“Okay, Waryn, it’s going to get a little creepier if you keep smiling at your reflection like that.” Tatum’s face is looking my way. I realize how happy that memory must have made me. It’s been a while since I spaced out over something, or someone.
“I win again ha-ha!”
“Were we competing?” he asks.
“We weren’t?” I respond. “I don’t think we were.” He says.
“Really? Then what’s with the silent treatment?”
“Silent treatment? You read into it too much. I was feeling the panties in my pocket and reminiscing.”
“Oh.” Liar. “And you don’t think that’s dangerous driving on your part?”
“Ha-ha. I don’t think it is.”
“Well I do. It wasn’t some easy sex back there. It was heavy, steaming, sweaty sex that could give you snapshots in front of your eyes. You won’t even see the deer coming.”
“Umm, Waryn…we’re in Philly. What deer?”
“The proverbial one.”
“Ah.” He quips. “The best kind.”
We fall in easy quiet as Abba’s Dancing Queen fills the warming car chassis. We saunter into a blazing competition for who can hum out the better between the two of us. His is a droning baritone, while mine is a flowing and incessant chirpy tune, more of a Snow White simplification. He gets this round.
“So, back to the earlier question slay queen,” I pinch. “Where are we headed?”
He gets a bit nerdy and itchy when he tastes the answer on his tongue. “I want to make you a meal.”
“You already said we’re having dinner. I’ll need to change and freshen up. Unless you have some spare skirt or pair of sweats lying around in the trunk of-”
“At my place.”
“Oh.” I sigh. A little red floods my cheeks. I look away from him and make the oncoming grey sedan a really important object in my line of sight. He keeps on humming, this time, it’s Barry White.
Curse these radio stations.
*
“You’ve got a really nice place Tatum.”
“Better than yours?”
“You wish.”
The smell is the anchor to his cave. It reeks of manly morning workouts and no filters through the air. It’s a little kind of haven at the corner of a very suburban area. It holds a few streetlights in place; one in particular a few paces from his lawn. I can tell he cares a little for the naturally inane, given that the plants are green on the scaffolding, and the walls don’t have moss all over them. Lighting is really good here, and then comes the indoors.
His arms are wide and giving when he opens his front wooden door. “It’s just like a mini-Hogwarts,” I screamed out. It was all LED, smooth and pleasing to the eye. The three vintage lamps on every wooden chest spoke of a story. Deep carvings of flora on every corner of the wooden stands rhyme with the cemented finishing on the wall. The color, cream and lightly kissed with purple, gelled smoothly with a final touch at the end of the living room and the beginning of the kitchen.
From where I stand, is where I came in and froze in my heels. The design feels like it was done and handled by a woman. The ceiling is elegantly styled by a few chandeliers from which I cannot tell if they are real or fake. The dishes, of which there are none in the sink, are carefully placed on the white-painted wooden shelves that are in line with the design of the rest of the house. His refrigerator feels like it came from a different timeline, with a thick base and a very low hum from it; almost refreshing to the sound.
To be completely honest with myself, I just don’t want to lose face because, well…because.
His place is ten times better than mine. Oh crap…He’s staring again.
“I know that look.” He says.
“What look?”
“The look that everyone who has ever entered my home suddenly has as if by intuition. Even Damon asked,” he says. The door is locked, and I finally feel safe. Tatum walks behind the marble top counter and slides open a drawer. Two wine glasses with thick bottoms and thin tops firmly stay between his fingers. His eyes are on me the whole time, his body working on autopilot. The wine looks tasty, and very old. He pops it open with his teeth. Eyes never leave their mark.
“Go on, you can ask.” He is confidently pouring it in, waiting. A bug in me warns me of the previous guests’ mistake. Maybe what I am thinking right now is an insult to him, and all this could end. But, he’s a man who has gone through the worst of the worst. He should handle it all by now…right?
“Okay. First things first, I don’t want you to hold this against me in any way, alright?”
“Alright.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to laugh.”
“Okay. My question is a two-part kind of inquiry.”
“Wow, and we haven’t even started on the wine,” he laughs. He stops where my glare ends.
“Carry on then. The wine is only getting sweeter, but I’ll need some time to cook – today,” he says. The wine is on his lips as he hands me the glass.
“Tatum…were you ever married?”
He chokes a little on his drink. To the napkin holder by the microwave he goes, ripping a piece apart and dabbing it on the floor and his shirt, where he’s spilled. I walk towards him and help.
“I take that’s a really big no huh? Sorry about your shirt.”
“Why would you even think that?” he starts. With one arm he takes off what is wet and leaves on what is dry and toasty.
“Have you seen your man cave? How did you even afford all this?” I ask, breathing a step back. It’s like I never saw his torso before. Carved, no, sculpted to a work of art. He is beautiful.
“Oh,” he beams. “Well, I wasn’t. And I never have. The time just wasn’t there you know? And well, boxing isn’t so cheap either. Dad taught me how to save too, well, his bad spending habits did.”
“Mm-hm,’ I mime, sipping some more. He walks to the counter and grabs an apron from the back of the wall between where we are and what I presume to be the bedroom.
