by Brianna Cash
“There are other ways to eat cake,” she insists. “We don’t need forks.”
“How?” he demands, cautiously hopeful as he studies her face, wanting any solution.
She opens the box, gasping over the beauty of the chocolate cake with cherry and almond flavored icing. “It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen,” she murmurs, carefully unfolding the box without messing up the icing. Once displayed, she grabs his hand, pulling him closer, so he can watch everything she’s about to do. She brushes two fingers lightly along the side of their dessert, then over the top, swirling her fingers in the sweet frosting.
“We don’t need forks,” she insists, licking one finger and offering him the other. His eyes burn into hers as he sucks her finger clean, his tongue sliding up and down her flesh seductively, adding to the fire growing low in her belly. The one he started when he showed up with the cake that he teased her with for months before this meeting.
“Don’t you want more? More than just icing?” he asks gruffly, overwhelmed with all the feelings he suddenly has now that she’s finally in the same space as him, feeding him the cake he made especially for her.
“We can have it all. We just have to be willing to get a little messy.”
“I don’t always like messy,” he argues.
“You’ll like messy with me,” she promises, her eyes full of mischief as she breaks off a piece of deliciousness and places it on her tongue. “It’s so good. Try some. Please?”
“I don’t know about this,” he warns her, before letting her place some on his tongue.
“Eat cake with me,” she begs, her hand a sticky mess, teasing him with every move she makes. “Please?”
“I can’t resist you,” he concedes, completely giving in and letting his fingers sink into the moist, dark lump of baked sugar, chocolate, and flour. They alternate feeding each other, licking each other’s fingers, and nibbling at crumbs until the cake is gone and they’re both a happy, sticky mess.
To: [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Assignment #9
To build a fire, you’ll first need to do some prep work.
Before you do anything, you want to survey the area, making sure you’re not too close to anything that can catch fire. You don’t want to start a fire too close to trees, shrubs, buildings, etc. Once you have a good area to start a fire, you want to make sure you have a way to contain it. A fire pit comes in handy at this point, but if you don’t have access to one, you can build one with rocks.
After the area is prepared, you want to place some tinder in the center of your pit. Tinder is not the dating app. Tinder consists of small, dry twigs and sticks, possibly some dry leaves, anything that will easily catch fire and hold a flame. Around the tinder, you want to place your kindling. The kindling should form a teepee around the tinder, so the flames will catch on your kindling, but also for the tinder to breathe. You can’t have fire without oxygen, so if you smother your fire, the flame will go out.
The fire is ready, but you’re still not. Before you take a match to your tinder, you want to make sure that you have logs ready to put on the fire. Everything you’re using to create your fire should be dry, so it easily catches the flame. You also need to make sure you have a decent supply of water or sand, so if anything doesn’t go according to plan, you’re able to quickly put out the fire.
Once you collect these last few things, you’re ready to light your tinder.
If this all seems like too much, you can always try my brother’s method. Throw some garbage and a few small logs in the fire pit, spray it all with a good amount of lighter fluid, and drop a lit match into it. Depending on how much lighter fluid you used, you might want to stand back a few feet after dropping the match. And if the fire burns quick and hot, but then dies out, you need more garbage and less logs. And, of course, more lighter fluid.
If you want to keep your eyebrows, I recommend the first method.
Owen
My phone chimes as I read SD’s assignment, but I’m too busy laughing to look at it. Despite the ridiculousness of her story, I love that she’s merging the idea of me, her writing partner, and what happened between us in the Caribbean, together.
Has she figured out that we’re the same person? Or is she just meshing her version of both of us in her mind because she wants the writing partner, but is still wishing for sex with her island lover?
This is getting messy.
Just like the characters in her story.
That’s something she told me she didn’t want at work. But in her story, I’m the one who’s opposed to the mess, and she’s the one encouraging it. Did she mean to switch it? Or is she regretting her decision that we shouldn’t be anything other than acquaintances once we stepped foot off that island?
SD275: You’re always so literal! You should’ve written about a metaphorical fire.
Owen: You’re going to get a terrible grade on that assignment.
SD275: I know! But I’ve gotten terrible grades on most of the assignments and this was fun to write.
And to read…
Owen: It made me laugh. I’m still trying to wipe the smile off my face.
SD275: Did it turn you on? I know it was kind of silly… But maybe a little?
Owen: A little. When she first looks at the cake.
Or maybe a lot, because she was thinking about my dick when she wrote those words. She was thinking about how we didn’t have a condom that first morning in the hotel room, when she finally got me out of my clothes. Her fingers running through the icing made me feel her fingers trailing over my erection.
Owen: Also, when she told him how good it was. I can imagine your voice, breathless, coming out in an almost-moan. Would you beg me like that?
She already has, and the memory is enough to make me want to give this up right now. I want to tell her who I am, send her my picture, do something so she knows. I want to watch her face as she puts two and two together. I want to see her give in to her want for me and then find my way inside her again.
SD275: Depends on how good your cake is. What’s my voice sound like?
