by Brandy Ayers
Or is he all respectful outside of the bedroom, then turns nasty and dirty once he gets a woman naked. Because I could get down with that. A big man like that could dominate me in ways that I’ve only dreamed of. The skinny hipster dudes I’ve slept with to this point have all been good enough, but none made me feel so wild that I freely hand over my body and let them do what they like.
Fuck, Micah could position me in any way he wanted with those python arms and tree trunk thighs. I’m five-eleven and a healthy size twelve, but I know he could easily pin me against a wall and go to town.
Just the idea has my thighs squeezing together and my clit throbbing. I never think about sex. It’s been so long since I got any on a regular basis, that must be the reason this Micah guy affects me so much. All that masculinity in that big package, talking about sex for two hours, of course all I could think about was climbing him.
Once the cab drops me off in front of my building I pay him and toe off my sky-high heels, padding bare foot up to my apartment on the fourth floor. Compared to the club and the street outside, my place is blissfully quiet. Up until two years ago, I’d always had roommates, but along with my promotion to features writer, I got a healthy raise and can finally afford to live on my own. Dropping my shoes and purse by the door, I shuck my clothes off, dropping them on the floor on the way to my bedroom.
Once down to my tank top and underwear, I slip my bra off, pulling it out through the armhole of my shirt, and toss it to land on the nightstand, knocking over the pile of junk that has been sitting there for weeks.
I admit, I’m a bit of a slob. At work, I keep my desk neat and organized, my files and calendar are meticulous. At home, I let it all hang out, and I refuse to change my messy ways. So good thing I live alone. I glance over to the things which fell off the stand to make sure nothing broke that needs to be swept up.
Nothing broke, however the little black box that I’d gotten in a product testing bag months ago popped open, the sleek bright pink contents now laying on my hardwood floor. Occasionally, the magazine gets products sent to us for testing in the hopes we’ll print a review. Back in November, what we kindly called “personal pleasure devices” started pouring in for a piece we were running in the Valentine’s issue. I never tested any of them out, but I still got the samples. If I recall from the content meetings, the one laying on the floor had been particularly popular with the staff.
Hot pink and curved in the perfect arch to rest in your palm as you held the toy between your legs, it looks innocent enough. At one end, a little cup opened up where you would press it around your clit. I picked it up, running my fingers over the smooth silicone. I’d never really used toys before. Masturbating has always been a side thought, a way to help me sleep or take the edge off in the middle of my cycle. Never really something I put much brain power into.
But the flesh between my thighs still throbs with the dirty thoughts of Micah from the cab. I knew from experience my hand would be a sad substitute for what the power of a man could do. Would this toy satisfy me more?
No time like the present to find out.
Slipping the rest of my clothes off, I lay down in my bed, grabbing a small bottle of lube that was buried in the bottom of my bedside table. Hope this stuff doesn’t expire.
The toy lays on my stomach, and I stare at it while slipping my lubed fingers between the lips of my pussy. At first, I just toy with my clit, preparing it for the new sensations I’m sure the toy will bring. The idea to turn on some porn or flick through my favorite Tumblr feeds briefly pops into my head, but I immediately dismiss it. Using a toy for the first time is exciting me enough, honestly. And the images I’ve been conjuring all night of Micah naked will more than do for inspiration.
Once I have the juices flowing, I grab the hot pink toy and slip it to lay lightly over my clit. With a glance to make sure I’ve got my finger on the right button, I turn it on.
The toy buzzes to life, sending sparks of the most intense arousal straight through my core. I gasp at the extreme sensations as my body arches, and I throw the toy to the other side of the room.
Holy shit, that thing is no joke. Laughing at little at myself, I get up from the bed and pluck the still buzzing toy from the floor. Apparently, I need a lower setting.
Reclining on my soft mattress once more, I cycle through the various patterns programed into the vibrator, then adjust the intensity to be at the lowest setting.
