PUCKED

by Helena Hunting

  “How’s this, baby?”

  My wordless noise seems to be a sufficient answer. The beaver button is on red alert. His hand strokes along my side, moving over my hip and lower to tease sensitive skin. I’ve been straddling the line since we started. He rubs my clit at the same time as he thrusts again. I’m done for; I explode into a shuddering, moaning mess.

  “That’s right, you come for me,” he says as though he’s scored a goal. I suppose he has. Or I have, or he’s scored the goal for me. Any way you look at it, a goal has been scored thanks to the skills of his monster cock and those nimble fingers of his.

  I take control of the bean flicking, aware if I keep the pressure on I might come again. I’m stockpiling Alex-induced orgasms for beaver slapping material when he’s away.

  This time Alex goes over the edge right after me. He collapses onto his side, taking me with him. He’s sweaty, but I’m too languid to mind. Besides, it’s a testament to how hard he worked to get me off. Twice.

  We lie there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow.

  “What do you want for breakfast? Should we stop on the way to your work?”

  At the mention of food, my stomach growls as if it has a wild boar hibernating inside. While this particular round of sex wasn’t taxing for me aside from the orgasms, I’m hungry.

  “What were you thinking?” I would give my left nipple for a bowl of Cookie Crisp or even those chocolate peanut butter Pop-Tarts. On the other hand, a couple of Krispy Kreme donuts would hit the spot, too.

  “There’s an awesome buffet not far from here.” Of course the hockey player wants unlimited food options.

  Watching him eat a meal unhindered by things such as portion sizes would be entertaining, I’m sure.

  “As amazing as it sounds, a buffet will probably make me late for work.”

  “I can make you something quick. I don’t have a whole lot since I’ll be gone for the next couple of weeks.”

  “I like almost anything.” I stand and stretch, stiff from all the sexing. “Do you have Pop-Tarts?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t eat Pop-Tarts during the season.”

  Alex fondles my boobs. Then he does the nuzzle thing. I scratch my nails up and down his back and press my nose into his hair while he has a silent love affair with them.

  “I’m good with cereal,” I reply, breathless. He pouts when I pick up his shirt from the floor and put it on. The rest of my clothes are in the laundry room. The shirt is long enough to cover all the important bits.

  “I have boxer briefs you can wear.” Alex’s half-limp cock bobs and swings in all its snuffie glory as he crosses to his dresser. Penises are interesting. Particularly his.

  He roots through the top drawer and grabs two pairs of boxer briefs. One he tosses to me, the other he steps into. I don’t take my eyes off him as he pulls them up his legs and tucks himself in. The boxer briefs he gives me are men’s large with a cartoon print on them. They fall off as soon as I let go. It appears I’m staying pantsless for now.

  Alex tilts his head as the boxers pool at my feet. “I guess you need a smaller size, eh?”

  “It appears so.”

  Alex doesn’t put on any additional clothing, which is fine by me. I’m more than happy to get in some extra ogle time.

  Once in the kitchen, I take the liberty of browsing his cabinets. Everything is whole grain. It’s very disappointing.

  “What are you looking for?”

  I open what appears to be a pantry cabinet. “Cookie Crisp, Fruit Loops, even Honey Nut Cheerios would be okay.” Other than oatmeal, nothing remotely resembles breakfast food. A plethora of garbanzo beans, various pastas, sauces, and other healthy, un-fun foods awaits.

  “I don’t think I have any of those.”

  “Not even Honey Nut Cheerios? Frosted Mini-Wheats? Either would do in a pinch. Or Eggo waffles.”

  “Uh, no, none of those, either.”

  He opens the fridge, rifles around, and holds up a container that looks like cream. “I make a pretty mean omelet.”

  Upon closer inspection, it appears to be liquid egg product. I stand behind him while he gathers various items and sets them on the counter. His fridge, much like his cabinets, is full of healthy stuff. Even his jam is made of real fruit. The last item he retrieves happens to be a new jug of orange juice. It isn’t from concentrate, either. It’s fresh squeezed and super pulpy.

