AREA 51

by Helena Hunting

  I’d watched enough crappy porn to more than understand the allure of the blow job. Violet’s graphic description of the act accurately depicts the exact reason why guys want to put their dick in a mouth. By that point I’d eaten out a couple of girls before we got down to the real business, too, so I got the allure of that. Having some girl writhing around underneath me, grabbing my hair and grinding herself on my face while I tongue-fucked her, was definitely hot. Plus I have a lot of dick, so I don’t want to just get in there without any prep.

  Anyway, on the night in question. I’d just finished doing that. The girl I was with—we’ll call her Jezebel, even though that wasn’t her name—had just come on a super-loud moan, thanks to my superior tongue skills. I’d already gotten a condom out and was ready to turn off the lights, drop my boxers, and roll that baby on. We’d been out a bunch of times, but it wasn’t serious or anything, just a continual hook up.

  However, apparently this time she wanted to return the favor. I hit the lights before she straddled my legs and yanked my boxers down.

  My eyes were already adjusting to the dark, so I could just make out the vague contours of her face. She was pretty with a nice body and she liked to fuck, so those were all pluses for me, at the time.

  Then she engulfed the head. When she tried to take more, it was like an out of body experience. It was fucking awesome. Until the moment she stopped, shifted over and hit the light on the nightstand. Before I could think to react she was already heading back down.

  And then she screamed. There is nothing that deflates a dick quicker than a girl’s terrified scream, followed by the phrase, “What the fuck is wrong with your penis?”

  There wasn’t much of an opportunity to explain as she rushed around the room, grabbing her clothes and yelling about horror movies. It was dramatic. And obviously scarring, for both of us.

  The rumors that followed sucked worse than the actual event, because they were blown way out of proportion. She tried to contact me a couple of years later to apologize, but I wasn’t interested in hearing it.

  After that I became incredibly proficient at mood lighting—and at getting the dick wrapped and where it was supposed to be before any girl had a chance to attempt to blow me. And on the occasions when an offer would come my way, all I had to do was think about the look on that girl’s face and the way she couldn’t get away from me fast enough to reconsider giving it another shot.

  And now here’s Lily, all sweet and gorgeous and unassuming, saying things to me that make me want to take her home and keep her forever. Which isn’t possible. But we all have dreams.

  “You don’t need to do that,” I tell Lily.

  She bites her lip, looking uncertain. “I know, but I want to.”

  I’m prepared with one of my stock excuses. “It’s really not nec—“

  “Please.”

  It’s not just the way she says it, but the way she’s looking at me—like if I say no it’ll crush her—that makes me question exactly what I’ve been doing with her this entire time.

  I glance over at the thin beam of light shining through the crack at the bathroom door. It’s not dark enough in here to mask my problem. She must take my lack of response as an affirmative, because she starts kissing a slow trail down my stomach. When she reaches the waistband of my boxers, she stops and lifts her gaze. Eyes locked on mine, she presses a warm, wet kiss to the scar on my hip.

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” I say.

  She pushes my boxers down farther. “You think me sucking you off is a bad idea?”

  Motherfuck.

  When she says it like that, looking the way she does, with her face so close to where she’s willing to put her mouth, it’s hard to remember why this is such a terrible idea.

  She doesn’t yank off my boxers and start screaming, instead she runs the end of her nose along my erection through the cotton barrier. When she reaches the head, she peeks up at me and covers the fabric with her sweet mouth, sucking me through the barrier.

  I ball my hands into fists and try to find the will to stop her, but I don’t want to. Not yet. She repeats the same series of movements: the soft sucking through cotton, the brush of her nose and cheek along the shaft.

  Next I feel the warm, gentle sweep of her fingers when she slips them into the pocket at the front of my underwear. At the same time, she pushes the waistband down and kisses the scar on my abdomen.

  “Lily.” I reach out, second-guessing how far I’m willing to let her take this.

