by Ora Wilde
My moans became louder.
I was twitching uncontrollably in bed, trying to contain the euphoric sensation that cascading from my pussy to every part of my being.
He continued... more passionately... more savagely... he knew how he was making me feel and he found satisfaction in it.
His finger stroked the skin of my inner thigh ever so masterfully with feather-like grace, further electrifying my senses. His tongue was just as adept as it slurped almost the entirety of my cunt, from the base of my urethra to the top of my clit. Every single centimeter he plied only magnified the intense need I was feeling... a need to be gratified... a need to be satiated... a need for him...
Then his tongue stopped flopping...
And as I was about to think that he was done, it speared the opening of my cunt with so much force that almost made me scream.
And he speared and speared and speared... going quicker and more violent with every thrust. It wasn’t the first time he went down on me... but it surely was the best tongue fucking I have ever experienced my entire life.
I was going mad with unbridled joy. My head kept tipping left and right as I bit my lip to prevent myself from making louder sounds. I wanted to speak his name. No... I wanted to yell his name... but that would’ve woken everyone up...
Then he hooked my legs over his strong shoulders and his tongue went deeper inside me, prodding and wriggling and tasting every inch of my womanhood he could find. He kept his pace for almost a minute...
And it happened.
A gush of mind-blowing rhapsody, quickly escalating into a deluge of bliss, culminating into one vicious explosion of consuming fulfillment... a kind of fulfillment that contents and wants... a kind of fulfillment that satisfies but continues to yearn for more...
More...
More...
“Oh please God... more... more...” I mumbled as I tried to wrestle with the manic exuberance of my coming.
He didn’t stop.
His tongue kept stabbing and I kept climaxing.
To the point of madness.
At the brink of my sanity.
And I wanted more.
Instinctively, my fingers reached for his head, hoping to grab a handful of his long, light brown hair and pull him closer to me, his tongue deeper inside me...
To my shock, however, my hands barely grasped his locks... my fingers slipping through the shortness of his mane.
Did he...
Did he have a haircut?
My palms tried to feel his face, and I felt hair where there used to be none.
I pulled out the blanket and saw the body of a man I barely knew. He turned to look at me, this short-haired, bearded stranger with gorgeously narrows eye that reeked with seriousness and sincerity.
And my heart stopped beating...
And I woke up again...
Huffing and puffing and panting and running out of breath, I got up from my bed and looked around. Even in the darkness of my room, I quickly discovered that I was alone... no one was there with me. My hand reached for my underwear. I was still wearing my panties. Damp, with my wetness dripping down my thighs, I was still relieved that my knickers were where they were supposed to be, untouched, unviolated.
Water.
I needed a drink, and fast.
I stood up and straightened my nightdress. I stepped into my slippers and went out of my room. I proceeded downstairs, towards the kitchen where the ref was. It was dark, but I was familiar with my own home. I knew my way around.
As I descended the stairs, I noticed a light past the counter where the fridge was. It was open, and the bulb inside provided some illumination.
I walked closer, and I saw the figure of a half-naked man, wearing nothing but a pair of white, drawstring pants, his hands rested on the sides of the opened door, his eyes scouring the freezer for something to eat or drink or both.
And I paused.
I have seen his naked torso before. But never like that, when the meager lighting slithered around his body, delineating every curve and every inch of his muscular form, making the tightness of his physique even more prominent and masculine.
No!
Snap out of it, Meg!
But before I could understand the urgency of my reminder, I noticed myself licking my lips... and I felt so bad about allowing myself to fall to such horrifying depths.
And I think I was too late. Before I could pull my tongue back inside my mouth, he turned to look at me. His face was as somber as it has always been. His stare greeted me without a smile.
But I had to smile at him.
I had to be polite.
I had to pretend that nothing was going on inside my stupid, stupid head.
“Was it good for you?” he suddenly asked, and I felt like a two-ton brick crushed my heart.
“W-What?” I nervously replied, wondering then whether I dreamt about that tryst or not.
“The little sleep you had,” he said. “Was it good for you, at least?”
I silently sighed with relief.
“Oh... well, yeah, I guess so,” I answered as calmly as I could muster.
“Bad dream huh?”
Uhm... not completely.
