by S. R. Grey
After my new purchases were placed in a bag, I grabbed the parcel and raced to the exit.
But then I heard, “Miss, you forgot your receipt.”
Damn! I ignored the clerk and kept going, intent on my escape—er, I mean departure—from the store.
The damn persistent clerk was not deterred, however. He followed me out to my car. “Please, lady, would you hold up a sec,” he called out as I hopped in what was no longer my car, but my getaway vehicle.
Removing my sunglasses, I threw the bag on the passenger seat and started up the engine. But by then there was no getting away. The surfer-dude had reached my open window.
He held out the slip detailing my purchases. “You forgot this,” he said.
Snatching the receipt from his hand, I snapped, “Why do I need a receipt, anyway? I can’t imagine you take returns.”
“We don’t,” he confirmed. “But you can always exchange unopened merchandise.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” I deadpanned.
Kill me now. I can’t believe I’m talking sex toy return policies out in the parking lot.
I felt my face warm, especially when I placed the receipt he’d handed me in the plain brown bag containing my purchases. It was then I noticed exactly what I’d bought. One item was something called the DPMB. When I peered more closely, I horrifyingly realized the letters stood for Double Penetrator Mega Blaster.
O_O That was me for a good solid minute.
And why wouldn’t it be? Based on the size alone, the DPMB looked like it could cause some real damage. I pushed that one aside and saw the other toy I’d bought—a lime green vibrator with the weird name of Area 51.
Remembering that I was in Nevada, not far from the secret government testing area where they supposedly experiment on aliens, the name suddenly made sense. In fact, the more I peered at Area 51, the more I realized the toy did indeed resemble what one might imagine an alien’s dick would look like—long and thick and florescent lime green. There was a sticker on the package that boasted that Area 51 glowed brightly when in use.
“Wow, that must be something to see,” I couldn’t help but blurt out.
Would it be like those glow sticks they sell at events?
Or, was it radioactive?
Yikes, was it even safe to use?
I’d forgotten for a second that I wasn’t alone, and when I glanced up, still kind of perplexed about that glowing part, the sales clerk was staring at Area 51 right along with me. He proceeded to casually inform me, “That there Area 51 is a really big seller around here. The ladies seem to like it a lot.” He paused and pondered, and then he added, “I’m not sure if it’s popular because the real Area 51 isn’t far from here, or if they buy it because Brent Oliver wears number 51.”
What? No! I can’t escape the damn man. “What did you just say?”
He pointed to somewhere out in the desert. “Ah, Area 51 is—”
“No, no, not that part.” I shook my head vigorously. “What were you saying about Brent Oliver?”
“Oh, he’s the star player for our hockey team, the Wolves.”
“No, no. Not that, either.” I swished my hand in the air, like maybe I could erase this whole discussion. “What were you saying about the number fifty-one?”
“Oh, that. Fifty-one is Brent Oliver’s number. And you can’t see it with the packaging in the way, but the toy has a fifty-one imprinted on it.”
“Oh, great.”
Not only had I purchased an alien dick, but the thing shared a number with Brent. Had I subconsciously grabbed this one on purpose? If so, I didn’t want to even consider what grabbing the Double Penetrator Mega Blaster might mean.
As I shuddered, another disturbing aspect of the whole mindless grabbing of the toys began to bother me. It seemed I couldn’t deny that Area 51 was a close approximation of the length and girth of Brent’s cock. Or at least what I had discerned of it beneath the comforter that fateful morning when we’d met.
The clerk, misreading my intense staring at Area 51, jerked his chin to the package. “Another great feature of that one is that it has pulsating vibrating action and a temperature sensor.”
I wanted to drive away, just get the hell out of there as fast as I could, but curiosity got the best of me. “Temperature sensor?” My inquiring mind wanted to know one thing: “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means the device glows brighter with body heat. You know, from your—”
I got the hell out of there then, leaving the clerk in a plume of dust. You bet your ass I had my passengers with me though—DPMB and Area 51.
So yeah, I haven’t tried either of them yet—and I have a feeling DPMB might never get the chance, seeing as I like my lady bits and her backdoor neighbor just as they are—but at least I have the alien dick to satisfy me next time Brent Oliver gets me all worked up.
That could be sooner than expected. I hear his smooth voice behind me now, saying, “Hey, what are you doing with the Grey Goose? That’s my special collection.”
“Speak of the devil,” I murmur, smiling deviously as I unscrew the cap on the next bottle of liquor doomed for the pipes. Peering over my shoulder, I then snipe, “What does it look like I’m doing, genius?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
Turning back to the bottle and dumping its contents in the sink, I reply, “The drain is thirsty. It’s enjoying your ‘special collection.’ And better it end up here than down your throat.”
“Can you at least save back a couple? Like, for a special occasion?”
“Sorry,” I reply breezily, “but it all needs to go.”
“What if I decide to have a party?” he throws out, like that’ll work.
