by Ben Boswell
Heather shivered. “I don’t want to think about it.”
He laughed. “You asked.”
“That’ll teach me.”
He leaned over and kissed her. Still poised over her, he stroked her cheek.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.”
A pause.
“Well, maybe a little,” Heather admitted. “I guess that’s the flip side of all of this, right? Getting more in touch with my sexuality means better understanding other people’s.”
It occurred to her that she’d been living a sheltered life. How had that happened? How did she become Soccer Mom. God, she’d always been so conservative about sex. Responsible. Or maybe, scared. But why? So much drilled into her. Pregnancy, STIs, date rape, slut shaming. All girls got that rap, but not all girls internalized it to the point of ignoring or denying the beauty of… well… a good fuck. Why had she? Was it maybe a different fear? The worry that she’d enjoy it too much? No, that wasn’t it. She’d never imagined it could be like this. But now, how could she go back?
Damon brushed the back of his hand over her throat, down the front of her chest, over her nipples.
“I like you when you’re pensive,” he said with a smile.
“You like me when I’m naked.”
“That too.”
He leaned down and kissed her again. His hand continued its downward journey, over her belly, past her abdomen, his thumb finding her wet, sensitive slit.
She put her hand over his to stop him.
“No more, Damon, not tonight.”
He kissed her again. “One more. I want to make you come one more time.”
He churning his thumb into her slippery folds, and then began circling her clit. She kept her hand on his, feeling his movements. It felt like she was playing with herself, but she wasn’t. Still, it seemed oddly intimate.
He kissed her again. Lightly, his soft lips trailing against hers. He nibbled at her chin, and kissed her neck. She’d thought she was done, but Damon seemed to know her body better than she did herself. She could feel the heat building in her belly, her nipples throbbing, he pressed down harder, the pad of his thumb edging beneath the tight hood of her clit.
Her body shuddered. She pressed down hard on his hand.
“Oh God,” she gasped. “Oh Damon.”
He gently edged his hand away. He reached down and pulled the cover over them. Then over his shoulder he snapped off the lights. He pulled Heather into a tight embrace in their now darkened cocoon of fresh sheets and heavy comforter.
“Good night, Soccer Mom.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Heather woke. It was still dark, the middle of the night. She looked at the alarm. 4:13am. Less than thirty hours left now.
It reminded her of middle school. She’d had a crush on Bryce. Bryce Banner. He had long hair, a cocky grin. He was the only boy who could actually look a girl in the eye. And Heather was in love. Desperate, tears-in-the-shower love. He never noticed her. No, he was too interested in Lorelei, that little whore who at thirteen had bigger tits than Heather had even now. Well, not just Lorelei, but Dani who always wore rock band tee shirts, and Trina, whose dad owned the BMW dealership, and basically all the bitchy, confident mean girls. But every day, Heather recalculated. 120 days left in the school year. 93. Now 62. Then 29. The days left before they all scattered for the summer and then to different high schools, the days for the flowering of the grand Heather-Bryce love affair she fantasized about.
She was still counting down. Except this time, it had really happened. But it was still that same feeling. That sense of time running out. A growing desperation to make every minute count.
Damon was dozing peacefully. Not for long. She eased off the covers and admired his gorgeous, naked body, relaxed in sleep and yet still oozing strength and power. She ran her finger over his chest, lightly, lightly to avoid waking him, trying to commit to memory the feel of his muscles, the lines of his long limbs.
She realized for the first time that his chest wasn’t naturally hairless. He shaved it. She felt a few stray bits of stubble. Her hand went down to her shaved pussy. She was good for another day. It was funny to think of him shaving for her as she’d shaved for him. It humanized him. He wasn’t a sex god, but just a man, and somehow that made him even more appealing.
She trailed her fingers lightly over his abs. Less prominent in repose, but still impressive. A freak of nature? No. He probably had to work at it. She imagined him in the gym, sweating through a spinning class before work, counting his calories. The actions of a guy who had to work for sex, who couldn’t just count on it like a married man.