This time, I don't put it right on my clit to start. Instead, I sweep it up and down the folds of my pussy, gasping and pulsing my hips against the firm silicone. An image of Micah, with his head buried between my thighs fills my mind. His beard would tickle the insides of my legs as he licked up and down the path the toy is currently on.
With each stroke, I come closer to my clit, until I’m circling it with the toy. A deep pull low in my belly, almost behind my navel tightens until it feels like everything in my body will snap. I imagine Micah sucking my clit into his mouth, flicking at it with his tensed tongue.
Panting, hips twisting on the bed, pleasure this intense can’t be healthy. I’ve never felt anything even close to this. Then I settle the little cup over my clit once more and thought becomes near impossible. Everything in my body curls up for a split second before my legs fly out and my head throws back, the rioting nerve endings of my body contracting and twitching.
This orgasm is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Not a gentle swell slowly building, but a great, big, crashing earthquake which comes out of nowhere. Even through the most incredible climax of my life, something is missing. My inner walls clamp down, searching for something to fill me. For Micah to fill me. But he isn’t here, so the emptiness just goes on and on as I come.
Shaking and exhausted from a single orgasm, I look at the toy now silent in my hands. “Well, no wonder this thing was all anyone could talk about. Holy shit.”
On shaky legs, I take the pink god of orgasms over to the sink, washing it off with a little soap and water. I make a mental note to look up if I should even be using hand soap on a sex toy, then tuck it away in my medicine cabinet for safe keeping.
A giant yawn stretches my mouth, and I throw on a ratty old pair of shorts and a clean tank top, then snuggle down in my bed. Now that I’ve had an earth-shattering orgasm with Micah in mind, he will be exorcised from my subconscious, I know it. And I will be able to see him again on Thursday without constantly picturing him without pants.
Really, I will.
Chapter Four
Micah
“You missed a spot over there, short stuff.” Uncle Pete chuckles as he points over to the corner by the dart boards. The man never gets tired of my childhood nickname.
It isn’t one of those ironic nicknames mobsters give themselves either. I really was the shortest kid in my class until fourth grade. Then I shot up almost a foot in one year. The growing pains were no joke. The teasing even worse since my mom couldn’t afford to buy me new clothes damn near every month. Add to that, I hit puberty earlier than most guys my age, complete with a deeper voice, facial hair, and uncontrollable boners at inconvenient times, yeah, middle school hadn’t been a fun ride for me. But it was still better than the hell that came after my Mom died.
“Yeah, yeah. You think I’m doing such a shit job, then you get out here and do it, old man.” I trudge back to the corner, dragging the mop and bucket with me. We give each other shit damn near constantly, but truth is, Pete is like a father to me. I’d do just about anything for the guy.
“Wow.” That sultry voice that has been playing on a loop in my head since Tuesday echoes back in the empty bar. My dick twitches in my pants, but through the miracle of will power, I keep him in check. “I really thought you might have been trying to make me feel even worse when you said you were the one who mopped the floors.”
Turning only my head as I continue to scrub at the suspiciously sticky floor, I almost fall to my knees among the dirty water covered tile. Marci had been gorgeo
us the first time I met her in jeans and a blouse. But now, she’s a walking wet dream. Red pencil skirt which forms to her curves, hitting right at her knee. A sheer blouse that makes you wonder if you can really see her bra beneath, or if your overly hopeful mind is just playing tricks. But the thing that really gets me is the tights. Fishnet tights.
It takes every trick I know to keep my libido in check. Truth is, if all other things were equal, I would throw this woman down on the nearest table and devour her until she broke every single glass in the place while screaming my name.
But all things aren’t equal, and I have no interest in a woman who thinks she can judge people with the barest hint of information. I’ll do this story, if only to prove that she was wrong about me and this class. And I’ll fight the attraction until the very end.
“Well, well, she’s on time today. How about that, Shorty?” Pete winks at Marci then looks at me with a knowing smile.
