Next Door Daddy

by Amy Brent

  And then it was over—her body turned into Jell-O, and Stella’s and Makita’s hands were the only thing keeping her in the seat. Around her, the people who’d been staring at her were applauding. Stella pulled her dress back over her breasts. “Welcome to womanhood,” she whispered in Alisha’s ear.

  Alisha suddenly realized what she’d done, but even though she knew she should be mortally ashamed, she only felt pride, a faint glow of achievement flushing her cheeks. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said, as she got up.

  The men who’d been watching her parted before her—one man slid his hand over her breasts but she grabbed his hand and slapped him, and all around them the men and women booed him. He fell back, chastised. That was the power of being a woman, and when Stella took her back to her place she realized she’d gotten her orgasm—and so much more. There was something incredibly freeing about having been truly seen and found beautiful—she fairly skipped up the stairs to her apartment that evening, wondering what the next day would bring.

  Calvin came over to her place before dinner the next night. She’d been expecting Stella again, which was why she’d buzzed him upstairs without asking who it was. As soon as she saw the blond curls, though, she knew she’d made a mistake—and that he’d heard about what she’d done last night.

  “Calvin,” she said, as coolly as she could manage.

  “Alisha,” he said. He had his hand behind his back as he came up to her. He had an earnest look on his face, now more so than ever—when they first met he reminded her of a puppy, sweet and innocent, and she’d thought that was a facade. But as they grew together she realized that it wasn’t just a facade—he really was a sweet man, which was why she hadn’t had the heart to break up with him even though he had yet to give her any satisfaction.

  Now, his face was strangely grim, and she found herself precariously close to hoping that he was handing her a breakup note. But instead he handed her a box: four chocolates from Godiva, and a rose. “Happy belated birthday,” he said, his voice sounding oddly strangled.

  She blinked, surprised, and let him in. It was the least she could do, given that he seemed disinclined to make a fuss about her masturbating in front of a crowd last night. She at least owed him a civil breakup, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel bad about it. He’d done nothing wrong, after all. He’d agreed to wait until she was ready for sex—he planned interesting and fun dates, and when they hit the dance floors together she could tell that the passion between them was real. His touch was certain yet delicate, and his body felt sensuous and strong against hers when they danced together—but he’d never been one for true public affection, and while they got hot and horny on the dance floor, the ardor never translated into their private moments.

  “I heard about last night,” he said, as she set a glass of water down in front of him. He was more disciplined than she was: no booze, no sugar, only whole grains if he had to have carbs. “That must have been interesting.”

  “Look,” she said. “I know you mean well. I like you, I really do—you’re a great guy and one day you’ll make the right girl—”

  “You are the right girl,” he said. “Don’t you feel it?”

  She didn’t say anything. They’d started out romantically enough, but lately, she’d found herself getting frustrated with the way he touched her. It had been one thing when they were first dating—she could forgive a few clumsy advances—but it was six months and he still hadn’t figure out that treating her nipples like the joysticks of an X-Box simply didn’t do it for her. She’d given him blow jobs that had him coming so hard and so much it looked as if she were frothing at the mouth, and tried to show him the kind of touches that would turn her on. For some reason, as gifted as he was at commanding the stage, though, he never quite managed to figure out how to please her, and after last night, she’d come to the realization that she didn’t need a man to make her feel like a woman.

  “Honestly, Cal—you’re a great guy, but you just don’t do it for me,” she said.

  “And you think you can get off for the rest of your life with vibrators?” he snapped.

  She flushed. After what had happened last night, she’d taken the dance floor with Stella, and the feel of Stella’s hands on her breasts, gently squeezing as Stella guided her to follow along with her movements, had awakened an awareness in her about what it meant to be touched. Alisha, up until last night, had been willing to accept that one night she would get drunk enough and Calvin would touch her and she would simply accept sex with him because he was her boyfriend. But now—now that she understood what it meant to be touch and be touched, and the power behind a single finger, carefully placed, simply accepting that he would fumble at her while she moaned and groaned and pretended to enjoy it seemed like sacrilege. She couldn’t lie to him or herself anymore: she was ready for sex, just not with him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, now. “That was uncalled for.”

  “I know I can’t get off with you,” she said, finally.

  That took him back. “What—what do you mean?” he asked. “We’re great together, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “but the way you go about touching me—it just gives me the creeps—”

  “I’m not the one stripping you naked in front of a crowd—”

  “I’d let you if it meant you could make me feel—like that,” she said, remembering how powerful, serene, and beautiful she felt, especially when she’d caught the eyes of the women that had been there. “I need to feel like a woman, Calvin, not like a sex toy.”

  That stunned him into silence, and she could see the tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she began, but he wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand and said, “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry that I never understood what you needed. Please, just give me a chance to learn what to do, and I swear, I’ll make you the happiest woman alive.”

  She’d never expected to hear that from him. Some begging, sure—all of her previous boyfriends had begged her not to break it off, and some of them had even asked for a last chance. But Calvin was so sincere about it—and she’d be lying to deny that she wasn’t touched by it.

