But no. Tatum is in another world. He needs this. I need this.
It feels so god spreading my ass and crank in his face, and him eating me, and me sucking him and blowing the juice right out of the empty but slowly filling space inside him. I go slow and fast, careful to let some space out between my lips and his now sloppy penis.
“Waryn, I’m going to cum.” It’s not in desperation that he says this. It feels like more of a warning. Like he hasn’t done this in a very long time and I should be prepared for a bucket load.
I want that load. I want to be his slut. I want him to-
The first shot spurts into the side of my cheek. The rest don’t get so lucky. All of him is flowing down my throat with ease, and enough finesse to make a porno.
Tatum is silently groaning in pleasure. His hands are tightly on my ass, squeezing the life into them. I love that I made him cum. I love that his balls are expended, and nothing can make his dick go do-
“You’re still hard…” I cry out in disbelief. He pops his head back into my pussy and flicks it with his tongue. One word is all it takes.
“Flip.”
It would be modest to think that a man who beat men half to death for a career would stop fucking after one round of pussy. I need to rethink my strategy if I am to survive his pounding from behind…his arms tightly holding mine in submission…his dick sliding in and out from the back, and my tits hanging loose above the table.
Over and over again he goes. And I love each stroke, each second, and each orgasm he gives me.
He could say the same, but his vein is about to pop. Again.
Chapter 8 - Waryn
This is my first time to feel this. Naked and unashamed after a romp that took the feelings from my heat and shoved them deep into my cunt. I take to wearing my bra as he grabs his boxers and throw them up to his balls. They had this feel-good crusty-smooth really good taste a couple of minutes ago.
And I loved every second of him in me.
“Here’s your hair band.”
“Your wrist band.”
“Umm, Waryn, your skirt zipper is still loose. Here you go.” Having him this close is dauntingly squeamish. I can see and feel the slight mist in his breath. The AC must be getting to us, finally.
“Your fly’s open Driggs.” I zip it up fast. He jumps slightly.
We both laugh.
“We should probably go.”
“Or stay,’ I quip. We could actually stay till all the weirdness is done. I really don’t want to see the people outside. I know they know that we know that they know we weren’t sorting out ink cartridges.
“Waryn.” His arm is around me, my breasts clinging to his shirt. I feel love and a beating thump where I am. The sweet smell of pheromones and the erotic sex we just had is frighteningly good on us; musk I can wear to work every day and not feel jumpy about it. So out of character for me.
I, in my own ways, feel as if there is a comeuppance of growth in my system. I feel as if this simple thrash of wills in the closet, hiding in plain sight from those outside us has made us grow something between us. I for one know that he did not just use my body for his gain. I think I used him, but that’s way beyond the point. Growth is good this way.
His hands are in mine and his lips on my scar. A quick kiss on it and the boo-boo is gone. “I almost forgot; your scar.” He reaches down to the trashed tray and retrieves a butterfly suture. With a quick fix, and a cold feel on my skin, he firmly plants it and smiles. It simply feels-
“Good as new.” I say.
“We should really go. I think if we stay any longer Damon will knock.”
“And we don’t want that now, do we?”
“No Waryn. We do not. I doubt I will ever live it down.”
His lips tremble in excitement. I look at them and yearn to soften their chapped cracks. He deftly denied any lip gloss and promptly used the last of my juice to streamline the bridges on them. Needless to say, that aroused me in a snap.
“Okay. No holding hands, yeah?” He’s turned cold again. I register this with a slight frown. He quickly quips, “I was just kidding. Come here.”
With him I cannot tell. Yes, he fucked me so deep, deeper than I have ever been in years since I lost my virginity to that weirdo in the stall. Of course he grabbed my hair and pounded my meat like it was the first and last, his everything. And yes, I agree that we have a long way before we can settle maters on how we are both together.
But honestly, the steel of passion he just threw into me, the slight calculation of his prick gliding through me in a peaceful and almost-caring slice, these things make me slightly drop my leg onto the side of the fence that surely knows that something is here. Something could grow, and something here can definitely bond us beyond the tragedy of our lives.
