by Penny Wylder
She lifts and drops onto me, using her knees to control my movements. I buck my hips, wanting to be even deeper. This, I could do this—being inside her—forever. Lia rolls her body against mine, maximizing the thrusts. Her stomach rests on my abs, and her wedding gown hides everything from my chin to the floor. I can’t see anything but her beautiful smile as she lifts and lowers herself onto me.
Fumbling with the layers of fluff, I reach between us, finding her clit. She whines as I touch her, shoving the front of her pussy into my fingers. Lia humps my hand, bucking forward onto my fingertips while thrusting back to take my cock deeper inside her.
“You are so beautiful, Lia,” I whisper. “I love being inside you, feeling your pussy around me. I love it when you let go like this and take what you need from me. I love making you feel good, Lia. I want to hear you come for me again. Once wasn’t enough. Can you come for me, Lia, and squeeze that hot pussy of yours around my cock until I shoot inside you?”
She clenches down and whines, a high keening sound as she comes. I made her come like this one night, completely untouched as I talked her all the way to a climax. With her pussy a vice around me, I thrust up into the wet heat, letting my control go. Snapping deeper, the twisting desire shoots through me, pleasure kicking through me so hard it’s almost painful. It releases in spasms, and I can’t move from the overwhelming nature of it all.
“Fuck!” Lia gasps, pulling up and off of me to collapse beside me on the bed. She curls upward, reaching down to try and grab at her pussy but can’t reach around the baby belly. “Towel, rag, pillowcase… Beck, help!” She turns onto her side, trying to keep my come from dribbling out onto her dress.
I fumble around, reaching on the floor for the underwear I discarded and put them between her legs. “Use these while I go get a towel.” In most occasions where we’ve ended up fucking, I would offer to lick Lia clean, but I know we are definitely running short on time now, and getting myself cleaned up after would be difficult. Given how easily she is turned on, I would also have Lia begging for a third orgasm, and she would hate to be left unsatisfied.
I go into the master bathroom and start the taps on one of the sinks. Grabbing a washcloth, I run it beneath the warm water, wringing it out and washing my face. I will likely smell like pussy despite the cleanup job, but I don’t mind. I love how Lia smells and tastes; I love pleasing her even more. I wet the cloth again, and I carefully clean off my cock that has a pearlescent bead oozing from the tip. I swipe off the come and wash out the rag again, getting it hot enough that it won’t turn chilly on my walk back to the bed.
Lia holds her dress up out of the way and spreads her legs, grinning as my spent cock jerks. “You really do like what you see, don’t you?”
I kneel in front of her, gently wiping her pussy clean, pressing the hot cloth to her between wipes. I love the site of her: puffy and red from sex, my come a white dribble oozing out of her pussy. “Do you doubt me?” I reach down for my member and start to squeeze, knowing I could probably coax it into a second round.
She laughs and shakes her head. “No. You sort of made it clear, Beck”
I help Lia wash up until she’s almost as clean as before I came into the room. When she crunches forward, supporting herself on her elbows before trying to get to a seated position, I toss my arm over her, pulling her back down and over to me on the bed. “Don’t go yet.” There’s still a little time before we have to go downstairs. I know our guests are here by now, but I don’t care. It’s our wedding day; I can be selfish.
“I just want to hold you.” We won’t have many more days like this, where we can just take time for each other.
With my hand on Lia’s belly, feeling our daughter shift position, I listen to Tasha’s voice ring out from down the hall. “They’re…Ugh! My dad is pretty busy right now. They better remember they have a wedding in a half hour!” I try not to laugh, not wanting to ruin my moment with Lia.
Music is starting outside, but I know that was the planner’s intention to draw people out into the garden instead of wandering around the driveway or inside the house. “The wedding,” Lia mumbles, but she doesn’t sound as panicked as she’s trying to.
I splay out my fingers over the lump moving around in Lia’s belly. “I don’t need a wedding. If we stay right here like this forever, I don’t need food or air. I just need you, only you.” This is enough for me. This is my everything.