“Yup, wonders never cease to exist.” Turning back to the floor still in need of mopping, I shout over my shoulder, not wanting to look at her anymore for fear I might give in to my baser instincts. “Just give me a minute to finish up here, and we can pick up where we left off on Tuesday.”
“Okay.” A scraping across the floor lets me know Marci pulls out a stool to sit while I make her wait. “So, Pete, right?”
Uncle Pete grunts.
“Did you just call me Shorty or that giant hunk of man over there?” The laugh barely contained makes itself known in her voice, and some deep part of me wants to find a way to make it come out. Hear her laugh so hard she couldn’t breathe. See that unrestrained joy on her face.
Half turning, I watch as she leans over the bar, plucks a glass from the rack, and fills it with water from the dispenser. Her ass arches up high in the air, the slit in the back of her skirt almost showing me the promised land. Which is when I realize she isn’t wearing tights. They're actual stockings, with a garter belt and everything. I honestly didn't think women wore those anymore.
Biting back a groan, I go over the floor once more with the mop, hoping to shove down the need pulsing through my body.
“Well girlie, that giant hunk of man cleaning my floor used to be a short, skinny thing. Right up until seventeen.” The mischief in Pete’s voice is practically a fourth person in the room. I don’t have to wait long for him to drop the punchline he’s working on. “About the same time, you got your first curly hair, too, right Micah?”
There it is. Leave it to Pete to think it's still his job to embarrass me in front of women. “You very well know my growth spurt was a lot earlier than that, you senile old coot. You’re the only one that still calls me shorty.”
Marci’s laugh takes me by surprise. It isn’t the high-handed, condescending giggle I would expect from our time together earlier in the week. But a full bodied, free laugh. Fuck, I’m jealous it was my uncle who brought it out of her and not me.
“Do you have pictures? I’ve gotta see this. I just assumed Micah would have come out of the womb already with hair on his chest and thighs like little baby tree trunks.”
“Pete, you do not show her a single picture. She’s here for a job, not a walk down memory lane.” The words come out harsher than I meant, and I flinch at the look of hurt on Marci’s face. But quickly shove that aside. She’s the one who judged me, who assumed I’d be trying to get men laid with little consideration for women. She didn’t even bother looking at the information, just heard about a man teaching a class of men about women and figured something unsavory was at work. She judged this place upon entering it. The bar that has been a home to me my whole life. That my uncle and aunt poured their entire lives into, and she chalked it up to nothing more than a dive bar after being here for an hour.
Without another word, I shove the mop back into the bucket, sloshing water onto the floor, and wheel it back to the storage room. After dumping the dingy water down the sink, I brace my hands on the chipped porcelain and take a few deep breaths. I don’t care what face she’s putting on today, that woman is the same one who walked through the doors two days ago. Just because she’s laughing with Pete and pulling drinks like she belongs here doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. Or at least, that is what I’m going to keep telling myself until I believe it and forget the easy way she’s interacting with Pete tonight.
Once I have myself collected, I stomp back out to the bar, ready to get this whole thing over with. But that full laugh stops me in my tracks. Pete is sitting next to Marci on a bar stool, photo album in hand. Fuck. He’s showing her the pictures like she’s my fucking prom date.
“Oh my gosh, he’s so adorable.” Marci leans closer to the page, her almost see through blouse pressing closer to her skin and making the outline of her bra clear as day.
Annoyance and desire war inside my body, making me a little dizzy. Just before I make myself known, Pete speaks in a voice gentler than I’ve heard in a long time. It's the same tone he used on his wife when she was having a bad day. That voice makes me pause. He only uses that voice on people he cares for. But this arrogant stuck up woman is nothing but a stranger.
“He might not have been the biggest kid, but Micah always had the biggest heart. We always called him the protector. Facing down bullies three times his size just because he thought it was the right thing to do, and the right thing should always win. He has a big heart, but it is stubborn too.” Pete looks up from the photo, locking eyes with me from across the building. “Sometimes the boy doesn’t see what’s plain as day under his nose. Smart as he is.”