“You... well... you can say that,” I uttered instead. “Why’re you still up?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Why?”
“Too many thoughts.”
“Good or bad?”
“A little bit of both. More bad ones, I guess.”
“About the fight?”
“Among other things.”
Among other things? Oh crap. I hope he wasn’t thinking about our fictional love affair.
“You better get some sleep soon,” I told him as I went to the counter and grabbed my favorite mug. I was thirsty, yes, but coffee always helped calm me down. I decided to make a cup.
“Why?” he asked rather coldly.
“Training, remember? If you don’t get enough sleep, your body will just tire out quickly. That’ll be one day down the drain, and you just have three weeks.”
It was genuine concern, yet a lie. The truth was, I didn’t want him to train. I wanted him to back out from that fight. I wanted his injuries to heal... and I felt guilty because he sustained them by saving one of my students’ life.
“I’m used to it,” he replied as he closed the fridge, holding what looked like a chocolate bar... one of the few things he deposited on our freezer the day he arrived.
“To training? I bet you are.”
“No. To missing sleep.”
“Active nightlife, I see.”
“Hardly. I just... I don’t know... I just find it difficult to get some peaceful evenings most of the time.”
“Ha! You probably sleep angry.”
It was a joke, but the look on his face - with his icy stare and his scary scowl and all - told me that he didn’t find it funny.
“It’s not that,” he said as he shook off his irritation. “Sometimes I feel that I... think too much.”
“Hmmmm. Something new I’ve discovered about the Conner McXavier. What do you think of?”
“Things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Whatever kinds there are.”
“Good or bad at least?” A repeat of an earlier question.
He didn’t answer. He looked away, towards the road, past Mr. Henderson’s house in front of ours, to the stars twinkling in the horizon.
“I’m... I’m sorry if my question was intrusive in any way,” I tried to salvage the levity of the moment we were sharing, a refreshing change of pace from what has been an emotionally traumatic and socially mortifying day.
“Bad,” he mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Usually, bad. I think of bad things. Bad stuff. I... I can’t seem to get rid of them.”
There was sadness in his voice... the kind of sadness that seemed to have lingered for a long, long time... the kind of sadness that somewhat defined who he wa
s... the kind of sadness that he was powerless against. I felt bad because my inquisitive nature brought out the sorrows he has been trying to forget, so I tried to change the topic by bringing up the first thing that came to my mind.
“So... uhm... about Chantelle...”
Oh crap! Wrong choice of subject...
“What about her?” he asked, his brows once again meeting in the middle, signifying his annoyance.
“Well... you did bring her home, right? After that double date?”
“Yeah. And?”
“Did you guys... well... did you guys hit it off?”
He answered with a half-laugh, mocking with its delivery.
“I told you I wasn’t going to fuck her, right?”
There was something about the way he said the F word that gave me goosebumps. It was so casual... so natural... so vulgar in a reassuring kind of way.
Then I realized that talking about Chantelle might lead to a conversation about the preview of the documentary they showed at the press conference. So, once again, I tried to change the topic.
I thought really hard...
Something safe... something uncompromising... something fun... something about him...
“Conner?”
“Yeah.”
“Uhm... so, why do they call you Savior?”
The look on his face told me that he didn’t like that question.
Chapter Twenty-Five
CONNER
“So, why do they call you Savior?”
That’s so fucking swell! She just had to ask. Every girl just has to ask... either because they thought it was a good icebreaker or because they thought it meant something sexual. Like Savior... to save them from frigidity, to save them from years of dissatisfaction, to save them from their tired, boring lives by giving them a taste of excitement and danger and pleasure. The Second Coming, and maybe a third, a fourth, or even a ninth, as one of them - I forgot her name - most certainly discovered.
I didn’t give a flying fuck.
They could ask any question they wanted. I could give them any answer I desired. But when the fucking was done and I was through with them, I’d just walk away and free myself from whatever connections I fabricated. Some of them would get mad. Some of them would cry. But I didn’t care.
But her?
Yeah, she’s got nice tits, creamy skin, and a pretty face... but I never thought about banging her... well, maybe I did for a few seconds every now and again, but nothing that lingered.
Yet, thoughts of her haunted my every waking hour in strange ways that sometimes disoriented me.