She shuddered, realizing suddenly what she was doing. Unconsciously comparing him to Jeff, finding her husband wanting. Justifying the affair to herself. If only Jeff worked as hard as being sexy as Damon.
She chided herself. Not fair, Heather. Damon doesn’t have to get up early every morning to support a family. He doesn’t have an hour-long commute, made worse by delaying his departure to make sure he can have breakfast with the kids. He doesn’t rush home after work to give his wife a few minutes break from the kids before dinner. He doesn’t do dishes, read to three children before bed, and then climb exhausted into bed with his equally exhausted wife before beginning the cycle again, and again, and again.
Still, even before marriage, before kids, Jeff had never been this fit. Never had this….
Heather traced the outline of Damon’s huge prick. That’s what it came down to. She felt suddenly pathetic. Really, Heather? A size queen? No, that wasn’t honest either. She was ready to give herself to him even before she knew how big he was. Still… she always knew even if she didn’t know. Suspected at least. But no. That wasn’t it, at least not all of it. She thought of the way he touched her, his words, his adventurousness. Damon’s cock was a bonus. An amazing, heart-stopping bonus, but she’d have given herself to him regardless, fallen for him even if he’d been just average in the pants.
But… he wasn’t. God, he wasn’t. She bent lower until she was inches away from his prick. She admired his smooth cock, peaceful, curved, soft. An alter ego to the hard, powerful tool it became. Clark Kent to Superman.
She giggled at her own idiotic thoughts. God, I am really losing it. And yet, she couldn’t deny her desires. She wanted to see Superman. Again. Right now.
Heather ran her tongue along his shaft. She felt his cock twitch at her touch. She wondered if the sensation was now shaping his dreams, and if his dreams were of her. No, probably not. In his dreams, my tongue is Scarlett Johansson’s. Or at least Shelby’s. Fucking blondes with big tits. Except they weren’t here, and Heather was. For the first time in history the nice girl was winning.
Yeah, real nice girl. You dumb, married, cheating slut.
She hesitated. This was wrong. She had to flee. No. It was right, so right, undeniable. And anyway… what difference did it make at this point?
She licked his cock again. She loved the way it seemed to slowly twitch to life. It hardened, slowly, taking shape, becoming rigid. She sucked on his foreskin, marveling up close at the way her attention caused him grow, exposing more and more of his large, spongy glans. Heather’s tongue swirled around the tip of his cock, finally taking the head into her mouth, sucking it, bathing it with her tongue.
He was hard now, and Heather knew she had to have him inside her. She eased him onto his back and straddled him. His eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.
She seized his prick and slowly lowered herself onto him, feeling his bulk stretching her out, filling her completely. She settled down on him and just sat there, relishing the sensation.
“You know, Soccer Mom, technically this is rape.”
She looked down to see him looking at her. He’d been awake the whole time… or long enough at least.
“So call the cops,” she replied.
She began to rise and fall on him slowly.
“No, seriously, you
can’t go around –“
She slapped his chest.
“Shut up and fuck me.”
He grinned. “Crazy bitch.”
“Cocky shit.”
The words meant nothing. She felt his hands on her hips, felt him begin to thrust upward into her. Hard. Harder. She gasped and moaned. He grunted. Faster and faster. And then as if they’d planned it, they both shuddered, growled, and came together.
She fell forward on his chest and kissed his neck.
“Can I get some fucking sleep now?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied.
She looked over at the clock. Less than 29 hours now.
***
Still, he returned the favor a few hours later. With the sun now peaking through the drawn curtains, he woke her by spooning her, his hand reaching around to gently fondle her pussy. She could feel his hardness pressing against her ass. She moaned softly as his fingers explored her silky folds, easily finding the wetness within.