“And what’s the second question?” he asks. A skillet, a ladle and a spatula; gingerly he places them on the chopping board and the oven respectfully. He gets out a bowl and some dough from the compartment above, and shoves them to the side. He kneels and goes to the lower shelves. Then he stops. “Please, have a seat and enlighten me Waryn Blair. What’s your second question?”
I grab the glass tightly and allow myself to feel at home. My ass firmly rests upon the leather stool high up facing the counter. I sip some more, and add a gulp to it. The Italians really knew what they were doing.
“Well, if you aren’t married, I need to ask if you were gay at some point in your life.”
“Okay, what?” he’s stopped looking for whatever it is he was searching for. “What do you mean by that? Did the memory of the break room suddenly disappear?” The look on his face is priceless.
“Come on Tatum…I was just joking. Plus, you do realize that’s a complement I’m throwing at you right?”
He guffaws and brings up a bunch of greens; celery, onions, chili, lettuce and carrots. Man, this is gonna be good.
The man should be a chef for crying out loud. I couldn’t even chop the golden onions this fast, but there he is, working like a demon on payroll, a towel by his shoulder and his chest sweating him up. I so want something more than this drying wine. I slip out of my lazy top and join him in partial nudity.
The pot simmers. He licks his lips readily. I edge and inch closer to his sweaty torso and feel him up. “Someone’s been having some thoughts,” I whisper. His lips are closer than the open stove allows. I can take it. I can take it all…
The knife clutters and my feet fly. His hands are on my thighs, grinding me into the wall behind the fridge. Hunger rises. I can taste it on his skin, the nectar of his godly muscles, and the absolution of the tension pressing yearningly into my crotch. We are animals tonight, and no word should ever be uttered in savagery
. At least that’s what I try to make him understand with my throat engulfed with his cock.
Thank God for meat!
*
“How are you not a chef?” I ask, stuffing the final spoon of pasta and grilled chicken into my waiting mouth. He is on his third glass of wine, having eaten faster and having been satisfied on all ends.
“Ah well, it’s all an art right? I loved that stuff and still do it, on skin and not in the kitchen. I am really glad you enjoyed the meal Waryn.”
“The pleasure is all mine Tate,” I belch out. We both share iridescent laughter. This, this is what it’s all about. Right here, having a good meal with a man who is comfortable eating with his dick still inside me. Both of us are one, naked and fully enjoying our company. His bedroom is the exact replica of a bad camper’s cabin, with the fireplace and the smoking hot bear skin rug on the floor – for which I am praying is not real. In the firelight, with the dimmed lights and the slow food getting into our almost full bellies, I am warm and stuffed. Fully. I wish I could tell what is going on in his mind. Does he wish this to last for a longer time? Does he want this to be more with meaning? Does he want to get a dog and name him Pat?
I hate overthinking. It takes me to places I soon regret being in. Once, I ate a whole box of cookies after a dare from a boy next door, Sherman Benson, who I thought had a crush on me. He climbed through my window and into my fourteen – year old pink and dreamy room and gave me an ultimatum. To either eat the cookies and get a proper kiss from a boy, or he would take a photo of himself in there and tell the whole school how desperate I was to go for it anyway.
Needless to say, next day I was sick to the toes from all the sugar; and the whole school thought me a whore. I suppose it was a win-win kinda gig. Coz anyway, who’s got the thickest dick inside them on a bear skin rug bitches?
“I get the feeling your mind is doing that thing where it wanders off and you don’t tell me what’s going on in there,” Tatum whispers. He shifts slightly, his meat throbbing patiently, awakening my clit.
“Hey,” I whisper back, ravishing at the feeling of warmth all over me. “You do it too you know.”
“Not as much.” He kisses my forehead. I always love it when a man does that. Especially when he knows how deep my pussy can stretch.
“Okay. To be honest Tatum…this is something I never expected, but I love every moment of you.”
“You feel the same way?” he asks, excited and beaming. He grabs me by the face and kisses me. Boy his tongue is long. I should know by now, but still. My back is on the smooth fur and his belly on mine. I lift and close my knees around him, urging him deeper.
“I think that should be my line, not yours Tatum.” I laugh it off and gasp…he is inside me. All of him is through.
Ah, fuck it. I close my eyes and grab on. No need to know where this is going if he’s already giving me the ride of my life.
Chapter 9 - Tatum
My dad once taught me how to trap a rabbit. He placed the snare tightly in my tiny fists and pointed me in the direction of the sinking willows. It was dark. It was late. I was twelve. They were getting divorced.
I remember it clear as day. He told me how empty I was, how shallow I was, just like my stupid mother, his breath reeking of solid gum and rotten teeth. The beer had been easier to talk through to him with, but the barrels of whisky he had gotten through after mom decided the housewife lifestyle wasn’t too good for her tastes made it harder all the same. She left me with him and never once turned back. I never forgave her for that.
Dropping out of college was never easy. I had to vent my anger out in one way or the next, and the boxing ring was better than I imagined. I always pictured his face on it, just as Terry, my coach, advised. And later on, it came to be that that anger fuelled my channeled rage into who I am today.