Lia kisses me, a tender brushing of her lips on mine, and all I can think of is how lucky I am to have this woman in my arms. I tell her as such, smiling as she tears up.
“I love you. I love you even though you are sappy and trying to make me cry. I love you so much that I’m going to forget you just messed up my makeup, hair, and dress because that sex was amazing.” She blushes as she says it, grinning at me the entire time.
“Since we do have all our family and friends outside in the garden, we probably should go get married,” I concede as I hear Tasha coming from down the hall. She’s going to give us a lecture if we don’t hurry.
Lia fixes her hair and makeup in the mirror while I get my pants back on. We open the door as Tasha knocks on it, trying to look like we were having a serious conversation instead of fucking. I watch as Lia takes Tasha’s arm, and the two walk down the hall away from me, turning to look back over their shoulders. Time stops, crystallizing the moment as I remember prior years of them doing the same thing.
“Dad, hurry up!” Tasha points to the delicate watch Lia and I picked out for her as a Matron of Honor gift. “We need to get you out the back door so you can go stand with the officiant. Lia, stop making that face at my dad so he’ll actually get his butt in gear. Don’t think I don’t know what you two were doing in there. I can’t believe you couldn’t even wait a few hours to do it after the ceremony and reception.”
Lia feigns a contrite expression as Tasha berates us, but the way she keeps glancing at me lessens the effect. “Beck, we’re going to be late to our own wedding!” She skips ahead to the stairwell and makes her way down carefully. At the bottom, Paul is waiting for her, staring at her dress and how lovely she is in it. As she takes her father’s arm, Lia looks up at me, smiling.
This was the love I was waiting for.
THE END
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Know what happens when you bring a bottle of cinnamon whiskey to a party? Nothing good, that’s what. It should come with an additional warning label: May cause extreme stupidity and drunk sexting.
I blame it on Emily. Who needs enemies when you have friends like her? She bought the booze and it was her idea to come to this frat party in the first place and practice at being twenty-one before my birthday tomorrow.
I admit, it started off as a good time. Several of my friends are here, the music’s perfect, and there’s a hot tub, so bonus. I’m a crack shot at beer pong and hit the best of all the flat notes during karaoke. But, as we all know, good times and good decision-making aren’t one and the same. I may or may not have butt-chugged Gray Goose with future lawyers and house wives. And I probably danced topless on the sofa since that’s what all the pictures on Instagram are showing—only I don’t pay too much attention to those since that shit can be photo-shopped. During all of this, I lost my shoes, and who knows what happened to my bra.
At least Emily is here to keep me in check. She has always been the responsible one—about as responsible as a toddler dog-sitting, but still, she’s a better grown-up than me.
She suggests a group of us get together to play Would you rather in one of the quieter rooms. It’s a game. No big deal. A game can’t get me in too much trouble, right? Yeah … right.
Her question for me is, “Who would yo
u rather fuck, your ex or his dad?”
Of course I choose his dad, because he was hot and my ex was kind of a douche. Thing is, I’ve always had doe eyes for older men. It all started with my dad’s best friend, Paul. He looks good for his age, a silver fox covered in tattoos, and is in better shape than most guys who go to my school. And OMG those tropical blue eyes and five-o’clock shadow on a strong jaw. Yes, please.
We’ve been flirting since I turned eighteen. He’d tell me how beautiful I was, complement my ass in a pair of jeans, or notice how nicely I’ve developed. It was all innocent. Never going too far, no touching or talking about sex or anything like that. But I want him. Bad. Just thinking about him has me pooling between the legs.
I lean against the pool table, looking around at all these young bucks strutting around the house in their polos and cargo shorts. I wonder which one I can use for the night. Maybe do some role playing, pretend he’s Paul, have myself a daddy fantasy.
