My mother, unlike Marc’s mother in the book, was not a woman to discuss things like love and compassion. I suspect, in retrospect, that my mother was hurt from the loss of my father more than she ever let me know. She too was an only child, as was my father. Growing up, I always had her, and I never really took the time to think of what she had or did not have as a support system.
I sat on my weight bench, without protection from harm, and cried. I cried for my mother. I cried because I had lost my father. I cried because I had no siblings. I never got an opportunity to run to a pomegranate tree, rub fruit on my siblings, and get yelled at when I got home. I would, in a sense, now trade anything to have had a father scream at me and call me a dumb fuck.
Wiping a lifetime of tears from my eyes, I stood up and stretched. Although I knew that I would always be dominant in a sexual relationship, somewhat manipulative, and very slow to accept others into my life, I stood…open to the thought of loving someone. I stood sensitive to the thought of that person being Kelli.
Kelli had proven to me that she was everything that I had ever wanted a woman to be. She was willing, able, and so far, had been open-minded enough to consider all that I had exposed her to. I certainly had not exposed her to all that I had intended to, but if her past performance was indicative of what the future held, she would do extremely well.
Excited for what the future might hold, I went to shower. I stood in the shower like when I was a teen, letting the water run over me until there was no more hot water left. Just stood and let the water pelt me into a trance.
I got out of the shower and dressed, sitting back on the edge of the weight bench. I compared my feelings to the same type of feeling I received after watching a feel-good movie, or a love story like The Notebook. You leave the theatre full of inspiration, and in a few days, that feeling fades.
I knew the degree of what I felt would eventually lessen. But how I felt about life, about love, and the potential of being able to love was real. I have lived a life with walls erected around me and armor protecting my heart. These things, as I read that book, were broken. After reading the book a second time, they had truly crumbled.
The helpless emotional child on the corner of the weight bench was proof of this. Conscious of my vulnerability, I made a decision to tell Kelli nothing. I would proceed with this relationship and see what she felt, and what she made me feel. If, in fact, she captured my heart, or stole my love, I would allow it. In the interim, we would continue a Dominant/submissive relationship of friendship and sex. She would be none the wiser of my epiphany.
The thought of any form of progress in this relationship both excited and scared me. We feared the unknown, and I had no experience with actual, loving relationships or commitment. The lack of experience gave me no certainty and that lack of certainty fed my fear.
My fire of fear was fueled with thoughts of Kelli and her willingness to provide me with whatever I wished of her. I stood from the bench. I had every intention of eventually leaving Kelli when we met. My thoughts now, of her being in my life, caused me discomfort.
We fear the uncertain. That, if nothing else is, is certain.
Chapter 10
KELLI. Trying to make sense of what my mind went through on a typical weekend would probably make the best of psychologists go insane. I think all girls were probably the same. We got up on Saturday, and even if we have nothing planned for the day, we struggled with what to wear, what to do with our hair, and what to do for shoes. After I tried on everything that I had in the closet for about five seconds, then tossed it on the bed, tried something else, and tossed it, and continued that for a half hour, I would finally settle on something. I did this for years. Only recently had I set limits for myself. If I couldn’t decide in about five minutes, I would default. My default had become shorts, a tee shirt, and Chucks. In the last two years, it had become somewhat of a staple, and my trademark weekend attire.
What I was going to do, and where I was going to go was always a struggle. I felt, for most of my life, as if I needed someone to make decisions for me. Having someone tell me to be at a certain place at a certain time and to be dressed a certain way was comforting. Some girls looked at it as control, but I looked at it as relief. Relief from making decisions that I normally struggled with. I’m like a duck on the pond; what you see above the water was still and calm, but what was hidden are the little feet that were paddling a hundred miles an hour. On the outside, I appeared to be a calm, intelligent, collected woman. On the inside, my entire life was a huge compressed pile of worry. Worrying what I was doing, if it was what was acceptable, and what people, primarily men, would think.
Until I met Erik, I really did not care, long term, what a man thought about what I wore, and where I was or what I was doing, but I did. I cared about their opinion and their feelings to a certain extent, by nature. I didn’t so much care for them. There was a part of me that I always wondered about and never really cared to talk about - the part of me that felt that I had to do whatever I had to do within my power to make a man happy. If the man was disappointed with me, I felt that it was my fault. It literally had the ability to crush me. If a man was satisfied with me, and expressed it, it was like Christmas morning. I would be so happy that he was happy that the feeling would often carry over for weeks.
From time-to-time I would wonder if this was one of the underlying reasons that I had never been in a relationship. If I allowed myself to care for a man, I would feel as if I had to please him. If I had to please him, I couldn’t tell him “no”, and if I couldn’t tell him no, I would be fulfilling his wants, needs, and desires. Making certain that he was always pleased would consume me and that would allow me to have no life other than to please him. Pleasing him would be my life. I knew enough about myself to know that if I cared about a man just a little bit, I would eventually be consumed by my own shortcomings.
To think about it all made my head spin.