  I haven’t agreed to the omelet yet, still in search of something better—preferably with high quantities of sugar. Alex, however, already has the frying pan out. The last cabinet I try contains Alex’s candy stash. It’s pathetic at best, consisting of two chocolate bars—both the extra dark, bitter variety—and a bag of Swedish Fish.

  I hoist myself onto the counter and shiver as my bare bottom hits the granite. I cross my legs to keep my bits under wraps and tear the bag open.

  “Swedish Fish for breakfast?”

  I ignore his look of disgust and pop a green one into my mouth, relishing the wonderful, artificial, sugary flavor. “Aren’t you making an omelet? What’s this?” I point at the white gelatinous mixture in the frying pan.

  “It’s an egg-white omelet. It’s healthy and it tastes good.” Alex reaches around me for a container. He pops the lid and dumps a load of precooked veggies on top of the snotty looking egg whites. I question whether it’s possible for it to taste good.

  “Where’s the bacon? All I see are veggies. Bacon is imperative, or at the very least you should have ham for it to qualify as an omelet. Does it even have cheese? And what’s with whites only? The yolk is the best part.”

  I’m trying to get under his skin. I don’t honestly feel this way; he’s obviously one of those healthy eaters. Aside from his love of chocolate dessert indulgences. Maybe I can irritate him enough to take me on the counter. That would be more fun than making omelets.

  Alex pulls a container of shredded cheese from the fridge and sprinkles a generous amount on top of the veggies, as well as a variety of fresh herbs. While the omelet cooks, he pours two glasses of his expensive orange juice and passes me one. “Egg whites are full of protein.”

  “So is jizz. You don’t see me harvesting yours so I can drink a glass of it.”

  Alex is mid orange juice sip; he sprays me and his omelet. At least I’m not wearing my own clothes.

  His shock is awesome. He wipes his chin with a dishtowel. “Jesus, Violet.”

  “What? It’s true, isn’t it? Your hair grows a million times faster if you swallow instead of spit on a regular basis.”

  “I’d be interested to take part in your research study.” Alex puts down his glass, grabs the spatula, and folds the omelet neatly in half. It resembles a huge smile. The pan he’s cooked it in is gigantic. He cuts it in half and offers me a plate.

  I hold up the bag of artificially colored, flavored and sweetened fish. “I’m good.”

  “After the workout you had last night and this morning, you need more than sugar for breakfast.”

  “It’s not like I ran a marathon or anything.”

  “Mmm. No. Sex with you is far more enjoyable.”

  Alex cuts off a bite and lifts it to my mouth. “Try it. I promise you’ll like it.”

  I relent, only because he’s put the effort in and it doesn’t smell bad. Surprisingly, it’s rather tasty. I suspect the fresh basil and sharp cheddar have something to do with it, and whatever else was in those veggies. I polish off what’s on my plate and check the time. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late for work.

  In the laundry room, Alex hands me my clothing piece by piece and watches me dress. By the time I’m fully clothed, he’s sporting a massive woody. He dons the shirt I slept in and throws on a pair of sweats—through which the MC is highly visible. Even dressed down, he manages to look smoking hot. I look homeless in sweats.

  I was smart enough not to bring my work stuff home last night, so Alex takes me straight to the office. The ride is short, and I’m nervous about the en
d of the first date good-bye. It’s silly; we’ve had a sleepover, but he’ll be gone for two weeks, so all this giddy excitement could wane. Especially if some other puck bunny catches his eye while he’s on the road.

  He stops in front of my building. I’m a few minutes early, thanks to his speedy, albeit safe, driving. Alex puts the car in park and turns to me, his arm slung across my seat. “I had a great time last night, and this morning.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Can I call you later? After I get to the hotel?”

  “If you want.”

  “Definitely. I can’t wait to get back so I can take you out again.”

  “And I’ll get to drive your car?” I’m trying to be nonchalant, but there’s this unsettling feeling in my stomach. I don’t think it’s because of the egg white omelet, either. I really like him. More than I want to.