I waltz toward him and grab his hand. “Oh.” I breathe.
“What?” he asks. “Nothing, it’s just really breezy between my legs. I’m not used to going around commando you know.”
“Ah…you’d better get used to me if we’re gonna be doing this.” He says, unlatching the door and then placing his hand firmly into his pocket where my lace undies have found a home in.
“Wait, what do you-?” I don’t get to finish. The door flings open and the light bathes my eyes. It’s sudden, but I adjust. He switches off the light bulb behind us and I walk behind him to the outside aisle, where a few eyes are onto us, and leaking smirks hidden from plain view.
We must have been in there for a while.
There are lesser clients than there were when we went into the unused break room. Now two young ladies, friends most probably, and almost the same age as I was when I was in college, swipe through the picture books and giggle as we brush past. I smell of sex, and they might all know it.
Still, I just got laid. They didn’t.
Tatum lets go of my hand easily, and walks toward the human chop shop. It flutters. He looks back and smiles. I can see him mouth words of comfort that will try to get me through the day at least. The curtain falls, and I can clearly hear Holland guffaw, “Well mate, glad you could join us back at work.”
Sarcasm is not lost on him, and it strikes me as funny how them knowing we had sex doesn’t unbalance me. It’s actually more of a mark, indelible and bonding, that we now share. I smile and spin my arm round the wooden desk my station is at. I had left the computer screen on, the cursor blinking. My legs find shelter in the covered hollow wood, and I spread my legs out. No one can see me from under here, and it feels so good to let some air in. Tatum really rubbed me out.
The register is still shut, thankfully, and I try and type in a report for the day. When we got here Tatum had simply taken me through the inner workings of being their receptionist. Act casual and zero-fuck giving, they won’t mess with you. Don’t worry about them paying; we handle that as soon as they sit in the chair. Look them dead in the eye, and if a scuffle occurs, let me handle it. Make sure you are far away as possible if, and when, one of the clients gets a little…rowdy.
So much for that front.
She had it coming anyway. No one goes for my jugular and expects to leave walking. I crease a little at the cheeks, and it hurts a bit. Would you look at that – a battle scar. My first from defending whatever is left in this world that I care for. And Eric too…
I get the inkling that I am getting over the death of my brother quicker than I expected. I left home months ago trying to make sense of it all, guiding hate and darkness into one perspective; to find Tatum and fulfill Eric’s one wish. But even now as the doorbell dings, and a client with enough hair on their face and armpits to salvage spilled yoghurt walks in looking right at me, I cannot shake that vibe. That vibe that’s been bugging me since I left home and kissed Sarah goodbye for that time, since I met Tatum Driggs in person, and since he took me high and low in all possible angles in that quiet room by the corner.
“Hey lady. Did you hear what I just said?” I didn’t. I look up and see him. His teeth are golden, m
ore of plating than real golden teeth, and his body screaming for a shave more than a tattoo. My best smile, fake and vague, comes up and I nod away.
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that please?”
“Pfftt – women. I’m here to see Damon for my appointment. Is he with someone?”
“Uh, lemme check real quick.” I flip through the papers filled with client names that are highly uncategorized and disheveled. Out of the litter I pick one right out and look back at him. Damn. He is gnashing his teeth.
“First name?”
“Don.” He says. On the tidings of his fingers, his clenched fists read “POOP PARRY”. I don’t think I am in quite the position to judge, and so I stare back at the papers and give him my best lying face. “Well then Don, Damon will be right with you. I’ll just go check if he’s got a client. Wait here please.”
Care for that breeze down low…
It really is drafty, but I don’t mind; as long as I get my head back in the game. The corridor is cold and the room warm. I call out through the curtain, and four quick smiles shoot back.
“Damon, Don’s got an appointment?”
He stares back and, if I am not mistaken, throws a quick side smirk that I can only assume to be a show of gratitude. “Bring him right in.” On leaving the AC filled air, I hook my eye on Tatum. His was already on me.