  She grabs my hand and bites my knuckle before she kisses it. Then she licks my index finger and sucks it into her mouth. Her cheeks hollow out, and she makes that popping sound. She lays her cheek against my erection and looks up at me with soft, pleading eyes. “Please, Randy.”

  No one has ever begged to give me a blow job. No woman has ever looked at me the way she is right now, asking to give me something instead of looking to take.

  I want this. I want her mouth. Not just because of the blow job—which I’m clearly interested in—but because I want her to want me regardless of whether I’m defective.

  I slip a thumb into her mouth, and she swirls her tongue around it, showing me exactly what she plans to do to me. She pushes my boxers down until the head peeks out. Lily keeps her eyes on mine as she kisses the tip.

  Her lips are so soft. I’m pretty sure my longevity will take a shot if she blows me, and I’m mostly okay with that. Then Lily engulfs the entire head and does an around-the-world with her tongue, adding some suction. It feels incredible. Like, out of this world.

  I must make some kind of noise or say something, because she pops off and asks, “Is that okay?”

  I nod, mostly because I’m worried if I use real words they’re going to come out high-pitched and pre-pubescent sounding.

  “I can do it again?” she asks, her lips sweeping the head as she speaks.

  “Yeah. That’d be great.”

  She repeats the same lick, swirl, suck pattern a bunch of times before she tugs on my boxers. “I can take these off now?”

  Only the head is exposed. If she takes my boxers off, she’s going to see the mess under there. She nuzzles me and kisses the head again. She doesn’t wait for a response, maybe because she knows I can’t give her one.

  “Eyes on me,” she whispers.

  She holds my gaze as she pulls my boxers down and keeps her lips on my skin. Eventually she has to look away, and when she does, I can see the moment she notices how prominent the scar is that runs from my right hip to my groin.

  She looks up again and starts kissing her way across the scar. When her chin hits my cock, her gaze shifts down. I wait for her to push away, to have some kind of disgusted reaction to what she’s seeing, because there’s nothing hiding what’s going on.

  Instead she presses her lips to the heavy scar. “Does that feel okay?”

  “Yeah.” I say, hands still balled into fists.

  Lily licks up the shaft, over the scars and back down again, slow and soft.

  She keeps stroking me with her tongue, like she’s eating her favorite kind of ice cream and doesn’t want to stop. When she takes the head in her mouth and keeps going until it hits the back of her throat, I shove my hands in her hair.

  It’s exactly the image I had in my head earlier today. Except it’s real.

  “Okay?” Lily asks in a voice muffled by my cock in her mouth.

  I stroke her cheek. “So fucking good.”

  I need to find a way to get Lily to move to Chicago, because this is a woman I don’t want to be without.

  Sneak Peek and Deleted Scene

  There was one scene, that while I was writing it, I knew it wouldn’t make it into the final cut, because it needed to be a little more serious than this pile of ridiculousness. I wrote it anyway, and figured I could share it the outtakes, along with the first chapter of Forever Pucked.

  Chapter 1

  Anniversaries Suck

  Cheesy Balls

/>   VIOLET

  Today is mine and Alex’s one-year anniversary, and it sucks donkey dick. Well, it’s one of our “anniversaries.” Alex likes to celebrate every single milestone in our relationship because he’s sappy and romantic like that. He also likes to have an excuse to buy me gifts. Lots of them. Extravagant ones. For my birthday he bought me a car. A nice car. With heated seats and automatic everything. New cars are scary because they don’t have dings and dents, and they need to be maintained.

  Anyway, I digress. Anniversaries. This month we’re celebrating our “First Official Date” Anniversary. Alex likes to consider the first time we had sex our “real” anniversary, but since we hardly knew each other then, apart from how our genitalia fit together, I prefer to fast-forward a month to when I wasn’t thinking with my beaver. Not totally, anyway.