  Damn it, she thought, because she could feel her own eyes welling with tears and her vision go blurry as she realized that it she owed him one more chance. Because they did fit well together—that was indisputable. And Calvin genuinely loved her—she could see it in his eyes, now, and the look brought her back to the times when they’d danced together, so perfectly in sync, his touch real and passionate. He could make her happy—and she owed him the chance to prove it.

  “All right,” she said, finally. “But we’ve got to see someone,” she added.

  He drew away from her. “Really?” he asked.

  “Look, you’ve had six months—if you haven’t figured it out by now you’re not going to, and damn it, I want you to figure it out,” she said.

  He bit his lip and nodded. “All right, fair enough,” he said. “But I get to pick. Since I’m the one with the issues about doing it in front of people.”

  She had to smile at his squeamishness—he couldn’t even say “sex” without blushing. “All right,” she said, kissing him. Her oven timer went off, a little bell that pulled her out of the drama that she was wrapped in. “Stella’s late,” she said. “Want to stay for dinner?”

  A week passed, a week where Stella came over to help her pick out a vibrator and show her how to use it. She lay in her bed after the sessions. Stella would insist that she be naked, and while Alisha was sure it was entirely for her own gratification, the feel of Stella’s hands on her breasts how gently her fingers parted the folds between her legs were so gentle and loving she didn’t mind being used. And when she felt the vibrator slide inside her and her body close around it as she flipped it on she was sent back to that night in the club, feeling the hungry eyes of the crowd on her as they eyed her body and licked her lips, men and women alike. There had been a feeling of inti
macy, as if she was sharing her pleasure with those men and only those men—as she felt the pressure build inside her she remembered the way Calvin touched her when they danced, how certain he could be. And when her body gave in—when the fireworks in her head exploded and all she could see was stars and her body felt like one big puddle of pleasure as it clenched around the vibrator again—it was with a longing for that passion to be made real.

  “I’ve got an appointment,” Calvin had told her. “Saturday. With a licensed sex therapist.”

  “There is a such a thing?” she’d asked.

  He’d shrugged. “You can find out a lot if you just ask around.”

  So now she was waiting outside her apartment for Calvin to come pick her up. He had a car—or rather, his parents had given him their old one—and she was looking for the old green Chrysler, acutely aware that, even though she was modestly dressed in a floral, knee-length dress with a cardigan and ballet flats, she was getting stares from drivers wondering if she was a hooker. It would be just her luck if a cop pulled up and asked her if she was waiting for someone. They probably heard, “I’m waiting for my boyfriend,” all the time.

  Luckily, Calvin pulled up before a cop did. She got in quickly, before she attracted any more stairs. “So where are we going?” she asked.

  Calvin said, “Somewhere in Harris.”

  “Harris?” Harris was the richest county in the area, the kind of place where shopping at Whole Foods was the norm and everybody drove a BMW. “Jesus, how much are you paying this guy?”

  Calvin cocked his head at her and said, “Actually, they said they’d do it for free.”

  She laughed nervously. “You’ve got to be kidding. I know you’re charming and all but you can’t be that good.”

  “Hell if I can figure out why,” he said. “At first I thought that maybe they’d want a video of our session but he assured me they don’t do video unless it’s a turn-on for both partners.”

  “Is it a turn-on for you?” she asked, teasing him now.

  He blushed and ducked his head in that cute and charming way he had, and for a moment she was able to forget the frustration of the last six months, the needs that had gone unsated, the desires that she’d only recently been able to figure out how to quell, but she couldn’t quench them, not entirely. She wanted to be touched by him—she wanted him to make her feel the way Stella did.

  The house they drove up to was at the top of a hill, on a long and winding driveway. A valet met them at the door and took the keys to Calvin’s car and drove it to a long garage at the bottom of the hill. The garage had six doors—one of them was open, and he parked it there. Alisha was still trying to get used to the idea that some people had six cars when the front door opened and her stepbrother opened it.

  “Mars?” she gasped. “What are you—”

  “Alisha, Calvin,” he said, bowing. “Welcome to Paradise.”

  ***

  Mars Tracy was a tall, imposing man, athletic and muscular, and he towered over Alisha and Calvin as they stepped inside, suddenly aware of how tacky and mean their worn clothes and scuffed shoes seemed next to Mars’ pressed linen suit and shined blue leather shoes. He’d lost the beard and gained a tan, which made him look leaner and hungrier than she’d last seen him. He wore his dark hair slicked back into a neat ponytail.

  Inside the massive carved wooden doors was a massive foyer with a sweeping spiral staircase white with an intricate cast-iron railing. The rooms of the house were closed off by doors, but there was enough art on the walls and the rugs were fancy enough for them to get the general impression of a latter-day Downton Abbey. There was a slim black side table with a small silver tray on it, and Mars, smiling gestured at it. If you please. It took a moment for Calvin to realize that he was supposed to put his keys and wallet there. Alisha followed suit and set her purse down, a little uncertain about what was going to happen now.

  “Follow me,” said Mars, opening a door and leading the way down a hallway.

  “So, uh you know each other?” Calvin asked nervously.

