal should take an hour. Charles is finished in ninety minutes, which I still think is a victory. He brings over a plate of battered fish and thick steak-cut fries which I make a mental note to refer to as chips from now on. There’s even a sprig of parsley as garnish on top of the fish.
“This is still a lot healthier than what you’d get at a fish and chip shop in England,” Charles points out. “But it’s not a bad compromise.”
“It looks—and smells—lovely.”
“You have to add salt and vinegar to the chips to get the full experience.”
Charles passes me a bottle of vinegar and a shaker of table salt. I sprinkle a few drops of vinegar on the chips and add some salt.
“No, no, no,” Charles says, grabbing the vinegar from the table. “You have to cover the chips in this stuff. Don’t worry, the salt will dry some of it up.”
I’m not even sure if I like vinegar on chips, but how often does someone try to replicate a British meal for me?
The smell is so strong it could cure a cold. The chips now look slightly soggy, but I dive in anyway. The vinegar hits me on the first bite. I nearly cringe at the taste, but after chewing a few times I realize it’s not all that bad. Actually, it’s quite addictive, and I soon find myself shoveling the chips into my mouth without even touching the fish.
“You approve?” Charles asks.
I nod with a mouthful of food, doing my best to keep it there. Good thing this isn’t a first date.
Charles talks me through today’s game, and for the first time in my life I’m actually interested in the small details of a football match. I’ve always known football is a complicated, tactical game, but whenever anyone tries to explain it to me, the details go right over my head.
With Charles it’s different. Not just because I can’t get enough of listening to him explain things in a smooth, soft English accent, but because he is new to the game as well. He explains things as he would want them to be explained to him, and I actually understand. It’s not enough to make me like the sport, but at least I might be able to follow what’s going on next time. That’s a start.
“Are you annoyed at missing the party?” I ask. “Maybe you should still go just to say hello to your teammates.”
“If the night has gone to plan, my teammates will be balls deep in some cheerleaders by now. At least, that’s the way they were talking about it as they lef
t the locker room.”
“You don’t miss that?”
“We don’t have cheerleaders in the UK, so there’s nothing to miss.”
“I mean, don’t you miss the easy women and drunken sex?”
“No, why would I? I’m sitting opposite an easy woman right now, and I’m sure we’ll have drunken sex soon.”
“Oh, will we now?”
“Definitely. More wine?”
Charles knows me so well. He knows that it’s not fine wine or expensive jewelry that has me dropping my panties; it’s a well-highlighted book, complete with stickies.
Once my guard is down, he manages to get me into bed with ease. It already feels more natural than it ever did with Brian. Charles undresses me smoothly, his fingers undoing the buttons of my blouse with such ease I wonder if they were ever truly fastened at all.
A hand reaches behind my back and suddenly my bra is loose, the cups gaping around my breasts and the straps slipping down my arms. He throws the bra away, and cups a breast in his large palm. They feel too small for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He squeezes them tightly, but stops just before it becomes too much. He knows my limits before I do.
He knows me so well it’s almost scary.
We’re still on the sofa, the television playing an episode of Mad Men in the background. Apparently I’m turned on by sixties’ sexism; who knew.
Charles isn’t paying any attention to the television. One hundred percent of his efforts are focused on me as he drops gentle kisses on my neck, my cheeks, and my lips. I start to undress him, but he pushes my hands away and keeps kissing me, only stopping to dig a condom out of his wallet. Apparently we’re going to do this here, on the sofa. I guess after fucking in my office at college, this is tame by comparison.
Charles pulls down his pants enough to set his cock free, and quickly covers himself in the lubricated silicone. My hands slip down the waistband of my skirt, but he bats my wrists away. Instead, he grabs me by the hips and flips me onto my belly, before lifting my ass up into the air.
“You have a fucking glorious ass. I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
I can feel his eyes on me, even as I prop myself up on the arm of the sofa and stare at the wall. The air is thick with his desire as he lifts up my skirt and starts squeezing my ass cheeks. His thick fingers dig into the flesh, until he removes his hand and gives a quick, but firm spanking on my bare skin.
The next thing I feel is his teeth on my ass, biting gently, and then a bit harder as he marks my skin. “You’re all mine,” he growls, and then bites the other cheek. My panties are soaked through and I know he must be able to smell my scent now. A finger slips under the panties, but instead of taking them off, he just slips them over one ass cheek out of the way.
“I need to be inside you. I need to feel that tight wet pussy grabbing hold of my cock and sucking me in.”
“I need your big dick,” I reply. It’s so much easier to talk dirty when you don’t have to look at the guy. The words just start pouring out of me. “I want you to shove that thick meat inside me and fuck me like I’m some back-alley whore. Fuck me like you hate me.”
There’s a brief moment where I don’t hear or feel anything from Charles. Did I go too far? Why did I say that? I start to turn my head when he grabs my hair and pulls me up into the air.
“With pleasure,” he whispers in my ear, before letting me drop back down to the sofa.
There’s another pause, and then I gasp loudly as he slams his cock inside me. My pussy immediately welcomes him inside as he thrusts deep into me, his fingers digging into my flesh and his balls slapping against my sex.
