SEAL'd Legacy (Brotherhood of SEAL'd Hearts)

by Gabi Moore

  “It was good luck that I bumped into you then!” I said, and we both went a little sad.

  He had moved out of his dingy apartment, and, naturally, had long parted with that ugly black futon, the altar on which I had sacrificed all my weird sexual hang-ups. Over and over again. We chatted, and then, just like dusting the cobwebs off an old path we had cut a long time ago, I found myself all at once sitting with him at his place, which he proudly showed off. His decorating skills had certainly improved.

  And he was still cute. Damn cute. I remembered the last time we saw each other, the nasty words. I had often felt pangs of guilt whenever I thought how I must have hurt him, how I judged him for letting others use him – all the while using him myself. How after everything, he wasn’t that much older than me, it had just felt like it. Caught up in my own childish drama, I didn’t notice his own quiet ambitions, how lonely he must have felt, how harsh my judgment must have seemed.

  He opened a little carved cupboard beside him and extracted a small, familiar box, which he waggled my direction. The old stash.

  “What do you say, for old time’s sake?” he said, pulling out a lighter, and some papers.

  I laughed. “Some things never change,” I said, but the second I did, I felt sad. Lots of things had changed. In some ways, he was the cute stud I had met in my hapless aunt’s kitchen so many eons ago; in other ways, I barely recognized him now. I felt childish around him. Again.

  “We had some good times, didn’t we?” he said, and to my surprise, my face flushed hot and I realized I was probably blushing.

  “Some very good times,” I said quietly.

  Fearing I might burst into tears and dissolve into a blob of inconvenient emotions, I smiled and tried to lighten the mood a little.

  “You were the bad boy, remember?”

  “Yeah and you were the good girl,” he laughed, putting scare quotes around the “good”.

  “God, we were both so messed up.”

  “Mostly you,” he said.

  “Shut up!”

  “Seriously you were a royal pain in the ass.”

  “I know.”

  “Hey Jared I’m sorry, I’m really sorry I said all the things I did that day, I was just being an idiot, I didn’t mean what I said at all, it’s just that I was -”

  Oh here we go. The inconvenient emotions were coming out regardless. But he was shushing me, reaching over a friendly hand to rest over mine.

  “Hey, don’t apologize, please. If anything, it was I. I was in a bad place. We were quite the bad influence on each other, weren’t we?”

  I laughed.

  “And holy hell were you obsessed about me taking your virginity,” he continued, and I hid my face, giggling.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry, I’m cringing to think of it all now …can’t we just chalk it up to my strict upbringing and not talk about it? You weren’t an angel either you know…”

  His expression changed a little and I wondered if I had hurt him again. I couldn’t help asking, “Well, do you still, you know…?”

  He put the box firmly on the table and fixed hard eyes on mine.

  “No” he said simply, a small vein twitching in his jaw. I thought he was about to launch into an explanation, tell me that he had hit rock bottom, that he had learnt his lesson or something, found Jesus, won the lotto, met a girl, anything really. But he simply said “no” and kept looking at me, and I sensed that this was the only answer I was getting. Shame for me had only been a game. Something sexy to toy with. But I realized then, staring at his young face, how much pride there was in him, how different his demons were to mine.

  I kissed him quickly, once, and something like happiness flickered in the corners of his mouth so I kissed him again, this time more deeply. His lips were as smooth and yielding as ever, and his tongue as soft and luscious as I remembered. We smiled tenderly at one another for a moment. With some hesitation I touched his arm, the little hairs there rising up to meet my fingertips.

  “I’m kind of sad you’re going, to be honest.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  I don’t know how it happened, but his tongue was in my mouth again, and we kissed slowly and with delicate purpose, feeling out one another as though we hadn’t already done it so thoroughly so long ago. We had both been worn a little by life, humbled a little, with our strange edges rubbed off, but I was thrilled to find that same boyish deliciousness in him still, that same elasticity in his movements, the way we could lap each other up, how his tongue would respond so swiftly to mine.

  The same naughty thrill rushed all through my body, but this time it felt more naked, unencumbered with my …well, “issues”. Back then, I had made him manhandle me; he had thrown my young body around, squeezed my wrists, bruised my hips. I had egged him on, thinking that more was better, always more. But now, with his subtle, inquisitive tongue, it felt like we were doing something that even we were too afraid to do back then.