  “You could say that,” Mars said. “She used to date my brother.”

  Calvin’s look of discomfort would have been hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that she was feeling the same way. “So what happened?” Calvin asked, as they were shown into a library.

  “Well, she took him home to meet her father, and—”

  “He invited us to a family barbecue, and then my dad met their mother,” Alisha finished.

  “But your last names—”

  “We were old enough to be emancipated, so we kept our last names after Mr. Reyes married our mother,” Mars said, smoothly gesturing to the chairs. Alisha and Calvin sat down obediently. She began to understand why Mars had been chosen for this task—if someone wanted to back out now they’d be subjected to his imposing figure in front of them.

  “Hi Ally,” Altaire said, entering from the other door. He grinned sheepishly at her. “Never thought I’d see you here.” He was tall, like Mars, but slimmer. If Mars was a brick of solid muscle, then Altaire was reedy, sinewy, but strong. His hair was the same color and Mars’, but he kept it short and neat—he looked like any other banker and even now she was uncomfortably aware that if she hadn’t known that he was Mars’ brother she wouldn’t have known his name. He looked pale, as if it’d been years since he’d stepped into the sun.

  Calvin was starting to look even more panicked than he had been. “So you’re the one she was dating?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “No,” Altaire said, smiling. “Though I wish she had—Sol was never good enough for you, you know?”

  Two and two came together like a thunderclap in her head: so this was what Sol had been up to for the past three years. She knew he was a therapist, but she’d always assumed that meant he had a couch in an office, the same as any other shrink. But a sex therapist—

  Oh God, he’s going to be watching me have sex with Calvin—and if that didn’t set her weird-o-meter off then the fact that Sol would be telling Calvin how to please her certainly added an element of twisted incest into it.

  “It’s not as if we’re blood relations,” said Altaire, coming up behind Calvin and placing his hands on Calvin’s shoulders. He began to rub Calvin’s shoulders. “There,” he said. “Just relax. It’s not illegal—”

  “But it is sure as fuck embarrassing,” said Calvin, as a little sigh of relief escaped him.

  “That’s a matter of perspective,” said Altaire. “We all love Alisha, we want to see her happy. You make her happy, except in this one regard—so we make her happy. You see how this works?”

  Much to Alisha’s surprise Calvin nodded. She vaguely remembered that Altaire had studied yoga and was a massage therapist as well. No wonder Calvin basically melted into a puddle.

  “Yes,” said a new voice—Sol came in through the main door and closed it behind them. She gasped in shock when she first saw him—he’d bleached his hair to a luminous platinum blond, and it floated down to his shoulders like a curtain of white lightning. He was built somewhere between Altaire and Max, and he seemed to glide over the ground more than walk on it. Unlike Altaire and Mars, he was wearing a Nehru jacket, the high collar unbuttoned at the throat. He was dressed entirely in black, and now as he sat down across from Alisha and Calvin she suddenly recalled the suave patter that had charmed her into his arms. At that point, though, she had been just starting out with her career, and the relentless practice schedule and the exhaustion that she was left with took their tolls on their relationship almost before it’d begun.

  Still, seeing his familiar features—the aquiline nose, the sharp, green eyes that the other two also shared—brought back a wave of good memories. She’d met his brothers at that barbecue where she’d introduced her father to their mother—they’d all had a good time talking with each other and they treated her like the little sister they’d always wanted to have. Mars had taught her a bit of street fighting, “just in case,” he said. She
’d actually used it once—it’d worked, and the guy whose nose she’d broke had ended up with a hospital bill.

  They’d just been starting out back then; when their parents married they’d just started their practice, but she’d been under the impression that it was just a regular shrink’s practice where Altaire could teach yoga and Mars could do physical therapy in conjunction with Sol’s therapy. Sex therapy wasn’t something she was even aware of until three days ago—that her step brothers had gone into.

  “Let me tell you what’s going to happen,” Sol said, as Mars set down a tray of tea (when had he made the tea?) with little chocolates. “I’m going to ask you two some questions, and you need to answer them as honestly as you possibly can. There’s no point in being dishonest—I can tell if you’re lying and if you are going to lie Mars will kick you two out the way David Beckham kicks soccer balls.”

  Alisha nodded. Calvin gulped, and then he nodded.

  “Once we ascertain where we stand and what we need to do, we’ll take you upstairs to one of the therapy rooms—”

  “Therapy rooms?” Calvin’s voice cracked when he asked the question.

  “Rooms where we get to try out different things and practice what I’ve told you, in a safe space,” he said.

  “How kinky do you think we’re going to get?” Alisha sputtered. “I’m a virgin—I’ve never had sex with a man.”

  “You’d be surprised and how many clients discover fetishes they never knew they had,” Sol said, “or else they were too afraid to embrace them. Keep in mind, most people don’t like to talk about their needs—they’re told that such things are awful, and despite all the openness about gay sex and the recent uptick in interest about bondage, these aren’t the videos getting the views on porn sites.”

  Alisha fell silent. Calvin stared at his feet. He was probably wishing that they were anywhere but here—but he’d picked the place, now he had to live with it.