  “We’ll discuss the car later. I still think you cheated.”

  Alex goes in for a kiss. He cops a feel while he’s at it, so I give the monster cock a squeeze and a pet. It’s going to be a long fourteen days.

  Charlene is waiting for me in my cubicle.

  She has cinnamon rolls. They’re meant as bribery. She wants details. Extensive ones. I pick the biggest cinnamon roll with the most icing and take a huge bite.

  “So? How was your date?”

  With a mouth full of cinnamon roll, I reply, “Fine. He took me out for dinner. It was nice.”

  “Nice?”

  “The food was excellent.”

  “Violet, I don’t give a shit about the food. I’m guessing it was way better than nice since you’re wearing the same clothes from last night.”

  “What? How would you—”

  “You’d never wear heels like that to work.”

  I sigh with relief.

  “And then there are these.” She holds out her phone.

  I’m greeted by pictures of Alex and me at the restaurant on some Internet gossip site. They’re innocent, unlike the mouth fucking ones from our previous encounter.

  My phone buzzes, distracting me from my internal freak-out. It’s Alex.

  Oh, God. His shirt smelled like sex after I was done with it. How am I supposed to function for the next two weeks without his monster cock?

  Sign me up for Alex Waters Anonymous. I officially have a problem.

  VIOLET

  Over the next week, Alex sends me cute texts interspersed with dirty ones. Time zone differences make it difficult to talk on the phone. Our schedules don’t mesh; between flights and being on the road, our conversations are not private and therefore brief.

  Buck hasn’t sent any angry yeti messages about my date with Alex, so I assume he’s either unaware or he doesn’t care. My mother’s a different story. She attempts to glean as much information as she can about the date-turned-sleepover. She even asks if the rumors are true. I refuse to answer because those aren’t details I’m going to share with my mother. However, my inability to sit without wincing for the first couple of days afterward is fairly telling.

  Despite the lack of opportunity to talk, Alex sends me flowers and treats incessantly. The flower dude has shown up twice in the first week with new bouquets. Between deliveries, the FedEx guy drops off packages. Most of the time, I get them before my mom intercepts. Sometimes I'm not so lucky. Despite the flowers and Alex’s attentiveness, anxiety has managed to creep in and set up shop. Sexing it up with him, while fun, may not have been the smartest idea now that he’s going to be gone for an extended period of time.

  The lag time between our last date and the next is too far apart. Flowers, texts, and emails aside, all it takes is one too many post-win beers and a slutty puck bunny to ruin it all.

  Charlene and I go out for an after work bevvy at the end of week one without Alex. The wall of televisions by the bar shows the hockey game. Chicago isn’t playing, so I’m not as invested in watching. Last night was a different story. Chicago took down Los Angeles in a stunning show of skill and mastery.

  The only message I’ve received from Alex since then is a nonsensical drunken text. As a result, I’ve been on edge all day. A tabloid magazine and a well-read newspaper taunt me from the empty table beside us.

  I used to be one of those people who stood in line at the grocery store and made fun of all the people who spent their hard-earned money on those garbage rags. Now I’m the person who feverishly flips through, checking to see if Alex’s pretty face is anywhere inside. He’s absent from the pages more often than not, but the fan websites are full of his pictures. I’ve also been actively avoiding searching my bookmarked websites today for fear of what I might find.

  Charlene’s phone dings for the eleventy-billionth time since we sat down. She recently set up a profile on an online dating site. She narrowed the field by limiting it to hockey fanatics. Her phone has been chiming all day; lots of guys are into hockey, most of whom wouldn’t be considered viable dating material.

  No longer able to restrain myself, I perform an image search for Alex on my phone. A slew of new pictures appear. Often I send the photos to my email and save them in my Beaver Button folder. These aren’t those kind.

  Alex looks gorgeous as usual except his arm is wrapped around the shoulder of a blonde. She’s kissing his cheek. He’s all smiles and dimples. It’s possible she’s just a fan. I scroll down to find more pictures of the two of them. She’s tucked into his side with his arm thrown protectively around her.