Owen: Your voice, in that moment, sounds like sex and heaven, all wrapped up together.
SD275: You know I can’t guarantee it’ll happen that fast, right? Or at all. It’s fun to think about, and imagine, but things usually don’t work out the way you plan them.
Except when she realizes who I am, I’m betting it will happen that fast. Because our chemistry is off the charts. Because she promised to give me a chance if it didn’t work out with her 736. Because judging by this assignment, she’s already trying to figure out a way for her 736 and me to be the same person when, in reality, we already are.
Owen: You’re doubting again, SD. How many times do I need to tell you to just believe?
SD275: I’m an addict forced into rehab. It’s going to be a while before I fully commit to this therapy.
Thank God I know she’s joking about being an addict. But it is a decent analogy. I’m pushing her towards something she’s not sure she wants, even though it’s clearly something—I think—she needs. Thankfully, she doesn’t insist she’s fine. Sadie’s actually open to considering this form of rehab, unlike my sister.
Owen: You’re almost ready to, though.
SD275: Maybe…
Owen: How’s work? Have you talked to your better-than-cake guy?
SD275: He’s tried. I haven’t given in to it.
I have tried. Many times. She’s infuriating at work, her eyes begging me to take her, use her, make her scream while finding my own release. But her voice and her words are polite, almost standoffish. She’s doing everything she can to discourage me.
I’ve got a trick up my sleeve for tomorrow, though. I’ve been working on it for the last few days and I’m not going to get much sleep tonight to pull it off. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.
Owen: Do you want to give in and talk to him?
SD275: I probably shouldn’t admit this but…so badly.
Will she answer my next question as honestly as she did the last one? It’s risky, considering she doesn’t realize who I am, and she already feels guilty for what we did on that island, but I send it anyway.
Owen: Do you want to do more than just talk to him?
SD275: Again, I shouldn’t admit this, but since you asked: SO BADLY.
Owen: Play it out in your head. Describe it to me. I’ll pretend I’m him.
Because I am.
SD275: There’s a closet down the hall from my desk… I would bump into him at the elevators, accidentally-on-purpose brush my ass against his crotch, then catch his eye before slipping around the corner…
Owen: You’ve definitely got my attention…
SD275: He’ll catch me, make me kiss him, and I’ll give in, pretending like I haven’t been thinking about him non-stop since this past weekend, but he kisses me so good that I suddenly want him again.
Owen: Non-stop?
Stroking myself through my shorts, I try to picture her. Is she lying in bed texting me? Is she at a kitchen table? On a couch in front of the TV?
SD275: It’s YOU, remember? Don’t get offended.
I wasn’t offended in the least, more like deliriously happy.
Owen: It’s the wording. Say “you” instead of “him.” But please continue.
SD275: We’ll be right next to the door of that closet, and I’ll open it and drag YOU inside. I’ll be wearing a skirt.
She never wears skirts to work. In the five years I’ve known her, other than the bridal shower where I didn’t know who she was, and our time in the Caribbean, I haven’t seen her in anything other than pants.
Now, I want to see her in a skirt more than anything. How short is that skirt that she’s wearing in her fantasy? Does it have a slit in it? What kind of material is it made of? What color is it? What color are the panties she’s wearing underneath it?
I silently try to picture her legs bare in our work building, waiting for her to continue. After several long minutes, I type out an encouraging text.
Owen: Don’t stop now…
SD275: Are you touching yourself?
Owen: Yes.
SD275: Me, too.
The image of her laying on a bed, her legs spread wide, her fingers working in and out of her wet heat, is enough to make me start typing with my left hand.
Owen: What happens next? Don’t leave me hanging. Not like this, please.
SD275: My phone’s getting slippery. It’s hard to text...
She’s trying to kill me…
Owen: Jeez, girl. Help me out, let me get there with you.
SD275: As soon as the door closes behind us, you bend me over and shove my skirt over my ass. You’re too impatient to take my panties off, so you yank them out of the way. Somehow, your cock is in your hand and you’re thrusting into me, not even waiting to make sure I’m ready for you. But I am. I’m ALWAYS ready for you.
Always? I might need to test that statement.
Many, many times.
If she ever talks to me again in person, anyway.
SD275: You fuck me hard and fast, making me moan loudly as I come, and still, you fuck me. It’s been so long since you’ve had me, since you felt me wrapped around your cock, that you hold out, wanting to make it last, because you don’t know when I’ll give in to you again.
God, I want that to happen. Knowing she also wants it is what gets me there, groaning out loud, pretending I’m in that closet with her, using her as she taught me to. My shirt—which I pulled off when she started her fantasy—catches most of the mess but, for some reason, that only makes images of her feeding me chocolate icing on her fingers get stuck in my head.
And it has been so long. Four days shouldn’t seem like an eternity, but when the object of your desire is someone you see several times a day but are suddenly not allowed to have, each day feels like a year.
SD275: You grunt right before you pull out of me, grabbing my shoulder, spinning me around and forcing me to my knees. Then it’s my choice. I can either suck you off and swallow your cum or wear it on my skin for the rest of the day.