“No parties allowed,” I say, reciting the rules in the contract. “No alcohol, no drugs, no women—”
“Fuck that last one,” I hear Brent mumble.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. It’s all in—”
“—the contract we signed,” he finishes for me. “Yes, I know.”
I remain facing the sink, but I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. I sense he’s preparing to come up with something to return the slam.
Sure enough, he throws out an innuendo-laden, “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to hold back a bottle or two?”
I stop what I’m doing and turn around. “Why would I do that?”
“Well, Aubrey, I think we both know how much you also enjoy throwing back a few from time to time?”
We haven’t discussed the night I ended up in his bed, not once. And I don’t want to bring it up now. It conjures up too many feelings—like lust, longing, and want. And there’s no point in going there. Verbally sparring with Brent is one thing—like foreplay almost—but it’s safe.
Too bad I can never actually be with him.
That’s why I bought the toys.
Frustrated at this mess I’m in, I narrow my eyes at him and say, “I’m not the one with the alcohol problem, mister.”
“Like I am?”
“Brent…” I sigh. “You may not be a raging alcoholic, but you don’t know when to stop.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” he shockingly concedes. “But I have a question for you.”
Casually, he leans his shoulder against the curved entranceway that separates the kitchen from the dining room, a move that makes him look delectable. When he crosses his arms—and, of course, he’s once again prancing around without a shirt—his chest muscles flex and his arms bulge enticingly.
It takes everything I have to force my gaze up to his face. Though that’s not helpful either, since that part of him is just as attractive.
“What do you want to know?” I murmur as I pin my eyes to the mosaic tile floor. That way I won’t stare…or drool.
“How’d you end up at a party in Minneapolis? Jock mentioned that you live in Chicago. Is that right?”
I reluctantly meet his gaze. “Yes, that’s correct.”
I blow out a breath. “My sister. I was visiting her. She goes to school up there.”
“Ah, got it.”
He then pins me with inquisitive eyes, and I know what the next logical question is—how’d I end up at his party. Answering that will lead to the morning I was in his freaking bed.
It’s best to nip this in the bud now.
Raising my hand, I shake my head. “No, no more. I think that’s enough talk about that night. I’d just as soon leave it where it belongs, in the past.”
He lets out a snort, and I ask, “What now?”
“It’s just… You’re funny, Aubrey.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, yeah? In what way am I funny?”
This should be good.
“You’re here to help me, but you obviously have a few issues of your own that could use some”—he rolls his eyes—“life-coaching. One of which was crystal clear that morning in my bed.”
I glare at him. We were supposed to drop this subject. Still, I can’t resist asking, “What exactly are you implying? I can’t wait to hear what issue of mine could be so freaking clear to you.”
Sensing my irritation, he waves me off. “Just never mind. It’s nothing.”
I take a step toward him, and then another, like a challenge. “No, you brought it up. I want to hear what my big issue is.”
Smirking, he says, “Okay, fine. I think you’re sexually frustrated.”
I stop in my tracks. “You did not just say that.”
I glare into his damn whiskey-colored eyes. Whiskey is dangerous. I wished they’d stayed sunflowery.
Now it’s his turn to take a step closer to me. And then another. He’s faster than me and closes the gap between us in seconds.
Touch me, Brent, just do it. Make a move. Let’s worry about the fall-out later.
He doesn’t make a move, but he does lower his voice to a soft whisper as he says, “I did just say that, and I stand by it. Plus, I have another one for you.”
“What’s that?” I squeak out.
“You’re also sexually repressed.”
“What?”
I want to push him away, but that would mean skin-to-skin contact. We’re already just about chest to chest. Mine is currently heaving under a thin tank, and his is…just so bare and in my face.
Wonder what his skin feels like? Probably all hot and—
I glance up and see the way he’s looking at me. I know then that I’m not the only sexually frustrated person in the room. Brent wants me to make the move. I see it in his expression. He’s waiting for me to do it to prove I’m not sexually repressed.
I think about going for it, but only for a few seconds. I’ve heard far too many stories of colleagues becoming involved with their clients, even though it’s expressly forbidden. There’s a reason why there’s a no-fraternization clause stipulated in the contracts we sign. Relationships started under circumstances like these rarely end well.
Still, it’s hard to resist. There’s something undeniable between us. Something that’s pushing us together, creating this friction. There’s one thing that could alleviate it.
I look into his eyes, biting my lip. “Do it, Aubrey,” he whispers.
His raspy voice makes my breath pick up. He’s so close, close enough that I can actually feel the heat emanating from his body. And his masculine scent of soap and eau de hot need assaults my nose, making me want nothing more than to lean in and just freaking inhale him.
“I, uh…”
He raises a brow, a challenge.
But I’m afraid. “I—I can’t,” I murmur.
As I take a big lunge backward, a retreat, the look in his eyes tells me he views this as his victory.
“See,” he says quietly, “I was right all along. You are sexually repressed. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Maybe if we just say hell with it and fuck one time—”
“Stop,” I desperately plead.
Hearing him say that word out loud, in his hot-ass voice, makes me want to give in. And he knows it.