Oh, I never caught the rabbit. He shot it and laughed. Later that night he kept barraging me with the snare, and forced me to tie it by my bedroom wall. A reminder of my weakness, a boy in a girl’s body; always going to willingly bend over and take it.
All the women I saw after my mother’s debut as a deadbeat mom were a reflection of her. I never saw them as more than worthless pieces of trash. I only felt them as cum towels for me, there to soothe my ever robust and healthy prick. And who am I kidding? I loved it all.
The devotion, the adoration, the threesomes and foursomes, all the orgies where I was king over batches of women for nights on end after fights, it was all maddeningly great. My ass was kissed enough times by old friends needing favors, women wanting my seed for their children, and whores simply yearning for a lick. I was a man whore, but a good one at that. I owned that shit. But no one ever owned me.
And then lightning struck. And the god fell from his mountain.
With time, the god found solace in old friends. Together we came up and bound our past pain into art. And so far, beyond the asshole tendencies that come from Bull, I think we were doing really great.
Then, of all graces to show up, Waryn Blair turns by my door.
Her favor and grace is something I can’t put my thumb on. The way she just gets under my skin is one thing, but how she makes sure I come out of it laughing or with her crotch on my face is beyond me. Waryn Blair is more than I bargained for, and she is worth it.
And I think she is becoming an addiction, my, addiction.
It’s all like a drug. I wake up and she is next to me. She gets into my shower and we have some really epic sex. I watch her dress up as I lick her toes, and by the time she is done and I’m having a shower, she’s sucking my dick. I always go to work with lipstick stains on my cock, and I fucking love it. In the car, she sucks me off and swallows it all. We almost definitely have to stop by the road and get it on in the back seat.
We eat together. Breakfast is sometimes on me, and I boast of my kitchen skills by making some really cool banana pancakes. Then it’s dinner and she takes me out to Jojo’s, a bakery just a little way away from my place. I never thought she had been, and I was really surprised to see her have a conversation with Jojo’s last daughter and heir to the mighty dough throne. Two pretty girls having a talk over an AC, wind billowing in their hair and smiles pervading the scenes; I would be mental not to directly go to a lesbian thought.
At work, the guys are really warming up to her. We all kinda forgot the fiasco that happened in there with the two clients, and I made Kevin the accountant a permanent client coz of her. She made some calls and arranged the filing system that was messed up at the front desk, and day after day the thought process got more streamlined. She even makes Damon laugh. Of all the people, her jokes work on the uptight silent man. He gave me the talk on when to know when one was a keeper, and I doubt they know whether Waryn is the late Eric Blair’s sister.
I’d like to keep things that way.
And maybe it’s why I asked her to move in with me. It was the third day in a row that she had been sleeping at my place, and so I thought it wise to blurt out post-coitus.
“Hey, you know what you should do?” I started. She was by my bed getting up to go to the bathroom.
“I think we’ve covered all the bases Tatum, don’t you?” she replied, walking away and swinging all her bodily wealth. “I don’t mean sex, Waryn,” I responded quietly. Though it really was a laugh on the inside. “What is it then?” she said as she sauntered back into bed.
“You should come stay with me. Right here at my place.”
“You really think so? It won’t be too weird?” she asked. I held her in place and kissed her forehead. “No way will it be weird. I think it might be a lot of fun. You would be saving all that money from the rent at the motel. There is a promised hot shower every time we come from work. And in one own way, you actually get to have free food on a daily.”
“I think you forgot the sex, Tate.” She said. Then we had some more of that, solidifying the deal.
It might be taken the wrong way, by fucking society’s standards, on my relationship wi
th her. We’ve been out a couple of times, but if word got out, this could get messy, and my name could go public again.
In the worst way possible.
The afternoon is mighty hot and quite busy. The shop is due to be full in the next few hours, and we are all working our asses off to clear the work load. My hands are full, and I can’t even remember the name belonging to the crew cut in my chair. His skin is a little tougher, and I can tell why.
He green shirt and pants, the leather boots that ride up all the way to his ankles and above, his mean demeanor and no pain no gain attitude quickly give him away as a jarhead. It’s quite a distance from the next outpost, and I get the feeling he’s gone AWOL, but I am the last person to be ever found judging another man’s actions. I ink them, they pay me, and I feel good. I trust the process.
Damon sighs and wipes off his forehead with a sponge. Nix and Holland are on one client who needs two tattoos at the same time. Big Mac they call him. If I ever sat in a bus next to him, I wouldn’t be in that bus. The guy weighs over two hundred pounds of lean fat and has this weird kinda moustache that twitches in the heat. Still, his threshold for pain is quite high to get two tattoos at the same time. He is in the middle of telling us all a story of how he and his compadre made it past the Libyan border transporting ‘fleshy goods’ one time when he was in his twenties.
“…and then he came up to me and asked, “What are you carrying son?”, and I say, “Meat in the hay officer.” And would you know it, he lets me and Sooty Eye go.”
“Nice story Big Mac,” quips in Holland. “So what did you do with the meat in the hay once you crossed the line?”
“I let it breathe and buried the rotten parts.”
Two Bad Groomsmen_An MFM Menage Romance Page 33