Until I met Erik, I never really thought about it. The thoughts, generally speaking, entered my mind. On weekends, when I had idle time, I would think. When I got sick of my mind beating my soul to death, I would consume my day with activities. When I became still, or without tasks to deplete me, back to thinking I would go. The thoughts were always just general thoughts. What if this happens, Kelli? What about that, Kelli? Kelli, you’re fucking up, you need to drop that guy, and he’s getting attached. Kelli, Kelli, Kelli…
Ohmyfuckinggodmyheadisgoingtoexplode.
So, my idle time would be consumed by general thoughts about my desire to please men. With Erik, I was consciously thinking about these things. I was thinking about the fact that I wanted to please him. I was planning what I was going to do to please him. Ultimately, I was slowly becoming what I had feared for my entire life, a woman that is stuck and reliant upon a man.
And in my short time on this earth, I have learned that men can’t keep a woman. Erik, by his own admittance to me, wouldn’t keep me. We weren’t, according to him, even in a relationship. It was a relationship, but it wasn’t. As soon as I fucked up, or as soon as he felt I needed him to survive, I would be tossed aside. He would spend a month, year, or decade recovering, and on to the next woman he would go.
Even knowing these things about him didn’t stop me from wanting him. I wanted him more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. I wanted to please him, provide for him, make him happy, make him proud, and make him want me as much as I wanted him. The odds of that happening were slim, but I continued to feel that way.
When we first started seeing each other, I felt like it was going to be nothing more than a few good weeks of fucking; just some really good sex. After a week, I started wondering what my friends might think about him being fifteen years older than me. I decided I wouldn’t tell them how old he was, and if they asked, I would say that I didn’t know his age. After a few weeks, I didn’t care about what anyone might think. I only thought of Erik, and what his desires with me were. Fulfilling those desi
res were all that really mattered to me after spending a few weeks of time with Erik.
I was beginning to understand what it felt like to actually experience having loving thoughts for someone other than a family member. The irony in this entire situation was that Erik would eventually want to stop seeing me, and at some point in time the summer would end, and I was going to school in New York.
The question, I supposed, was which one would come first. For fear of Erik reacting with immediate rejection, I decided not to tell him of my commitment to my father or about school. I did not want this to end, at least not by my making.
Driving to meet Erik for lunch, I yearned for him to touch me, to tell me to do something. To hear him call me Baby Girl. To place his hands on my neck and squeeze it lightly as he spoke to me. To press me against the wall and have his way with me. Every time we met, he became a little bit more in control of me. Partially because I became more willing to try to make him want me, and partially because he was beginning to include more challenging sexual tasks in our time together.
Thinking of Erik and lunch, I began to tingle. We were to meet at Il Vicino again. A simple thought of that place made me wet. As I exited the highway onto Rock Road, I crossed my legs. His hands. His posture. His voice. His smell. His presence. Erik. Fucking. Ead.
Ohmyfuckinggodmyheadisgoingtoexplode.
Chapter 11
ERIK. It was cool for the middle of the month. Typically, in July, the weather would be in excess of one hundred degrees. It was eighty degrees and ten-thirty in the morning, but the forecast called for a high of eighty-five degrees. It had been a fabulous summer for riding motorcycles. We had received more rain than normal, and the lakes and rivers were full of water for once after about ten consecutive years of some form of a drought. The rain that we had received was mostly at night and had not hindered riding, as most days had been sunny after the previous night’s rain.
She smiled as she stepped over the small stone wall into the patio area. As soon as I saw her approach, I stood. Walking her direction, I opened my arms to welcome her. Greetings and departures for me always included a hug. Male or female companions received the same thing from me. If someone wouldn’t hug me, I was never comfortable that they were genuine.
“How’s my Baby Girl?” I asked as we embraced.
“I love it when you call me that,” she responded.
“I know you do, Kelli. I know you do.”
“I’m great, now,” she said, stepping back and scrutinizing my attire.
“You dress so simple, but you always look so good,” she said, chuckling as she said the word ‘good’.
“Thank you, Kelli. I appreciate the compliments.”
As always, I had worn a dark tee shirt and dark jeans. The tee shirt fit tight to my body, but was not a tight tee shirt. One of my pet peeves was to see a guy that wore what we always had jokingly called a shmedium shirt, a cross between a small and a medium. Clearly, most who wore a shmedium shirt needed a large. My shirts fit tight because of my body structure and not because I bought them smaller than what I wore.
“I love the way you smell. You always smell the same. The other day at work, a guy walked past me, and he was wearing that cologne, Yves Saint Laurent. The L’Homme. I actually got mad, because he smelled like you. I didn’t change how I felt when I smelled it.”
“How was that, Kelli?”
“You know,” she responded.
“No, I want you to tell me. Tell me, Kelli.”
“Oh, God. Well, I…I started thinking of you. Just, I suppose, in general. But my thoughts about you are always thoughts that end up in the gutter,” she said, smiling.
She was wearing shorts, a tee shirt, and Chucks. Girls in canvas sneakers, especially Converse Chucks made me weak. I always found the canvas sneakers to be a tremendous turn-on; probably to the same degree that most men perceived girls in high heels. Chucks, to me, were the same as an eight inch come fuck me pump. As I admired her outfit, I realized we were still standing by the wall.