For the rest of my day, and into the night, I keep staring at each of the clients as they walk in, and as they leave. I feel shortchanged, in that I never fumble, and I never stutter with anyone. It’s usually the other way around. That steamy tryst in the breakroom’s got me wet each time Tatum strolls through with a client. Not fair that he can’t see me behind my little desk.
It is almost seven. The lights are dimmed, and the clients stream in more than before. It takes a little convincing from the monotonous stares I get from the horniest of the clientele walking in, that I can get over the few spasms of the after orgasms I’ve been getting. It was just a small thing, a fling. Ha-ha, so that’s where they caught it from. I feel like going back home now, and I need to tell him this. He’s just from a dozen clients and his head just popped out from the corner.
“I’m done on my end.” He strikes, wiping his hands off and walking towards me. “Are you?” he asks.
“Yeah I am. We should probably be gone. I have to be up early tomorrow.” I say. My ass feels sore from the rough chair it’s been on. My thighs, moistening at the space between us; it’s closer.
“Why? We open at 11. There is gonna be plenty of time to sleep.”
“Just a habit I suppose.” I lazily say.
“Well then, you won’t be saying that after we go have dinner tonight.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah, dude. Really?” a blue-eyed man quite close to where we are standing quips. We both glare at him, feeling our privacy invaded. He pipes down and goes back to reading his Buzz Feed blog, or whatever it is men wearing tight suits and overhanging black coats getting tattoos at this time of night do.
“Maybe we should go outside.” Tatum says. I agree, and grab my jacket from the side bin under my desk. We walk out, and his name is called out. We stop by the tattoo sign by the door. Not surprising, it’s Holland. The voice was a tad squeaky.
“Hey Tate, Waryn,” he adds smiling my way. His face turns and his hand grabs his open sleeve. He has no tattoos on his arms, and his demeanor is more of rich-boy than tattoo artist. I suppose I am yet to really know the crew. There’ll be time for that. Maybe.
“I just had to stop you before you left.”
“Why? What’s up?” Tatum asks.
“Nothin’ really. I just wanted to know if you guys might wanna grab a drink with us tonight. It’s been a while since a beer at B’s. It is totally Damon’s idea. Nix is in too. So…”
Fast talker. Hmm…haven’t seen one like him in a while. Sarah might find this interesting.
Tatum grabs my arm tighter in his bicep. His warmth is calming.
“Not tonight Holland. I got something special planned.” He says. “Like what?” I ask while acting and playfully getting coy. Holland gets the hint. “Yeah, Tate, like what?”
“Guys, come on.”
“Come on? Is that the best you could do? Go on, blurt out this ‘special’ night notion of yours.” Man, I could do this all night every night.
“You really wanna play this game, Holly?’ he starts, shuffling his cards and dealing them one by one. Holland opens his mouth to protest, but something tells me there’s more ammo in the Tate-gun. Unexpected, but I can see where this is going. His hand is almost by the pocket that I know has my black laced secret. “And you, Waryn, getting ready for-”
“Okay, that’s enough.” I blurt out. No need for the world to know I like it high and dry in commando world. “You know what? No need for that. We can just go and let Holland and the guys deal with the night, right?”
“Yeah, why not.” He’s won. Holland stands dejected, but in a sporty way. “Thanks for the invite Holland. Let’s see how that will go tomorrow night yeah?” Tatum says, grabbing my waist and twisting my legs around to one direction, close to where he’s parked his jeep.
“Yeah, thanks. Tomorrow night it is then,” he pushes off. He turns his back and gets through the door and winks. Last thing I saw on his face was a grin. Buddies to the end I see.
“So you guys really call him Holly? The balls on you,” I start, leaning into Tatum and relishing the meaty treat that is his whole. “What? A couple of guys can’t have some twisted fun with one of their own? Come on. I’m only human.”
“Oh, I have to disagree. Not with the way you were pounding me in in that tiny ass break room Tatum. It’s like you wanted the whole bloody solar system to hear us.” I say. The door comes into view and so do the rest of the small crowds that walk past us. Couples hand in hand, and a small brown dog with no collar. Probably a stray, but this is a new town to me. Maybe the owner is just by the cover of darkness past the hotdog stand milling with hungry bystanders along it. Ah, of course he is. The dog runs past the teenagers cussing at each other listening to the radio’s beats and stoops by a small boy around eleven. I can’t really be sure from this distance, but his haircut does a little telling.
