by Kalen Laurel
“Well, what do you call stripping naked at the Tomlinson's pool party and challenging about thirty guests to a belly-flop contest.”
“I drank too much, got wicked horny and stripped. The difference is, I didn't fuck any of them, George. You could take your clothes off and run naked at Dodger Stadium for all I care. Just keep your hands off the female fans.” She sets the textbook on the night stand and folds her arms across her chest. “I embarrassed myself, and I embarrassed the Tomlinsons. I'm sorry for that.”
She stares across the room for a moment, then turns toward George with a grin on her face. “Jeanette tells me everyone she's talked to said it was the best party ever, though. They all want her to host a skinny-dipping party.”
“Don't change the subject. The fact is you took your clothes off and flirted shamelessly with just about every man at the party.” George moves toward the dresser and Donna stares at her hands folded in her lap. “Then, when we went out to dinner with the Jamisons, Crystal and I hardly got a word in edge-wise. You and Pete talked about everything from post-modern abstract impressionism to China's nuclear testing policies.” He removes a watch and carefully places it in a top dresser drawer before continuing dramatically. “And then there was the ‘hug’! In retrospect I think even you would have to agree that direct genital stimulation is usually not considered a proper component of a goodnight hug between casual friends. Even less so when your spouses are observing every last pelvic thrust.”
Donna sits silently for a few moments, but eventually appears to find renewed resolve. She pulls the covers back, swings her feet to the floor, and moves to the dresser where she digs a small clothing box out of the bottom drawer. She sets the box on the foot of the bed and opens it slowly and deliberately. “You know what this box holds, George?”
“I have no idea.”
“Of course you don't. If you had any idea your little girlfriends were so careless, you wouldn't find my attitude so surprising.” She looks at him as one might a young child caught doing something naughty. George's eyes grow wide with interest, but he doesn't respond.
She pulls tissue paper aside and lifts a camisole out of the box, holding it out for him to view.
George swallows hard and fidgets as Donna waves the scent of the garment toward her nostrils as one might sniff a fine wine. “Suppose I said I have no idea where that came from?” he asks.
“Suppose I said you were totally full of shit? I mean really, George. It isn't as though every man's hotel room has unidentified articles of female clothing left behind. It was so nice of them to call me to arrange its return.” She brings it to her nose and inhales deeply before studying a small tag pinned to the hem.
“Pure silk, distinct floral scent...” She cocks her head to side. “White Shoulders, I think.” She turns the garment inside-out and shows George something on the inside which he glances at with a confused expression. “Roll-on deodorant stains, George.” She tosses the camisole at his face. “Not my perfume and I use an aerosol, George.”
After allowing this pronouncement to sink in, Donna pulls an eyebrow pencil out of the box. “This was found underneath the passenger seat in the car when I was getting it washed, George.” She glances at the eyebrow pencil before flipping that on top of the camisole that is now in George's lap. “And there’s the lipstick. This was on the floor of the back seat. Not my brand or my color.”
She begins pulling items out of the box more rapidly—tossing them in George's lap one at a time. “A makeup compact a few months later. An acrylic nail.” Her voice begins to shake with anger. “Sun glasses. A nail file.” The objects are hitting him in the chest, and then in the face as she becomes even more agitated. He shields his eyes with his arm and turns away from her. “Two shoulder pads. One glove.”
She freezes—staring into the box in silence and beginning to cry. When she doesn't continue her barrage, George turns toward her again and she looks up at him, her eyes narrowed and her features contorted in disgust. She tosses the remaining contents along with the box at his chest and watches as he pushes the bulk of the items aside before picking a small item from his lap by a string and staring at it in disgust.
“That's right George. It's a used tampon.”
Donna turns her back on him and wipes her eyes before getting up off the bed and heading toward the hall door. George turns the box upright and sweeps the items into it with his arm—all except the tampon which he studies for a moment before slipping off the bed and carrying it by the string toward the bathroom door. He shudders in disgust as he heads into the bathroom.