He entered her from behind, fucking her slowly at first, his fingers encircling her clit, rolling her sensitive nipples between his thumb and forefinger, until she came beautifully. Then harder and harder. Heather bit down on the pillow to keep from screaming, or at least to muffle her screams. She tried to push his hand away. It was too much stimulation. Too much. But she couldn’t. He was too strong. And anyway, she didn’t really want to push him away. She surrendered to him. Trusting in his knowledge of her body.
He rolled onto his back and pulled her onto top of him. Lying on him, facing the ceiling, his huge cock pounding into her from beneath, his fingers tormenting her swollen, aching clit, Heather screamed in passion.
No words. Just high primal screams. Shuttering guttural grunts. Her breath coming in wheezing gasps. Animalistic rather than human.
And he fucked her harder still. She could feel it building. If he slowed for just a second she’d come, hard, but he didn’t. It was too much to let her release and instead it just built and built. Twitching now. Blurry eyed. His other hand on her breasts, tormenting her nipples, pinching, stretching them out.
Her long, low howl suddenly choked off. Bucking. Arms flailing. She felt him coming inside her, and she was exploding as well. Heat, wetness, so much wetness. Dizzy, half-blind.
She blushed painfully as she realized what had happened. She rolled off him scooted away from the soaked sheets, burying her head in her pillow.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she cried out, stricken.
He laughed. “Why?”
“I peed on you.”
He gently rubbed her back. “Female ejaculation. You squirted. It’s okay.”
She peeked out at him. He really wasn’t appalled?
“Never happened before?” he asked.
“No, God, no.”
“Men come, women can too.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s pee, you know.”
He shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’s –“
“Pee.”
He laughed. “Whatever. We’ll let housekeeping sort it out. Shower and breakfast?”
Heather leapt out of bed and into the shower. But as she turned on the hot water, she couldn’t help but giggle.
***
Heather stopped by her room to change, and then met Damon back by the pool. He had a Bloody Mary waiting for her, just as she’d hoped. It was sort of frightening. He already seemed to know her so well, yet, of course, they didn’t know each other at all. At this point, Heather wasn’t sure she wanted to know more. They were already so comfortable, intimate, and not just sexually. The playfulness, the banter. She couldn’t imagine what Jeff would think about it, but she thought that while she might be able to forgive Jeff a torrid sexual escapade, she wasn’t sure she could forgive herself.
She glanced at the clock: 10:13am. Less than twenty-four hours left. Officially their last day together.
“So, what happens next?” she asked.
He groaned. “Don’t worry, housekeeping sees worse –“
She blushed and swatted him.
“No, not that, idiot.”
He lowered his aviators and gave her a scowl. “Did you just call me idiot?”
A week ago she’d have been intimidating. Now she just laughed.
“Yeah. And actually, what am I supposed to call you? Do you have a nickname? Or does everyone just call you Damon?”
“What’s wrong with Damon?”
“I don’t know. Just seems formal to always call you by your full name. I mean, you can’t even bring yourself to say my name.”
‘That’s because your name is lame. Heather. White bread, white girl.”
“Well, that’s what I am, right?”
“Fuck no. You’re not. You’re a nasty, hungry vixen.”
She laughed. “See, that’s the thing, I’m not.”
“You are.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Well, I guess that’s my question, right? I mean, what happens next?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh God, Damon, help me out here. I’m seriously flailing. I’ve never done this before. What happens next?”
“What do you want to happen?”
I want to pack you in my suitcase. Take you home and bring you out three times a day to fuck me silly before hiding you away again.
“I don’t know…. I love my husband. Kids.”
He nodded. “So that’s the answer. Nothing. Nothing happens. We say goodbye. We keep our memories. And that’s it.”
“Really?”
He sighed. “I don’t know what you want from me Soccer Mom. I don’t think I can live with the guilt of being a home-wrecker. And anyway, you don’t want that. Right?”
Was there something wistful about his tone? Had he thought of chucking the bachelor life and, what, being with her?
“Right,” she replied slowly. “But. I don’t know how this becomes nothing. You’ve done this before –“
“No, actually Heather, I haven’t. I’ve had flings. Encounters. Affairs. But not this. But I don’t know the answer. You want to be Facebook friends? Or what, we keep in touch in secret, find an excuse to meet once a year?”