The pounding and the rocking back and forth are almost hypnotic. He’s rough, but there’s a rhythm to it as he fucks me into a constant state of breathlessness. Every breath is a battle, until he grabs me by the hair and pulls me up so that his chest is pressed against my back. A hand grabs my breast and squeezes hard. It hurts but I beg him to be rougher.
I grab his hand and move it up from my breast to my throat. He takes the hint and squeezes gently for just a few seconds, but enough that when he lets go I’m gasping for breath and wetter than ever.
“You like that,” he whispers. “I can feel it.”
I do like it and I don’t want him to stop. I move my hips in time with his, and he gets deeper inside me than he ever has. He’s not just fucking my pussy now, he’s fucking my entire body. Every movement of his cock is felt in every muscle. I’m ready to explode, but I don’t know how. It’s never been this intense before.
Suddenly his hand is between my legs, his fingers furiously rubbing my wet clit. Seconds later, I’m screaming, coming, and screaming some more. I swear. A lot. Every curse word I know comes out, as I beg Charles to fuck my tight little pussy.
He does, but not for long. I’m still shaking when he flips me over onto my back, whips the condom off, and sprays his load all over my belly and chest. He doesn’t stop until every last drop has been squeezed out onto my body.
I lie as still as I can while he goes and gets a towel. The cum drips between my breasts and most of it ends up pooled by my belly.
“I’m going to treasure this image,” he says, smiling over me. I take the towel and clean myself up, while he kneels next to me and kisses me softly on the forehead. “You’re mine now.”
I’m his. And I’m happy about it.
A good night of fucking does wonders for my ability to get work done. I wish I’d given into Charles earlier. I resist his pleas to stay in bed in the morning, and head to the office. I’m so used to my streak of frustrating, unproductive days that it takes me by surprise when the words start flowing onto the page. I have one thousand words done without batting an eye.
The article pours out of me. I’m not going to exaggerate and say I’m walking on air, but I certainly have a spring in my step, and that helps me write the article that’s been in my head for weeks now.
I’m still worried about what will happen when word gets out about Charles and me. It’s not just the reaction from other students that bothers me. I haven’t really told Charles everything about Brian. He knows I dated a guy who played in the football team before graduating, but he doesn’t know that the whole thing was a cruel practical joke with me as the victim. Charles is dating damaged goods and he stands to be embarrassed by the whole thing as much as I do.
It’s a small secret in the grand scheme of things, but Charles has already let me in on his two biggest secrets—his child, and his father. I owe him the truth, but there’s never been a good time to tell him.
That’s not true; I’m lying to myself now. I’m going to tell him. Soon.
That’s not a lie. I’ve made up my mind, and my brain believes me. I go back to my article and have a first draft finished by the end of the afternoon. I tend to write fairly clean drafts, so the editing shouldn’t take long. The tedious bit is providing a list of all my sources to an editor for review; it’s a necessary evil. If there are any weaknesses in my arguments, I want to know about them now before this thing gets published. The general student population might not notice, but anyone who interviews me—assuming I get an interview—will definitely spot any errors.
I check my phone and find four messages from Charles. The first three messages are him begging me to go back to his place to finish where we left off last night. This morning, I told him I wouldn’t be able to see him for a few days while I write my article, but now it’s finished and I have no excuses. Unfortunately, the fourth message from Charles puts an end to the fantasy that already has me damp between the legs.
Dana has made another surprise visit and dumped Gemma on Charles for the night. I don’t have a problem spending the evening with that adorable third wheel, but Charles explains in his message that he’s having it out with Dana at his place. It sounds like they’re going to try and come to an understanding which probably means he’s going to pay her more money. I’m all for fathers paying chil
d support, but that’s not what this is. It’s not even mother support. It’s far beyond mother support; Charles is paying for her extravagant lifestyle while she does everything she can to avoid looking after her child.
It’s none of my business, so I resist the urge to go around and get involved. All I know is, Gemma deserves a hell of a lot better than she’s got with Dana.
I head back to my place. For the first time in what must be years, I think I’m bored. I’m never bored. I sometimes do boring things, but in the age of Netflix and Kindles, the thought of being bored just seems unfathomable. Not anymore.
There’s at least twenty unread books on my digital shelf, and even more television shows lined up in my Netflix queue, but right now none of them appeal to me. I don’t want to do anything other than Charles.
I email him and let him know I’m thinking of him. I can’t say any more than that; I’m not brave enough to write ‘I’m thinking of you with my fingers on my clit.’ I know he’d love the message, but I just can’t bring myself to write it.
He sends a relatively lengthy email in response, which probably means he’s not listening to a word Dana’s saying.
I’m so angry with this woman. I’m glad you’re not here; I’d hate to take that anger out on you. Unless you like angry sex? Do you think you’d like another session of me pounding you hard from behind and pulling on your hair like the naughty little bitch you are?
I try to type out a sexy reply, but I just can’t do it. I desperately want to remind him that I can be sexy—especially when he’s with the mother of his child—so I adopt another approach. Apparently I have no problem sending sexy messages when they’re written in seventeeth-century English.
Dearest Charles, I sit here horny and alone, thinking of you. Name the plays that inspired me to write this short poem, and I’ll grade your performance. Earn an A+, and you’ll get a special treat.