Donna returns a few minutes later carrying a glass of water. She takes a sip before setting it on the bedside table and crawling into bed with her back to George's side. She picks a textbook off the bedside table and begins reading it under the table light. George flips off a light switch and crawls into the bed on his side and after a few moments lets out an audible sigh which Donna ignores.
After a few minutes staring at the ceiling in silence, George speaks. “Didn't you just change the sheets yesterday?”
Donna looks up from her book—staring straight ahead but silent.
“I'm sure you did, actually. You must not have been thinking.”
She shakes her head slightly but continues staring into space. “No... I guess I wasn't.” She lifts the book again and goes back to her reading. After several beats she slowly turns around and looks over at George and watches him for a moment in silence. He snorts and lets out a long breath.
Donna reads until she’s convinced George is asleep. She then closes the textbook and sets it quietly on the bedside table before climbing out of bed and tiptoeing to the clothes hamper which she carefully opens. After one more glance toward the sleeping George, she reaches into the hamper and removes his shirt which she immediately brings to her nose. She inhales and slowly replaces the garment in the hamper—remaining crouched for several beats as though in prayer—and then wipes a tear from her eye and returns to the bed. After sliding under the covers, she turns out the bedside lamp.
After several minutes, George slips out of bed and moves silently to the clothes hamper. He looks back toward the sleeping Donna before lifting the lid and removing one of the sheets. As he does, Donna's panties fall to the floor beside the hamper. He stares at the sheet for several seconds before bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. He moves the fabric slightly and inhales again before lowering it into the hamper, sitting back on the floor, and staring at the underwear beside the hamper for several moments. Eventually he reaches out and picks them up and turns them over in his hands until the waist band is upright and the crotch is facing him. He looks back toward the bed briefly before raising to within several inches of his nose where he hesitates for a moment.
He lowers his hands and starts to move them toward the hamper where he stops yet again. He studies the panties for another moment and then turns them inside out before lifting them to his nose and inhaling deeply. His blank expression immediately turns to anguish as he tosses the garment into the hamper and closes the lid.
George slowly crawls back into bed and pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his forehead between them.
Behind him Donna sleeps, and George drifts off as well. But neither rests peacefully, as one is only isolated from the outside world through dreams. That which is inside us, is inescapable.
Black Mercedes
Or... “How I met the man
I eventually married under the most
embarrassing circumstances possible”
I don’t know what made me look. It’s possible I recognized the song playing on his car stereo, but I can’t be certain. His smile revealed perfect teeth and his eyes were dark and intense. I would normally have looked away, once eye contact was made. Possibly with my nose in the air in the way young girls seem to be universally trained to react to lecherous, balding, pot-bellied older men and all Italians. But I’d followed his eyes as he glanced down
and saw what he was doing before thinking better of it, and fuck if he wasn’t masturbating.
* * *
It’s hard for a pretty, young girl to avoid penises. My college years alone had exposed me to numerous examples—large and minuscule, tree stump and pencil—and I’d come to expect an occasional lapse of judgment from men on the subject of exposing them.
There was the time some boys whipped them out to see who could piss the furthest off the roof of the frat house. That had been somewhat entertaining right up to the point their bladders were empty and the spirit of competition dictated they move on to a comparison of erections which, of course, absolutely required an independent judge. Somehow, in my inebriated state, it seemed quite logical that one of us girls would be tasked with holding each of the competing appendages in turn while another manned the ruler and the others audited, and I was all too willing to accept the most active role.
I remember thinking that it seemed odd that a couple of the boys didn’t drop out of the challenge early on, given their obvious disadvantage, but instead seemed intent on having their members properly positioned and assessed. I also have vague memories of me personally allowing one of those erections to be inserted in multiple parts of my anatomy later on that night, so perhaps the persistence was warranted as steadfastness was rewarded.