A cute jock-type walks by with all his muscles and cocksure youth. His boner is about as subtle as a rocket launcher smuggled under spandex pants. The way he stares at me leaves no questions about his interest. Though I’m definitely in the mood, his baby face just won’t do because I know how this story ends. I’ve read it many times—well, not that many. Enough to count on one hand … and maybe some toes.
I see it so clearly: We’ll end up in his sock-stinky room full of pizza crusts and porn magazines littering the floor. The glow from his snake terrarium and the video game he has on pause will double as mood lighting. He’ll fumble around my body aimlessly and expect me to oooh and ahhh and appreciate all the pleasure he’s not giving me for five minutes until he gets his rocks off. Then he’ll promise to call the next day. I’m bored just thinking about it. So I don’t even bother.
When he heads toward me, I cover my face with my phone and pretend he doesn’t exist. He’s sober enough to get the hint.
I continue to play with my phone even after he’s gone. My ass is wet and sticky from spilled drinks on the floor. I move to the stained, threadbare couch next to Emily and find Paul’s name in my contacts. When I’m bored I like to look through our old texts. Birthday wishes from last year, a Merry Christmas here, Happy Thanksgiving there. There are pictures of us during a houseboat trip, and at an airshow. Unfortunately, my parents are in all the pictures too.
The whiskey has gone to my head and there’s no room left in there for rational thinking. Not a single consequence occurs to me as I type out five little words. I want to fuck you.
I show Emily. “What if I actually sent this?” I can hear myself talking slow and slurring my words. I’ve drank my body weight in everything over fifty proof and it’s starting to show.
She squints at the little screen. My phone is prehistoric and has a Post-It sized screen. When she’s done reading, her eyes go wide and she says, with a sly smile, “What if you did?” Her words are clearer than mine. She never drinks as much as I do. That’s what maturity looks like, and someday I want to be just like her. But right now I’m having fun.
Or at least I was until she reaches over and hits the send button on my phone.
“Emily!” I yell, jabbing at the screen, trying to get the words back somehow. “What the fuck?” I can be heard over the music and everyone turns to gawk in the hopes of a cat fight.
I stare at my phone, mouth breathing, hoping she hit the wrong button, but no. The text is there, right under his last text to me several months ago, congratulating me on getting my own apartment.
Emily rolls her eyes and tosses her blond ponytail over her shoulder. “You’ve been talking about hooking up with Paul for years now. I just did you a favor. You’re welcome.”
Turning away, she goes back to her game like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just ruined my life with a touch of a finger.
My buzz is DOA. Instant sobriety. I want to go home, but I came with Emily and don’t have enough cash on me to call a cab. Right now, I just need a place to disappear. I stumble to the closest closet, kicking at beer cans and stubbing my toe on a keg. Where the hell are my shoes?
In the closet, I sit among the coats and sports equipment, wondering how the hell I can undo this. For an hour I literally do just that: Google ‘how to un-send a text’. Apparently, that’s not a thing. I guess us fucking idiots are on our own.
When I finally make it back to my apartment at three in the morning, I stay up as long as I can, trying to finish reading the paperback I started three months ago while I wait for him to text back. I think about sending another, saying, “just kidding!” or telling him I’d sent that to the wrong person, but part of me is glad it’s out there. I want him to know. My eyelids grow heavy and before I know it, I’m drooling on my pillow and dreaming I’m being chased by fried eggs with a spatula—I have weird-ass dreams after I’ve been drinking.
When I wake up in the morning, I no longer want Paul to know how I feel about him. I regret everything.
It’s early. I always wake up early when I’d rather sleep in. My phone vibrates, rattling from one end of my bedside table to the other.
Shit. I can’t look.
Instead of dealing with it, I roll over and try to go back to sleep. Fat chance with the groundkeepers mowing the lawn outside my bedroom window and the neighbor’s parrot on its perch outside, singing it’s unholy morning song like some goddamned city rooster. It doesn’t help either that the sun shining through my window feels like a Death Star laser beam searing into my face.
I’m in a bad fucking mood. I also have a Godfather of a hangover and my stomach is in knots.