Pete glances down at Marci, his meaning clear. He thinks I’m being too harsh on her. Maybe I am. But the alternative is far worse.
Time to break up their little girl talk session. “Okay, Marci, want to give that interview another try?” I inwardly wince a little at my cold tone. That’s not me. I’m not some asshole who bosses women around and treats them like my time is more important than theirs. I need to cut it the fuck out.
Her back snaps straight, and all hints of laughter disappear. I hate that I did that. For a moment, she seemed so relaxed, not anything like the last time she’d been here. But we have to keep this professional. I’ve had one too many run ins with women just like Marci. Women who think more about the color on the bottom of their shoes than about anyone around them.
“Um, sure.” Marci stands, pulling her huge designer bag over her shoulder.
I don’t have the strength to watch her walk in my direction. Instead, I make my way into the room I laughingly call my classroom. Marci’s heels click on the floor behind me, and my cock throbs with each sharp footfall. There must be someplace between stripping her clothes off and taking what I need and acting like a total asshole and ignoring her.
I know there is. I counsel men every day on how to be good to the women in their lives. Not only in these classes, but in the private sessions with men who have been mandated by either a court or a company to come see me for their various indiscretions.
But here I am, wanting to take out my frustrations on a woman, who, despite maybe not being my type, has really done nothing to deserve this treatment. Not even her little judgey act that first day. She definitely doesn’t deserve me fantasizing about all the filthy things I want to do to her.
Holding the door open for her, I swing it shut once she crosses to a table and takes a seat. Her legs and ass safely tucked beneath the solid wood surface, I feel a little more freedom to look at her. Big mistake. Marci’s face is just as captivating as the rest of her.
“Micah, I really would like to apologize again for the way I—”
“That isn’t necessary.” I wince again, this time letting it show on my face. I really am being the biggest dick ever today. “I should apologize. I'm not acting like myself today. Chalk it up to a day full of hard counseling sessions. Sometimes they get to me more than I like to admit.”
That and I’ve been dreaming of her against my will for two nights, since the day I met her. Every time, I fuck that
higher than thou attitude right out of her until she’s a whimpering mess of sweat and cum beneath me. I don’t like that I have these dreams, but I also know there isn’t much I can do about them.
“Do you mind if I start there? I actually did my job this time and read up on you quite a bit.” With a shyness I don’t expect from her, Marci averts her eyes and takes out her phone, opening the same app she had the other day to record our interview. “I’m not afraid to admit I was dead wrong. And that I’m impressed with everything I read.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“So, I looked over the syllabus and some of the testimonies from past students. The thing I'm most curious about is how you came to start these classes. Did you just wake up one morning and decide you needed to teach men how to please women?” Unlike last time, Marci has a gentle smile curving up her lips, and her eyes are curious instead of calculating. The change in her demeanor goes a long way to put me at ease.
“No, it wasn’t as quick as that.” I pause, thinking over her question and trying to remember the point these classes went from an idea to a reality. “I work with a lot of couples in my practice. Some are unsatisfied in their relationships, right on the verge of calling it quits. At that point, it is a lot harder to redirect their course and come to a happy resolution. Possible, but hard. It began to occur to me over time, that if I could get to these guys before they reached that point, that I could help them avoid needing couples’ counseling in the first place.”
“Interesting that you want to teach people how to avoid giving you more business.” The humor lighting Marci’s eyes is damn near mesmerizing. I want to tip her over the edge into a real laugh more than I want anything else. She did it so easily for Pete. I want to know she can laugh for me too. As much as I want to, I can't make her moan, so making her laugh will have to be the next best thing.
I chuckle, leaning back in my chair across from her. “I’m not worried about that. There will never be a shortage of people in need of therapy in New York City.”