  I want to knee him in the balls and smack his monster cock upside the head. The hockey hooker in me wants to kick her ass and knock out all her teeth for kissing him anywhere. Reality punches me in the boob—I’ve started to think of Alex as my boyfriend. We’ve only been on one real date. The flowers and the presents don’t mean we’re exclusive; he’s extravagant with gifts. I feel so dumb.

  “Violet? Why are you breathing like that?”

  I slide my phone across the table. “She’s kissing him, and he’s touching her.” As if she can’t see what’s in front of her.

  “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “Sure there is. He’s a whore, and I’m stupid. I should know better.” I grab my phone and close the browser. I can’t look at him anymore. This situation is proving detrimental to my emotional wellbeing.

  “You should call him. There must be a good reason for this. If he’s not texting, emailing, or calling, he’s sending you gifts. It doesn’t make sense,” Charlene says in her most rational, gentle tone.

  “It does if he’s a player. I’m sure the whole I’m-not-a-whore line he gave me is the one he gives all his repeats—or whatever the hell I am. It’s probably some elaborate ruse. Look at Buck; he’s got all these girls wrapped around his giant yeti finger, pretending to be nice when he’s really a dog. Alex is probably the same, except smoother.”

  I must sound like a lunatic. I’ve been paranoid all week, and now there’s justification.

  “Vi—”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I need to do something other than sit in a bar with hockey on in the background. I push away from the table, almost spilling my beer. Char doesn’t try to stop me from leaving. I’m too deep into one of my neurotic episodes to be rational.

  I listen to angry gangster rap on the drive home. I’m too upset to sit around, so I decide to do something productive. A jog seems like a smart way to burn off some of this negative energy and get perspective. The first sign my idea is flawed occurs when it takes me forty-five minutes to find my damn running shoes. Armed with more angry beats, I adjust my earbuds, and hit the sidewalk.

  It’s cold out, so I start with a light jog. Two minutes in, I’m already winded but also determined to make this work. I need to do something beyond crying or calling Alex. I push on, and by the time I’ve gone a block, I have a stitch in my side and I’m wheezing like an asthmatic. On the positive side, I can see the fast food sign glowing in the distance. I check all my pockets and find a magical ten dollar bill in the little
one meant for a lip balm or keys. The Arches of Indigestion aren’t too far away. I can make it. More than this jog, I need a milkshake.

  I’m panting and huffing by the time I reach the door. The familiar smell of fried food greets me as I step inside. It’s like coming home except I don’t have to cook anything for myself. I order fries and a milkshake and hole myself up in the corner. Prying off the lid, I carefully coat each fry in frozen vanilla-flavored mock-dairy product. Fucking Alex, literally, is the reason I’m stuffing my face with this crap. Tomorrow I’ll end up with the moops thanks to the fake dairy and grease.

  The mild sugar and trans-fat high is destroyed by the cold walk home. I avoid checking my emails or phone messages. I don’t want to talk to Alex tonight. I don’t know him well enough to discern whether or not he’s hosing me. Talking to him may confirm his lying bastard status, and I’ll be crushed. It’s too much to manage. Nyquil is my sleep aid of choice otherwise I’ll never shut my mind off.

  The Waters beaver stares at me from my pillow. I shove him off the bed and get under the covers. I must go in search of him in the middle of the night because I wake up clutching him.

  Charlene is sitting on my desk when I arrive at work the next morning. She’s becoming a fixture there.

  “You haven’t called him yet, have you?”

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  She passes me a folder. “You need to look at this.”

  “What is it?” I flip it open; there are endless pictures of Alex with the same blonde woman. The sheer volume of them is disturbing.

  “She’s his sister.”

  “Say what, now?” I have a vague recollection of Alex mentioning a younger sister while we were on our date.

  “Her name is Sunny. She’s twenty-one. According to this article”—she holds up a gossip rag—“he flew her out to a game in LA last week because it’s colder than a snowman’s balls up there in Canada.”