Closing my eyes, my mind goes straight to the ominous “what if” pile and jumps in it like a Labrador in a heap of autumn leaves. What if the text blinking on my bedside table is from Paul, telling me he doesn’t want anything to do with me? What if he told my dad? I would die. If the embarrassment didn’t kill me, my dad definitely would. The good thing is Paul doesn’t live in town. He moved away to the other side of the state two years ago and I haven’t seen him since, so avoiding him is easy.
I slam my arm down on the bed, mad at myself for being so stupid. Next time I get drunk my phone is going in a lockbox with a key, retina scanner, and most importantly, a breathalyzer. I won’t have access to it until I blow under the legal driving limit.
Unfortunately, I can’t lay in bed and avoid my phone forever, so I say a hail Mary and pick it up.
My entire body sighs when I see it’s from Emily. The text says, ‘Get up, bitch, time for some birthday pampering.’
Still no text back from Paul.
After dragging my body into the shower and brushing the dead animal off my teeth, Emily takes me out for a manicure. I try to stay mad at her for hitting send on that text in the first place, but it’s impossible while having my hands massaged. Sitting in the chair, getting my nails painted a bright shade of teal, I ask her, “Do you think it’s strange my parents haven’t called to wish me happy birthday yet?”
They always call first thing in the morning to wake me up on my birthday, Mom singing terribly out of key while my dad mumbles his happy birthday in the background. I was going to mention Paul not sending a birthday text either, but was afraid it sounded too pathetic.
“Em?” I say when she doesn’t respond. The entire time I’ve been with her this morning, she’s been on her phone. She has makeup on and her hair curled. I don’t know how she manages to pull her shit together after a night of drinking when I feel like a child’s beaten doll dragged through the mud.
“Oh, sorry.” She takes one last look at the screen before she puts the phone in her pocket. “It’s not even noon yet. I’m sure they’re still in bed … Maybe your dad took your mom over to pound town, if you know what I mean,” she says, thrusting her hips while sitting in the chair. Our manicurists look at her, then at each other and say something in a language I’m not familiar with.
I lean my head back in the chair and look up at the ceiling, trying to calm my roiling
stomach. “Thanks for that visual. I just puked in my mouth.”
After manicures, we grab hangover smoothies and Emily is back on her phone. I’m like the Hulk when I feel like shit and right now I’m fighting the urge to rip that phone out of her hand. I’m getting so sick of the clicking sound as she speed-types. Seriously, hasn’t she heard of Swype? I don’t know why she even bothers taking me out if she’s just going to ignore me.
She says she wants to go out to lunch too, but at this point I’m fed up and don’t even want to go. Plus, my stomach is still a witch’s cauldron about to spew forth some black hell if I’m not careful.
How is it that every time I drink heavily and feel like shit the next day, I’m always ready to do it all over again by the time the next weekend rolls around? It’s starting to feel like I signed up for college just to not learn lessons.
“Look, Em, I’m tired,” I say, trying to tamp down the inner dragon lady I feel starting to rage up inside of me. “Maybe we can go to lunch some other time.”
“Are you sure?” She sounds somewhat relieved, which only pisses me off more.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Can I drop you off at your parent’s house? Your apartment is out of the way and there’s kind of this guy—”
“Fine, I don’t care.”
There’s always “this guy” with Emily.
We head toward my parents’ house. It’s more of a mansion than a house, really. Eight bedrooms, five baths, a pool house. When I tell my friends where I grew up, they automatically think I’m some trust fund baby. A latchkey kid with a bottomless platinum card. But that’s not how it is. Yes, my parents are wealthy, but I don’t get anything from them. Hell, I don’t even own a car because I can’t afford the insurance and gas bill. My dad had to work for everything he has and he expects me to do the same. He thinks I’ll appreciate things more, and so far he’s been right. Everything I own I’ve had to bust my ass to get. I’ve scrimped and saved, and worked my fingers to the bone. Even if I wanted something from him, he’d never give it freely.