“What’s making you uncomfortable?” he whispers, baiting me. “Me saying we should fuck?”
“Yes,” I practically pant.
“So let’s do it, Aubrey. Let me fuck you, just once. I promise I’ll make it good for you.”
Before I do something really stupid, I beg him one last time, “Please, Brent, please just stop.”
He sees I’m serious and backs off, hands in the air. “Okay. But let me say just one thing. I think you want this to happen”—he motions between us—“as much as I do.”
He really wants this? It’s not just a game?
I want it too, but I can’t.
That’s what I feel like screaming at him.
But I don’t, of course.
What I do instead, the minute he’s gone, is run upstairs.
I’m going to Area 51, baby. And you bet your ass I’m about to light up the sky with the glow.
Aubrey Will Be the Death of Me…and Definitely the Death of My Sperm
This girl is going to be the one who kills me. I know it. If it isn’t the fact that I can’t have her that does me in, it’ll be death by dehydration from jacking off so much that gets me.
Aubrey Shelburne may as well have a death warrant out on me…and my sperm.
I know that after all the womanizing I’ve done in the past that I deserve the slow, agonizing torture of not being able to touch this particular one. Aubrey may get on my last nerve, but our connection is as strong as it was the morning I met her. There’s just something between us—a spark I keep trying to extinguish, but it keeps flaming back up—that makes me want her in ways I’ve never wanted anyone else.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I head to my bedroom, and then straight to the ensuite bathroom. There, I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. I close my eyes and lean back against the rough stone tiles, allowing the warm water to splash over me.
I then grab the soap.
Once my hand is sufficiently lathered, I start stroking the length of my cock.
“Aubrey,” I murmur as I imagine her bent over in front of me, ass high in the air.
My hand moves faster and faster, and before I know it I’m coming in long, thick strands, fantasizing the whole time that I’m shooting it over Aubrey’s smooth skin. I clean up afterward, but not before jerking my dick one more time.
When I finally step out of the shower, I dry off a little and wrap a towel around my waist. My head starts to clear as my lust abates. I know it’d be a mistake to fuck my life coach. Same as starting something, like a relationship with her, would be. Not only would I probably get her fired—which, despite all my bitching, I really don’t want to do—but if it didn’t work out between us, it would make our situation all kinds of weird.
I can’t have that. I need her too much. She’s already made good progress with me. I’m eating right and working out. And after watching all that Grey Goose go down the drain, it looks like I won’t be drinking anytime soon.
The team is thrilled so far, or so I’ve heard back from Jock. So why fuck things up? My life will become far more stressful once preseason—and then the regular season—start up.
I’m doing great, but that’s partly because there’s no real temptation around. It’s basically just been Aubrey and me. Next week, though, Nolan is due in. And then Benny will be wrapping up with rehab and coming back to town.
Things are about to change real fast, and I need Aubrey around to keep me on track.
“So quit teasing her, jackass,” I chastise myself.
I turn down the covers on my bed and sigh. I need to choose my words more carefully. All that talk of sexual frustration and sexual repression just brings up more sexual feelings. Namely, the ones we have for each other. Or so I think. I know I want Aubrey beneath me.
Yeah, while pounding into her.
“Fuck, sto
p.” I’m getting hard again just thinking about her.
But what if she’s not 100 percent sure she wants me. She did resist me down in the kitchen. But she sure liked me saying we should fuck. “I really wish we could.”
Now I’m completely hard again just thinking about it. There’s no denying I need another release before I can sleep.
Dropping the towel from around my waist, I fall back on my bed and begin stroking. All while once again fantasizing about a woman I can never really have.
Area 51
First, I take a long, hot bath to relax my tense muscles. Brent has me so keyed up, damn him. I then slip on a short silky robe and step into my bedroom, where I proceed to light some candles.
A girl needs to set the mood for a date with some alien dick, right?
“This is so stupid,” I murmur, sighing.
My lady bits don’t find it dumb, though. Hell, they’re urging me on. Miss Clit—she’s the ringleader of the crew—is more than a tad bit curious about what the big, green fake dick can do.
I start giggling as I hold the package out in front of me. “Yes, let’s see what green can do for you.”
It’s time to find out.
Plopping down on the edge of the bed, I remove Area 51 from the plastic casing. “I am taking the package out of the package,” I say in my best robot voice.
Yeah, that does nothing to turn me on. But I can’t deny the 51 emblazoned on the side reminds me of a certain someone.
Hmm, that gets me going a little.
Untying the sash on my robe, I lie back and let the silky material fall to my sides. I like the feeling of nakedness, especially when I spread my legs. It reminds me of the anticipation of sex. But this can’t compare to the feelings you have when you’re about to get busy with a “real” man. There’s no flesh-on-flesh contact, no heated body pressed to one another in need. And, sadly, there’s no kissing, not with the toy. I guess I could kiss the tip, keep in practice for when I get back to giving blow jobs. But then I’d have to suck the thing too. And I have a feeling, based on the smell, that Area 51 would taste like rubber. Or whatever the hell it is Gumby here is made of.