“Well than Waryn, I suppose I couldn’t agree more.” His stride is getting shorter the closer we get to the green but old beast. His lips get slightly thinner with each split of the skin in between. From his pocket he gets out a bunch of keys and uses one of them on the car door. It unlocks.
“Aren’t you getting in?” he asks from the cozy inside. I stand out, waiting. “Oh come on Waryn. You’re not gonna be the kind of woman that waits for the door to be opened for you all the time?” he asks.
He really expects me to answer that? I’m in a skirt with no panties for crying out loud. Tatum sighs and turns on the key. The jeep revs to life, and he patiently waits with a smug chap on his face. “I am not getting out Waryn.”
“Then I suppose we’re gonna wait here till someone thinks I’m your slut. Oh look, they all know this jeep belongs to the guy from the tattoo parlor.”
“And how does that exempt you from any shame?” he asks. I scoff and laugh lightly.
“I am all dead on the inside Tatum. Nothing can faze me. So either you get your ass out here and open this door for me, or I wait till my legs, and the treat of the night if you get lucky a second time, freeze over.”
Seconds pass and I’m in the passenger seat waiting. I won.
“So, where are we going Mr. Delightful?” I ask. On the radio as we cruise along the silent streets, I enjoy the boom of Bastille’s Pompeii through the stereo. Tatum’s hands grasp the wheel lightly; red from all the heavy breathing he’s attuned his body to after losing to a girl in a skirt. Of all the things to get pissed over on a beautiful and freaky Wednesday such as this, he chooses chivalry. He is silently staring at me through his side skull.
Bitch – the silent treatment? Oh it is on, boy.
Two can definit
ely play. It’s not my first tango. More music booms. The silence grows. I take the time to study him and his surroundings. If Tatum is actually upset over me side stepping his ‘authority’ then that should tell me something. It could be his extreme levels of testosterone all the time. All professional wrestlers, whether retired or still in the game, have that issue. It’s just like having a big baby to please all the time, in this case a baby with a beard and a smooth humming tune to the music currently playing.
It is a clear road tonight. Not that it’s never clear. This side of Philly has always felt like a normal dead town to me. The folks are nice but a little too cheery, which adds the cherry on top of the creepy part. They all seem to mind their business in everything, but when it comes to good food, they’re all over you. We pass by Jojo’s Bakery swiftly, where the lights are still on and a couple of people are enjoying their last slices of lemon meringue pie. I can still remember the first time I rode into town searching for the silent hummer by my side…
The lady at the counter, who I later came to learn that day was Jojo’s daughter, Claire, had with her the craziest laugh I had ever heard. She is still clear to me as she was in mind. I was tired, and hungry, and in my hand was a purse filled with an acceptance of leave of absence from my paper, a wad of gum and some cash in an envelope. In the other was my suitcase, filled with my lazy clothes and Sarah’s exciting ones, mixed and arrayed in a manner of convenience till I went back home. I sat by the corner and she came over, note and pad in hand and a yellow apron on her maroon dress that could contrast with blood on the sun.
“Hello. What can I get you, miss?” she asked.
I was really starving, given the plane ride here was not an easy domestic. Turbulence came and went, but Yeesh, I am never trying out coach just for fun. So I looked at her face, and then her name tag, and acted kind nonetheless. “Hi Claire, I will have your day’s special please.”
In a way she must have taken it really well. Perhaps it was a new recipe, or a celebration of some kind for that particular day. Whatever it was, that lemon meringue pie was to die for. I got wet just from thinking about the sweet aromatic taste that crunched and melted in my mouth in all respect to the sour and sweet of my taste buds. There was a revelation to me that day; if you haven’t ever been aroused by great food yet, get that foot out the door and live. You haven’t been living for a very long time.
Two Bad Groomsmen_An MFM Menage Romance Page 32