  It’s still up for debate as to whether the day he locked me in the conference room at my work and forced me to have coffee with him later was our official first date. I’m inclined to go with the night he took me out for dinner and we ended up back at his place, banging on his couch, which is what we’re celebrating tonight. It’s marked on our calendar. There’s even a sticker with a smiley face. I’m dubbing this one our second sexiversary because it’s the second occasion when we had sex, and because it annoys Alex.

  Sadly, we might not get the opportunity to fuck like it’s our third time—we did it twice that first time, for those of you keeping score at home—again tonight. Alex is currently on a bus back to Chicago with the team after a series of four away games. He’s been gone for more than a week. A snowstorm is blowing north through the Midwest, and last I heard from him, they were stuck at some rest stop—still more than two hours from home, and that’s without the snow slowing them down.

  It’s already three in the afternoon. If they can’t make it back before it gets dark and the storm picks up, he’ll be stuck at a hotel for the night. We might be able to have phone sex, but that’s not the same as hugging his wood with my beaver. So that’s why this anniversary sucks.

  And even if he makes it home tonight, he’s bound to be bagged, which may put a damper on the sexiversary lovin’. Not that he won’t perform. He will. He always does. But it won’t be with the level of exuberance I’ve grown accustomed to over the past year. I might only get two orgasms out of him instead of the requisite three or four he usually strives for.

  Charlene, my best friend and colleague at Stroker and Cobb Financial Management, peeks her head into my cubicle. She looks disembodied with the way the rest of her is out of sight. She’s also smiling like she belongs in some kind of asylum.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “You have a delivery.”

  “What kind of delivery?”

  Alex likes to send me gifts at work. Once he had some guy dressed as a beaver sing a love song to me. It was mortifying. Jimmy, one of the other junior accountants, recorded it and posted it on YouTube. Obviously I made him take it down, but it had already gone viral.

  “An Alex delivery.”

  I brace myself for humiliation as she grunts, moving my gift into view.

  I don’t say anything for a few long seconds. Alex is over the top with everything. But then, when you’re the highest-paid NHL player in the league, you can afford to be extravagant and highly ridiculous.

  “Not what you expected?” Charlene asks, biting her lip to keep from busting out laughing.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” I gesture to the four-foot stuffed beaver wearing a hockey jersey. It’s almost as wide as it is tall. “I don’t even know if it’ll fit in my car.”

  I also don’t want to carry it through the building.

  “I’m sure we can make it fit.” I ignore Charlene’s eyebrow waggle. She’s referencing my fiancé’s monster cock. I’m not talking about a pet rooster, either. His dick is massive. I love it so much, even though putting it in my mouth is a workout all on its own.

  I grab the beaver by its ears, hefting it into my cubicle so it’s no longer blocking all the walking space between my office and the one across from me. Thank the lord Jimmy isn’t in there or he’d be all over this. I need to hide the beaver. I don’t have to see the back of the jersey to know it’s got Alex’s last name and number on it. This is a giant version of the small beaver Alex sent me back when he was first stalking me. Because I’m so awesome in bed. And he loves my boobs. And I told him I loved his cock. It was quite the first encounter.

  My relationship with Alex Waters, center and team captain for Chicago, started as a one-night stand. A poorly thought-out one. I would’ve run into him after our night of passion since my stepbrother, Buck, is on his team, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead when I was sticking my hands down his pants a year ago.

  The beaver is holding a heart-shaped box. I pluck it from his paws while Charlene puts her arm around it and takes a selfie. I open the card; of course, it’s beaver-themed—a pair of cartoon beavers with little hearts above their heads. They’re in love, just like Alex and me.

  I flip it open, expecting Alex’s usual hilarity, which is how it starts, but by the end I’m about to cry. He really is that damn sweet:

  Violet,

  A year ago you agreed to go for coffee with me, and then your boobs agreed to go on a real date. You came into my life and turned it upside down in the best way. I’ll never look at Spiderman pajamas the same way, or Marvel Comic boxer briefs.