Christ!
Breathing hard at her hot, dirty words, at the idea that she’d ever want to do that, wear my cum, I stroke myself again. There’s no way I’ll be ready again this soon, not without her here in front of me, but her words make me want her more than ever.
Of course, that’s when she’s going to stop narrating to me. I laugh, shaking my head. She’s still intentionally leaving me hanging.
Owen: Which did you chose?
SD275: Did you already cum?
Owen: Maybe…
SD275: Where did it happen in your mind?
Owen: Inside you.
SD275: Dangerous choice, 736. There were no forks in my story.
Laughing again, I type out another question, even though I should be trying to get some sleep.
Owen: Did YOU cum?
SD275: Definitely. It was good. Not a ten, but considering you’re not actually here, I’m going to give you a pretty high score anyway.
Owen: Were you imaging him or me?
It doesn’t matter, we’re the same person, but I want inside her head. Is she picturing me? Or is she picturing someone else, some nameless person she’s hoping to meet soon? As crazy as it sounds, I’m already jealous of anyone she’s picturing that isn’t me. Even if this other person doesn’t have any distinct features and is completely imaginary.
SD275: Were you imagining your girl from last weekend or me?
I type out a dangerous reply, then add to it so she doesn’t freak out or get more information than she’s ready for.
Owen: You’re the same. In my mind.
SD275: There’s no one else like me.
Owen: I’m well aware, SD. But I don’t usually fantasize about 92-year-old women, and you don’t want to give up your anonymity yet.
SD275: I don’t want you to imagine her.
Even if I’m jealous of whoever she’s imaging me to be, I don’t want her to be. I’m picturing her, the one and only Sadie Dietrich. I’ll gladly give up the act, right now. I want to. I’m desperate to.
Owen: Send me your picture. I’ll send you mine.
SD275: Too soon.
I sigh, crawling into bed and tapping out a reply, missing her warmth, and the way she fit so easily against my side. Has it really only been four days since I’ve touched her? Woken up with her? Made her smile and reach for me? Had her pressed against me, even as she grabbed for a condom and lazily rolled on top of me?
Owen: Then know that I’m thinking about you and your words. Your attitude and your sarcasm. Your refusal to finish anything with me. Your defensive lies about yourself, and your truths and insights about my life. Your determined strength, but also the vulnerability you’ve started to show me... It doesn’t matter who I picture; in my mind, it’s our playful banter and what I know about you that makes you special.
SD275: Even as you fuck me?
Owen: Especially while I’m inside you.
She doesn’t reply for a long time, but when she does, I chuckle to myself. I should’ve been able to guess.
SD275: I wore some of you, wanting to feel the sticky residue of your need for me like a badge of honor. But I also love your cock in my mouth, so I chose both. I like to have my cake and eat it, too.
Chapter 21
Sadie
Finally, the weekend!
Sure, it’s only Friday morning, but that’s still the start of the weekend. I just need to get through today and I’m golden.
I have no plans for this weekend. Not a single one.
Ok, maybe one.
Lounging around my empty apartment, because who knows when I’ll get to again after my new roommate moves in next week, and doing whatever the fuck I want, all weekend long.
Want to order Chinese food at three in the afternoon? Done. Want to walk around in my b
irthday suit? Done. Want to dance to loud music at two in the morning? Done. Want to make a disaster of the kitchen and attempt to make a boxed cake because I’m still obsessing about eating a certain chocolate dessert with 736? Can’t fucking wait.
Jamison texted me last night, before my writing class started. I told him we were over, and he needed to move on. He called me immediately, wanting to know why.
We were in a pseudo-relationship. I get that now. It was a very lax relationship, but it was still a relationship. And I’ll miss his friendship, but that’s it. It didn’t go any deeper than that for me. Jamison can’t say that. He’s pretty upset. I feel bad, but what can I do? I told him time and time again it wasn’t going anywhere.
No matter whose fault it was, it didn’t put me in the right state of mind to write that assignment. I had to remember why I did it, why I hurt him when I never meant to. And the reason is 736.
And Owen.
If this thing with 736 doesn’t work out, Owen gets a very serious chance. It doesn’t matter that he’s younger than I am, age is just a number. It doesn’t matter that he once called me a slut; I had some seriously bad thoughts about him, too. It doesn’t matter that he’s not at all my type. With the chemistry we have, I don’t give a shit whose type he is.
What matters more than all of that is he’s sweet. He’s hot. He makes me squirm from across the room with just a look. He makes me laugh.
He was so good at making me laugh.
Who the fuck knew Owen, the uptight, polite, over-generous tipper from work, would wind up occupying most of my headspace after just one weekend when I stopped judging him and gave us a chance?
Wait... I didn’t give him, or us, a chance. I screwed him as often as possible in a thirty-six-hour period. That’s not a chance. That’s a fun opportunity I took advantage of.
Him still being in my head is only the lingering effect of amazing sex. It’ll wear off eventually.
Hopefully, before I meet 736, my mysterious writing partner.