  It seemed as though the more softly his lips touched mine, the more intensely my body pulsed and ached; the more slight the delicate caresses on my wrists and forearms, the deeper the pining in the rest of me grew. He sensed this too, it seemed, judging by the tender, almost pained expression he had as he stroked my arm, trying to discover if I, too, was the same.

  Our clothes came off easily. First him, then me, then him again, then me again, until we were naked as the good lord made us, bare as Adam and Eve before the fall, only not quite so innocent. His caresses continued, flowing smoothly all over my whole body, missing nothing, lavishing warmth and attention onto each part of me. Had we done this before? Why not?

  His lips and tongue now followed where his hands had traced, and my skin thrummed and prickled in response. He lay the full length of his nude body against mine, the heat of our flesh so surprising I smiled into the new kiss he was giving me. His warm dick was between us, hardening. Cradling my body in his hands, I undulated up into him, stroking the length of his shaft with my belly, kissing every part of him with every part of me. Then, with no force, and no resistance, the thick head of his cock found its way to my slit and sunk into me slowly, and easily. I exhaled loudly, this single thrust melting away all my doubt, my body melting onto him and swallowing him with something that felt like gratitude. He mumbled something into my ear, both hands cupping each of my breasts, and I curled my hips up to pull him more fully into me.

  The moment was swollen, and slow. His movements were almost graceful, hips describing big, round, subdued shapes and the weight of his strong body bearing down on my thighs, pressing them open. Each movement was so precise, so exquisitely tuned into every little breath and moan, that it wasn’t long before I was quivering right on the precipice of a great, towering orgasm.

  To my delight, he skillfully kept me lingering there, pushing my body right to the edge and pulling back slightly, letting me relish the moment, so full and so close to splitting right open. It was quiet, fragile fucking, and at its apex, I sat twitching round his hard body, his heavy dick stirring me into a frenzy, teasing me, leading me down thick, syrupy paths of pleasure. He detected my pussy whispering round him, drew me closer to him.

  “Come,” he whispered.

  I moaned, and he pushed once more, his fullness stretching me. Under his comforting weight, I whimpered and came, hard, crying out as deep thundering strokes moved through me. He smiled down at me, taking in every quiver of my lips, every flash on my expression. With each ripple of my pussy, I pulled him further down with me, and eventually he gave in and came tumbling after me in an orgasm that made him grunt, and press down into me with his broad, manly hips.

  I clung to him with my legs and anchored against his sweaty form. We both giggled. He stroked a piece of wild hair from my face and smiled that sideways smile at me.

  Ladies and gentlemen: it was my first time. I had fucked Jared millions of times before. But this time we had done something else. Something both of us had never done before. With anyone.

&nb
sp; Chapter Fifteen

  My name is Melanie, and I’m a pretty good girl.

  I have just one secret.

  Judging from what a crazy mess the world is, and how awful most people are, I would rate I’m not doing too badly if I only have one.

  My secret is that I have fallen in love, and I don’t know what to do, or how to do it.

  “You don’t have to make a decision yet,” he was saying, his warm hand resting on my lower belly. He wanted me to move in with him, pack up everything and come run away and join him in his new life and his new job. Now was the perfect time, he said, and every time we met up again he had some new detail to add: I could help him decorate. They had this amazing park there I’d love. We could bring Buttons. It would be great.

  “But just think about it?”

  I hemmed and hawed, and played at thinking about it, but honestly my mind was already well made up. He sat up quickly and gave me a more serious look.

  “Mel, I’m going to show you something now, and it’s a secret, and you’d better promise not to tease me about it.”

  I looked at him with new interest.

  “A secret? I’m sure I know all your naughty secrets…” I said with a cheeky smile.

  “No, I’m serious though. Promise you won’t judge me?”

  “Well just how bad is it?”

  “It’s …it’s kind of bad …just promise you won’t be mean if I show you?”

  I was curious now. I sat up as well. What dirty secrets didn’t I know about? Didn’t we know everything about each other by this point? Was he more of a “bad boy” than I had thought?

  “Yes ok, show me.”

  He pulled out his iPad and started to swipe. Glossy images whizzed by on the screen. I peered over, intrigued. He took a deep breath and then turned the screen around to face me. A Pinterest board. With dozens of colorful pins of home décor. Pages and pages and pages of tasteful shabby chic quilts, Scandinavian style furniture, light fittings, Japanese crockery.