  I love every inch of you, all your funny quirky ways, all the ridiculous things you say in your sleep—and when you’re awake. Your unending praise for the MC also doesn’t hurt.

  I know you don’t buy the whole love at first sight thing, but I believe some people are destined to be together. Maybe we came together because of lust and Fielding, but we stayed together because of love.

  You’re my forever,

  Alex

  I sigh and hold the card to my chest, absorbing his words into my heart. Not really. I’m actually considering checking Google to see if he copied this from some sappy love poem site and made a few modifications to fit us better. However, Alex was an English major in college, so it’s possible he came up with this all on his own.

  I save the Google search for later and open the heart-shaped box. I expect to find chocolate inside, but I’m pleasantly surprised to discover it’s filled with those heavenly maple sugar candies I love so much. There’s also a bag of Swedish Fish.

  “You two are the weirdest couple on the face of the earth. You know that, right?”

  “I prefer the term quirky, but yeah, I know.”

  Charlene nabs a maple candy before I can close the box. Granted, there are a lot of them. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say there’s a good hundred candies in there. I’ll be in a maple sugar coma by the end of the day for sure. I can’t stop once I’ve started.

  I grab my phone from the top drawer of my desk, but before I can pull up Alex’s contact, Charlene snatches it out of my hand.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “You need to pose with the beaver so we can send Alex a picture,” she says, as if this should be obvious. Which really, it should be. I’m from the generation where everything we do gets posted online for bored people to see. Welcome to the wonderful world of well-documented bad decisions.

  I shuffle the beaver around. It’s not easy since he’s huge, and my cubicle is small. I back my chair into a corner and move the beaver between my legs. I shove the beaver down so his head is at waist level, and Charlene snaps a few pics. Then we turn it over, giggling like idiots as I arrange my skirt over the top of its head so it looks like the beaver’s going to town on my beaver.

  I strike several different poses, including a fake orgasm face, which is the exact moment my boss walks in on our little party.

  “Mr. Stroker! Hey, hi!” I push the beaver away from my crotch, but it’s too late. He’s already seen me molesting it.

  “Miss Hoar.” He glances at Charlene, then to me. “Miss Hall.” His arms are c
rossed over his chest, and his face remote. He’s giving away nothing. “You two look like you’re hard at work.”

  We’re in so much trouble.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stroker. Alex sent me this for our anniversary—” I gesture to the gigantic beaver. “—and Charlene and I thought we’d send a picture so he knows I got it. We’re not sure if the team’s going to make it back tonight, because of the storm.” I wave my hand toward the windows. It’s snowing like crazy.

  Not that it’s going to stop him from firing me.

  “He sent you a stuffed woodchuck for your anniversary?”

  “It’s not a woodchuck; it’s a beaver,” Charlene says.

  He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I want an explanation. Violet, I’d like to see you in my office.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  My stomach does a flip, but I stand and smooth out my wrinkled skirt, shooting Charlene a look of terror. She mouths sorry at me, but it’s not her fault. I would’ve done something equally as stupid with or without her help.

  I follow Mr. Stroker down the hall to his office. He closes the door behind me and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. I’m totally about to get canned. This is the shittiest sexiversary ever.

  “I really am sorry about that, Mr. Stroker. We were being silly. I know it wasn’t work-appropriate behavior.”

  He puts up a hand to stop me. “Violet, have you seen some of the clips Jimmy and Dean slip into their presentations? You doing whatever you were doing with that beaver has nothing on those two.”

  I know exactly what he’s talking about. Jimmy and Dean are the other junior accountants at our firm. They’re even more ridiculous than Char and me. Last week they threw a slide into their presentation with two hockey players mashed up against the plexiglas with the caption “Happy Hump Day!” It looked like there was a whole lot more than humping going on in the picture. And that’s one of their tamer ones.