At various intervals, boyfriends, dates, friends without benefits, and even a few casual acquaintances had managed to expose all or a portion of their jewels to me—either accidentally or quite obviously on purpose. What girl hasn’t had her hand pressed against a boyfriend’s erection toward the end of an evening in silent testimony to the young man’s intentions? Why is it that a roommate’s boyfriend wouldn’t try harder to keep the his boxers’ fly closed while pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios the morning after? And, maybe the most interesting question of all: how much self-confidence must a young man have to make “do you want to go to my place and fuck” his first words to you, and how much alcohol does it take for the approach to work?
Unfortunately, that last question is not purely rhetorical.
I’d also been privy to both the form and function of the cock belonging to my sister-in-law’s brother, thanks to a rainy summer afternoon in the barn next to our family cottage in Maine, during which corn whiskey found an application as a warming agent.
It had begun as a walk in the woods to gather berries motivated mostly by our sense that the love birds wanted some time alone in the nest. We’d done a good job of feigning disinterest in each other for years, and with both of us leaving somewhat significant others behind for the weekend, and neither of us particularly interested in initiating anything that could be uncomfortable or embarrassing for our families, it’s likely nothing more exciting than a bucket full of berries would have resulted from the excursion if it were not for the torrential downpour that occurred ten minutes in.
We were soaked wet by the time we made it back, but as we ran up the path toward the cottage, he motioned me toward the barn instead and pulled a children’s blanket off one of the bunk beds for me to wrap around myself. “We’ve only been gone a few minutes,” he said through chattering teeth. “Probably bad timing, don’t you think?” It was hard to argue his logic but we were both pretty desperate to get out of our wet clothes.
Eventually, he figured out how to light the propane heater, and once it began to grow hot, he peeled his shirt off and hung it in front of the grate, and then tugged his shorts off and hung them as well.
I could suppress neither a smile nor a giggle. His boxers were sucked in around his privates, and no amount of tugging or rearranging was going to make the results g-rated.
“Unlike you, I'll politely turn my back if you'd like to remove your clothes from under that nice warm blanket you've got there,” he offered.
“Thanks. I think I will.” He turned around, and I felt bad about laughing at him.
And a bit aroused, I had to admit.
I hung my top and shorts next to his, and when I signaled it was okay for him to turn around again, I purposely failed to replace the blanket—leaving him with a nice view of pretty much everything an already borderline transparent bra and panties reveals when fully wet.
So that, of course, got him aroused. And his arousal was eventually evidenced by the protrusion of his cock through his fly and into the world to a degree neither of us could ignore and I would choose not to. That, and we discovered a jug of sweet, corn whiskey and a well-seasoned tin cup tucked behind one of the bunks. The memory of both will last a lifetime.
* * *
So perhaps the biggest reason why I was neither shocked nor appalled by the activity the gentleman in the car was engaged in, is that I truly do enjoy penises. I mean I really enjoy the heck out of them. So much so that I not only looked, I pretty much froze in my tracks and stared.
Yeah. I did.
And my first instinct was to smile—which I did, an act rewarded by a wink—but then continue my journey past the car and away from this man. And his penis.
And I've asked myself many times since just why I didn't continue walking, and I can only offer the words “black Mercedes” in defense. In a nanosecond I had calculated the odds of abduction, attack, or even serious deviance by a well-dressed man in an S-Class in a mall parking lot in broad daylight, and determined they were long. I mean, this was the big Mercedes, not the one people who ought to drive a Toyota scrimp on shoes for the kids to buy instead. Leather, navigation, boffo stereo—had to top a hundred thou’.
I looked both directions over the roof of the car, as if it was my responsibility to do reconnaissance, and then stepped closer to the open window and leaned down for a better view. It was quite impressive, actually. The cock, that is. Long and thick, with a drop of pre-cum punctuating the tip. His right hand was moving the length of it in a slow, steady cadence while he cupped his balls with his left. I contemplated pithy comments. “What 'cha got there?” “Looking for directions?” “Need a hand?”