And she asked that question. At their porch, with the cold air crawling all over our bodies which were barer than usual. She was holding a mug of coffee, and I was munching on a protein bar.
“It doesn’t sound like an MMA monicker,” she added with a smile... amused, perhaps, by the unseemly choice of the word as my fighting nickname, something that bordered on being blasphemous.
I let out a sigh.
“I didn’t come up with that name, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I told her.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” she replied with a restrained chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh... nothing,” she continued to snigger. “It’s just that... well... you choosing that word for your persona? It’s so weird.”
“What’s weird about it?”
“I dunno. Savior... that’s a word that connotes a lot of positivity, a lot of hope. It’s a reassuring word. It’s a comforting word. But you?”
“What about me?”
“You seem so angry most of the time,” she continued. She failed to stifle her giggles. The sudden burst made her snort.
“Maybe that’s because I am angry most of the time.”
“Okay. But why?” She positioned herself beside me, by the railings of the porch. Her eyes tried to intercept my gaze. I tried to avoid them. Her question will lead to more questions, all of which would be unwelcome. I didn’t want her to think that I’d be okay with that.
“It’s just me,” I replied succinctly, hoping that the brevity of my response would give her a hint.
It didn’t.
“Conner, I know you have... issues... when it comes to managing your anger,” she continued, much to my indignation, “but where does the anger come from? Again, I’m sorry if I’m being intrusive... I just... well... I’m just curious, s’all.”
Where does the anger come from?
I could tell her a lie, that I condition myself to get angry ever so easily so that I could channel my rage into the violence required by my sport.
I could tell her a half-truth, that my anger stems from my impatience and how I expect more from people.
Or I could tell her the truth...
That I don’t really know why I was always angry.
“Yes, you’re being intrusive,” I uttered, and the way she turned her head away - with crooked lips and shameful remorse - made me know that she won’t pursue the matter any further.
“H’bout you?” I asked her. “What did you see in that guy?”
“What guy?”
“The Bruce Jenner wannabe.”
Her sudden laugh made her snort once again. That made me smile, albeit smugly. There was something... endearing... about the sound of air that explosively passes through her nose.
“Sorry,” she apologized as she covered her mouth, her face a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “His name is Lucas, okay? And I don’t even know why you compare him to Bruce Jenner... aside from the hair.”
“Oh, hopefully it’s just the hair.”
Yet again, she laughed her beguiling laugh.
“Lucas is a good man,” she tried to defend him as soon as she stopped chortling. “He’s gentle and sincere and supportive and faithful.”
“And thrifty too, I guess.”
“What made you say that?”
“Vegas wedding? Really?”
She paused, as if a sudden spurt of depression took over her.
“What’s wrong with getting married in Vegas?” she asked, failing to conceal her sullenness.
“Oh trust me. I’m from Vegas. The only people who get married there are kids and drunks and horny jackasses who met in a pub or somewhere and want to fuck their brains out without having to go through flirting and stuff. You’re neither of those. What drive-thru cathedral has he booked?”
“It’s the same thing,” she reasoned out. “Getting married in church, with a grand celebration and all... and getting married in the Sin City, even if it was a drive-thru wedding... it’s the same thing. We’ll get married... be bound together forever... have a family... love each other for the rest of our lives. It doesn’t matter how it starts, right? What matters is what we do when we’re already married.”
“Heh! I once went out with a girl as idealistic as you.”
“What happened?”
“She became a lesbian.”
There was no laughter that time around. The subject of her upcoming marriage was something serious for her... and not the good kind of serious as far as I could tell. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be that morose.
I felt bad for her.
“Listen,” I started to say. “It’s my turn to apologize for being... intrusive.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself by keeping quiet about this.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because... I think you deserve more.”
I saw her swallow some air. She didn’t expect those words from me.
I didn’t expect those words from me. They just escaped my mouth.
“You deserve an aisle with an immaculate white carpet and tulips lined up on the sides,” I continued....
“I love tulips,” she mumbled.
“You deserve the most beautiful wedding dress in the world, elegantly long and embroidered wit
h pearls. You deserve to be ferried by a ridiculously long limousine... or a carriage pulled by two white horses... or a white Harley just to be different...”