“Same Time, Next Year.”
“Huh?”
“Another old movie. Alan Alda. Ellen Burstyn. They meet, have an affair like ours…. Well, minus the butt sex and peeing the bed.”
He laughed.
She continued, “And they agree to meet every year at the same time and place. Just one weekend a year. No communication in between.”
“Is that what you want?” Damon replied.
“Jesus, I don’t know what the fuck I want. I mean, yes, no, maybe?”
“You know that won’t work, right?”
She nodded, but her heart protested. Why not?
“It is just a fantasy,” he added.
“I just don’t know what happens next.”
He leaned over. “But you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course you do. What the fuck am I? Just a fling. Maybe it means something, but I don’t.”
“You do.”
He shook his head.
“This isn’t about me. It’s about you and what you want.”
She laughed darkly, a tear trailing down her cheek. “Very convenient, mister.”
“What can I say? It is convenient. True though. No one is going to be waiting for me at the airport.”
“So, do I tell him?”
“Do you have a choice?” Damon asked.
Of course she had a choice. In theory. In reality…?
“I don’t know. Is it more selfish to admit it or to hide it?”
“I wouldn’t want to know.”
She sighed. Jeff wouldn’t want to know either. As long as it meant nothing. But she wasn’t sure it was actually meaningless. It felt more consequential than that. And if she was changed, how could it be fair to hide that from her husband?
Heather finished of
f her Bloody Mary. She looked around, committing the scene to memory. The warm ocean breeze. The pale blue of the pool. The brilliant white façade of the hotel. The dark green of the lawns and swaying palms. The carefree giggles and chatter of the swimsuit clad guests.
And, of course, Damon. So handsome. So confident. Temptation incarnate. Giving her meaning and yet destroying everything she held dear….
***
“Oh, fuck!” she hissed.
Flat on her back, ankles around her ears, his fat prick pounding into her tiny, little asshole. It was what she wanted. What she’d asked for. The pain a fitting punishment, the thrill an unwarranted reward. Her curse. Even her penance becoming another guilty pleasure.
It was something she’d never done, never been tempted, and yet somehow she was a natural. An anal queen. She found she could relax at will and let that huge prick of his slide right in, filling her like she’d never thought possible. And even more was the exhilaration of it. So dirty. So fucking slutty. She wanted more.
“Is that all you got?” she grunted, taunting him.
He grinned, immediately copping to her game.
“So you want it rough, Soccer Mom?”
She bared her teeth at him. “Bring it.”
He reached out and palmed her throat. She felt again his strength, knew he could crush her windpipe with ease. His grip tightened. She swallowed painfully. And then her cheek exploded as her slapped her hard. She yelped. Her face burned. But it was a jolt of adrenaline.
“More!” she growled.
He slapped again, this time her nipple. A surge of searing pain, that receded quickly to a throbbing ache. Her other nipple now. She squirmed, felt herself impaled on his big cock. She reached down between them and thumped her slick, swollen clit in time with his hard thrusts.
“That’s it. Make yourself come while I fuck your ass, like a good little whore.”
“Oh God,” Heather sighed going over the edge.
While she was still in the throes of passion, he pulled out and easily flipped her over. Grabbing handfuls of her firm butt cheeks, he rammed back into her ass from behind. She cried out. Fuck. Natural or not, it still hurt. Not enough to make her want to stop. That’s part of what made it so hot, that combination of pain, pleasure as his thrusts propagated to the rest of her loins, making her pussy quiver, her clit tingling, that feeling of being completely stuffed. Even more it sent her mind reeling. The sense of breaking taboos, so many fucking taboos. Cheating on her husband. Anal sex. Making it with a black man. And more than anything else, the realization that it all felt so right. That she wasn’t who she’d been, but instead was a dirty, fucking, whore who could come from a dick in her ass.