I settled for “Hi there!”
He grunted, and I looked up at his face again and realized he was close to coming—his eyes unfocused, his lips parted, his face flushed.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His breathing grew ragged.
“Show me your tits,” he managed, more grunt than elocution.
I looked around again, as much to assess my willingness to participate as an evaluation of any risk, and brought my hand up and began unbuttoning the top of my dress without much hesitation. I was pretty much in for the duration at this point, and was excited to see him come, to add the image to my personal catalog. And my choice of bras that particular day was fortuitous—a stretch lace number I was able to tug aside to free my left breast. I rolled the nipple between my thumb and first finger to make it erect.
Doing it felt good, as well. A little tingle emanated from the place I enjoy feeling a tingle, and it made me want more. I cupped my breast, too, and did my best to thrust it inside the car.
“You can fondle it if you like,” I mumbled, and then swiveled my head for a more serious look around the parking lot. This time the reconnaissance was for me. I felt vulnerable.
He squeezed it—tentatively at first, but gradually more enthusiastically. When he began rolling the nipple between his fingers, I closed my eyes and leaned against the car to keep my knees from buckling. “Mmm...that feels good,” I purred, but then pulled far enough away to look down into the car again and see how my new perverted friend was doing.
His eyes were fixed on my breast, and his strokes were shorter and concentrated just behind the tip of his cock.
“Touch it for me?” he asked, his voice taut; his eyebrows raised.
I leaned inside the car, pressed my hand below his, and slid it down until I was fondling his ample balls. It felt naughty, and he felt good, but the unmistakeable sound of high heels on cement could now be heard from the store end of the lot, and my position and participation prevented me from identifying either the source or the
trajectory.
“You’d better hurry!” I urged. I pulled my hand up the shaft to allow myself a better look, and when I did, he abandoned his effort all together—making me both motivator and agitator rather than enjoying the spectator role I thought I’d signed on for. “Shit!” The footsteps were getting closer. I fumbled to push my breast back inside my bra, but that is something that's hard enough to do single-handedly without someone tugging at the nipple, and virtually impossible to accomplish when someone is. I swatted at his hand with a giggle. “Let go of that! Really, you need to finish!”
I'd twisted around so that my back was mostly to the window as I said this. I was tugging on his erection as if starting a lawn mower, and imagining what I'd say if confronted by a passer-by. “Here...hold this for me.” “Man? What man?” “Oh, him? He's coming. Aren't you dear?” Fortunately, I could no longer hear footsteps and I had myself stuffed back into my bra and my dress buttoned again, so I turned my attention back to the task at hand.
Or...hands, plural, since I'd conscripted the other. I leaned into the car and grabbed a big hand full of balls while stroking the length of his cock with a fresh grip.
That did it for him. He arched his back and flailed his arm briefly before grabbing hold of the door handle and the shifter for dear life. “Oh my fucking God,” he mumbled, and then closed his eyes. I could feel the spasm build at the base of his cock and travel the length of the shaft, while the next events played out in slow-motion, cinematic magnificence.
Turns out the car’s engine was running. Who knew? So quiet was it, I had no idea until his death grip on the shifter popped it into reverse and the car lurched backwards and began a rather determined march toward the aisle and another row of cars behind. To the man’s credit, he didn’t allow the impending orgasm to obfuscate his assessment of the situation sufficiently to miss the fact that at the car’s first movement, I’d grabbed hold of his spasming member and held on for dear life. With my body anchored thusly, I was immediately pulled from my Kate Spade pumps and was in imminent danger of having my feet dragged raw on the asphalt at a minimum, and of breaking bones or worse should I lose my grip. He grabbed the only handle he could manage, which happened to be my bra strap, and pulled me toward him through the window .