“Let’s sit, Kelli. I have already ordered for us both,” I said as I took a step in the direction of the table.
I walked toward the table to sit down and pulled out a chair for her. I walked to the other side of the table and sat, crossing my legs. As we began to talk, I watched her mouth move, her lips form words, and her hands move as she spoke - making gestures to compliment the verbal communication she offered.
“I love listening to you speak, Kelli. The silence between your words annoys me. I prefer that you speak constantly and never stop. Something about hearing you talk comforts me or turns me on. Or both.”
“I’m glad you like to hear me talk. It makes me feel good that you say that, whether or not you mean it,” she responded.
“Kelli, let me tell you something. If I say something to you, I mean it. Always. I have no reason to tell you something that isn’t true. Do you understand me?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking down at her feet as she responded.
“Come here, Kelli,” I said in a sharp tone, pointing to the area beside my chair.
She promptly stood from the chair, and walked to where I had pointed. Standing on my right side, and looking at me with disappointment, she tried to speak. When she opened her mouth, words didn’t immediately form. She coughed and began to try to speak again.
“I’m sorry,” she offered, looking down at me as I sat in my chair.
“Bend down here, Kelli,” I said in a soft yet demanding tone.
As she bent at the waist, lowering her head to my level, I turned toward her. I reached up, placing my right hand on the back of her neck, and slid it to her hair line. Grasping her neck slightly, I pulled her head close to my mouth and turned it to my left, exposing her left side to my face. With my left hand, I reached across her face and moved her hair over the top of her ear. I began to speak into her ear, breathing in an exaggerated form, forcing my breath into her ear as I spoke.
“Kelli, who owns you?” I asked.
“You do, Erik. You do, sir,” she responded, exhausting herself of breath as she spoke.
“That’s right, I do. Now, Kelli, what are you going to do when I ask you to do something?” I asked, my lips lightly touching her ear as I spoke. I reached around her with my left hand and placed my hand on her upper thigh, directly under her shorts. I cupped her thigh with my left hand, squeezing lightly.
“Do it,” she said as her knees bent.
“You certainly will, Kelli. You certainly will,” I whispered into her ear.
She straightened her legs, locking her knees, but remained bent over. I slid my left hand under her shorts, and between her legs. She was well beyond wet. With my index finger, I began to slide up and down the length of her wetness. She began to moan lightly as my finger slid up and down, lightly touching her wet lips.
“Kelli,” I whispered into her ear as she moaned, “slowly rotate to your left, and place your hands on the table. Both palms, flat on the table, and do not move. Do you understand?”
“Uh huh,” she nodded her head as she spoke.
I removed my right hand from her neck, and kept my left hand in her shorts. She began to rotate to the right, and quickly realized - as my hand slid away - that she was going the wrong direction.
“The other left, Kelli,” I said quietly.
She nodded, as if in a trance, and turned the other direction. As she rotated, I pressed a little more with the palm of my hand against the gap between her thighs. As she began to place her hands on the table, I pressed my palm hard against her, keeping my index finger on the outside of her wet lips.
“Bend, Kelli, bend the fuck over. Put your fucking hands down on the table, and bend over. Do not move, just bend over,” I directed.
As her body bent at the waist, her knees went from bent to locked, and back to bent. Over and over. Like a child in a rocking chair, she continued to bend her knees, rocking her muscular butt up and down. I shoved my index finger inside of her up
to the web of the finger. As if I were pointing my finger, I slid in and out of her wet pussy, purposely causing my lower knuckles to bump against her clit as I slid into her deeply. In a barely audible voice, I counted out loud, as I slid my finger in and out.
Reaching to the middle of her back, I collected her hair in my hand. I grasped it firmly, and slowly pulled it tight. Gradually applying additional pressure, I stopped as her back began to arch. She had a faultless body. In this position, she defined perfection. Her perfectly rounded ass was pointing upward, as her knees were bent significantly. Her lower back was arched, and her upper back was raised, her palms flat on the table, her arms locked at the elbows. With my right elbow in the center of her lower back, and her hair in my hand, I pressed with my elbow against her lower back and pulled her hair to the left. As her head turned slightly to the left, I straightened my posture to speak into her ear.
“Kelli, I am going to count to twelve. Each time I count, I am going to slide my finger deep inside of you, and then pull it out. And when I slide it in, I am going to bang my knuckles against your little swollen clit. Do you hear me?” I asked, scanning the patio to confirm that we were still alone.
“Uh,” she squeaked in an almost inaudible tone.
“I will take that as a yes. You will, Kelli, cum on the twelfth stroke, do you understand me?” I asked in a low demanding tone.
“I, uh, I…don’t know if I…ok. Ok, Twelve. Oh God. Ok,” she said in short quick breaths.
Immediately, I slid my finger inside of her as deeply as I could, making certain that my lower knuckles bumped against her clit. As soon as my knuckle touched her clit, I pulled her hair taut. I slowly slid it out completely, clearing her lips with the tip of my finger.
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