  “What’s …what’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s my Pinterest account. This is my ‘Home’ board. Come and live with me. Come and live with me and we’ll make a house that looks like just this.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “That’s very, very bad of you!” I giggled, swiping through the pages, barely believing my eyes.

  “Well, will you come?” he said again, boyish puppy eyes staring at me.

  It was naughty, I know, but something made me rest my hand over his, and trace his fingers downwards, where I was still slick.

  “Sure, but you’ll have to convince me first,” I said and, you know, we both still knew how to play that game.

  - THE END -

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  Back Page Confession: “That Kind of Girl”

  For reasons not worth getting into, I was perusing the Kama Sutra the other day and laughing cynically at those un-PC parts they don’t usually include in the fun illustrated manuals.

  For example, this gem under the section titled About Classes of Women Fit and Unfit for Congress with the Citizen, and of Friends, and Messengers:

  “When Kama is practised by men of the four castes according to the rules of the Holy Writ (i.e. by lawful marriage) with virgins of their own caste, it then becomes a means of acquiring lawful progeny and good fame, and it is not also opposed to the customs of the world. On the contrary the practice of Kama with women of the higher castes, and with those previously enjoyed by others, even though they be of the same caste, is prohibited. But the practice of Kama with women of the lower castes, with women excommunicated from their own caste, with public women, and with women twice married, is neither enjoined nor prohibited. The object of practising Kama with such women is pleasure only.”

  Lovely, isn’t it? I wanted to laugh at this part too, because, well, just look at it. But the more I thought about it, the more I sadly had to admit that the attitude in this ancient paragraph is actually not so different from those of many people living and breathing and walking this earth right now.

  I was ready to forget about this foray into antique sex manuals when a friend casually made a joke: he said his grandmother had a saying that “some women are for working and some women are for loving.” It was meant to be funny because he said it about a girl we both knew, with the insinuation of what kind of women she was (and isn’t it funny that in saying this, you already know which kind that is?).

  I was offended on her behalf. It was the sexist Kama Sutra nonsense all over again. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why it bothered me so much. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that what was irking me was the whole notion of categories of women in the first place. Because it’s not just an arbitrary grouping of characteristics, but it always comes with the understanding that some categories are inherently better than others.

  You see it everywhere.

  There’s the girl you have fun with, and then the girl you take home to meet your folks, marry, and have babies with. There’s the good girl and there’s the bad girl. The slut and the virgin. The Madonna and the whore (or, depending on your source material, a “public woman”, which makes prostitution seem more like a bizarre community service).

  Here’s the thing, though: it’s all the same woman. A woman isn’t some product you can buy off Amazon. Life isn’t a porn website where women neatly fall into different niches according to their most salient features, and they’re offered up freely to you depending on your purpose for them. The infuriating thing is that you can never really win with these categories, anyway. If you decide you want to play up your sexuality, you get plucked out of all the other categories (i.e. you’re not a smart woman anymore, or a virtuous one) and put in a little box. In fact, I think so many romance and erotica tales rest on the heroine in question busting out of one box and claiming another one.

  But again, she was always the same woman.

  I have to admit that I had reservations writing a main character who was a mother. I noticed that I, too, was assuming that just because she
was in the mom box, she couldn’t possibly be in the babe box. I was just as guilty as the people I was getting angry with for looking at all the wonderful depth inside each woman and chopping it up into mutually exclusive pieces. When I was brainstorming ideas for this story, I thought, “hm, she’s quite a lot older than him, that’s going to be a feature of this story, because it’s so unusual.”

  But is it really?

  Wasn’t I working from my own unflattering preconceptions about which women are “fit” and which ones “unfit” for, ahem, congress with our beloved bad boy hero?

  When I realized I was writing this way, with all the unfair stereotypes I thought I didn’t take part in, I decided that I wouldn’t make Ally a cougar type. In fact, I wouldn’t make her a “type” of woman at all.

  I like to think of myself as a complex, multi-faceted personality, so maybe I would give this character the same consideration. She isn’t “that type of woman.” She’s just herself. A little more experienced than David in some ways, in other ways not. A mother in some moments, a giggly, playful child herself in the very next moment. The hunter and the hunted. Good and bad.

  In future, I would like to learn to drop the “some women are for X and some women are for Y” belief and just focus on ordinary women who find themselves doing X, and perhaps then doing Y. Characters in books can be archetypal. But if I want to make them seem like real people, I think I’m going to have to drop the idea that a character can’t be more than one thing at a time.