Strangers
An erotic short
Bedtime Stories, Vol. I
By Gretchen Chambers
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gretchen Chambers
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews – without written permission from the author.
“So? What do you think?” Heath eyed me expectantly as I handed his laptop back to him, the invite for his frat’s latest party still up in Photoshop.
“Um. It’s… it’s definitely interesting,” I said, trying to find a tactful way to tell him what I really thought. Heath rolled his green eyes at me, reading my expression perfectly. I’d never been good at hiding my thoughts from him. We’d known each other for only a year, but when he looked at me like that, with an expression that said I’ve got your number, it felt like forever.
“Dara. Seriously. I can handle whatever you’re about to say.”
Another thing about Heath: he didn’t care when I told him exactly what I thought. In fact, unlike most guys, he seemed to welcome my honest opinion, even when it was negative. Which -- when it came to his frat -- it usually was.
“It’s just… uh… maybe the name of the party is a little too much?” I said, pointing to the word that dripped down the page in garish, oversized black font.
“Come on! It’s a Holla-ween party! As in, ‘Hey girl, can I holla at you?’ The brothers thought it was great.” Heath looked at me earnestly, his blond hair falling into his eyes. Even when defending a completely moronic idea, he was adorable. After a year together, I still couldn’t believe my luck.
“That is the lamest thing I have ever heard,” I pronounced. “First of all, it’s not cute or ironic when white guys ask if they can holla at you. Second of all, using the word ‘holla’ stopped being clever in like, 2006.”
Heath continued sporting a wide smile, totally unfazed. “Well, the other brothers liked it. I think we’re gonna go with it anyway.”
“I’m just giving you my honest opinion, as a graphic design major. Otherwise, it’s good. Nice and creepy.” I pointed to the bats that floated ominously on the page. “Whose idea was that? It was a nice touch.”
“Mine,” Heath said proudly, leaning over the table to kiss the tip of my nose, taking care to avoid the new hoop in my left nostril. “I guess you’ve been rubbing off on me.”
“Scary thought.”
“The scariest.”
***
So: how does a graphic designer Goth-girl with seven piercings and more black lipstick than Marilyn Manson hook up with a blond finance major frat-bro from California, with a smile as wide as an ocean and an attitude as sunny as his home state?
Honestly, I’m still pondering that myself. Heath and I just don’t make sense, at least not on paper: the happy-go-lucky blond guy who by rights should be dating Miss Teen Orange County, not a tattooed moody artist in white face powder and steel-toed combat boots. But from the moment he sat down next to me in my first college class -- Seeing is Believing: The Imaginary in Art and Fiction -- we were hooked on each other. He turned to me with that enormous, friendly smile and asked about the half-sleeve tattoo that made its way from my shoulder to the top of my elbow.
“Is that from the Bible?” he had asked, peering at the Tree of Life, the snake, the apple, the woman on her knees, in supplication to a shadowy background figure.
“It is,” I said, taken aback. Plenty of people had showed interest in the tat -- some of them had yelled at me about ‘sacrilege’ -- but none of them had been a six-foot-three, lean yet muscular blond guy with a face like a young Leo DiCaprio’s and a tan so golden it looked edible.
“The expulsion from Eden?” he asked, leaning even closer, so that I could smell his subtle cologne. Sandalwood… and something else, something kind of smoky. Whatever it was, I liked it. From here, I could see the highlights in his hair, the flecks of gold in his green eyes. He was practically glowing, all blond and tanned. Not my usual type at all.
“Yeah,” I said. “I got it as soon as I turned 18. I’ve wanted it since I learned that story in Sunday school.”
The golden boy looked me up and down, unabashed. “No offense, but you don’t really seem like a hardcore Christian.”
“Oh, I’m not,” I said. “Anymore.” I smiled at him, a little wickedly, liking the way his green eyes widened slightly. His surprise was replaced instantly with a different expression, one that I was not too inexperienced to read, evangelical background notwithstanding. He looked at me with a sexual interest so intent I suddenly lost my breath.
“What does your pastor think about your new look?” he asked, jolting me out of an insanely vivid mental image of him in my tiny dorm bed. He waved his hand, indicating the tattoo, the bolt in my lip, the stud in my nose, the industrial piercing in my left ear, the tiny diamond that winked from my right eyebrow. Or was he gesturing to the hair, dyed black as a moonless night, falling down my shoulders in a glossy, inky curtain? Or the powder-pale skin that I took great care to shield from the sun? Or the sleeveless black lace dress I wore, which hit at mid-thigh? Or the lace-up combat boots that made me feel like a powerful badass? Whatever it was, I could tell I intrigued him. From the way his eyes ran up and down my body, I could tell he was wondering what it would be like to fuck me. My tattoos and piercings may have implied to him that I liked my pleasure edged with a tiny spark of pain, but my background suggested that I might be innocent, shy, virginal. A killer combination.
I smiled at him, my lips curving with a mixture of amusement and arousal, and he smiled back, our gazes fused by lust.
I never got to answer his question, though, because the next moment our professor launched into a fast-paced lecture about The Imaginary, and I spent the rest of the class taking notes. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I spent the rest of the class drawing notes. Though I loved to read, I hated to write. In my hands, words were clumsy and imprecise, a crude approximation of what I was trying to convey. I understood my notes better when they were in picture form. As class progressed, I could see the blond boy looking over at my notebook, checking out my drawings. At one point, he actually reached over and wrote a note in my margins:
You’re good.
And though I hate when people invade my personal space, something about his openness, his relentless positivity, made me smile. In response, I drew him a tiny self - portrait, in which an enormous smile stretched across my face -- though I couldn’t help but curve my eyebrows suggestively, giving the innocent smile a wicked cast.
“So you’re an artist,” he said as we packed up after class.
“Trying to be, yeah,” I nodded, putting my books in my bag.
“Are you majoring in art?”
“Graphic design. I’ve done a few websites, mostly for friends who are in bands, and I designed my tattoos, but I really want to illustrate children’s books.” Why was I telling him all this? I couldn’t believe how much information I was giving this guy, just because of his obvious interest, his open smile. And his wide eyes, thickly fringed with those golden lashes. And his smell… Go home, Dara, you’re drunk, I tried to tell myself, but he was so… charming. Actually charming, not sleazy and insincere, like a politician in a polo shirt. I gave him a quick once-over, taking in his beat-up blue t-shirt, the holes i
n his Vans, the cut of his jeans, revising my assessment of him and deciding that though he wasn’t my type, he wasn’t not my type, either.
“So you’re basically an artist already. That’s cool,” he said, falling in step with me as we walked out of the classroom and onto the quad. As a freshman, I was still finding my way around campus -- all the brick buildings looked the same, set along the edges of the quads geometrically. Whoever had designed this place clearly had a fondness for order, for straight lines and ninety-degree angles. What a waste. If I were an architect, I would have done it totally differently: the buildings fluid instead of geometric, the corners of the quad rounded, everything circular and flowing. I would have built trees you could climb and get lost in, pathways to nowhere, a library that looked like a castle instead of a suburban McMansion...
“I’m Heath, by the way,” the boy was saying, extending his hand.
“Dara.” His hand was warm, and about twice the size of mine. It felt good against my skin.
“So where are you headed now, Dara?” he asked, as we walked down leaf-strewn paths, passing students in early-fall gear. I pulled a black sweater on over my sleeveless dress.
“I thought I’d go back to my dorm,” I said. “Get a head start on some work.”
He looked at me appraisingly. “Are you a freshman?”
“That obvious?” I asked, laughing.
“No, just -- no one lives in the dorms after freshman year.”
“It isn’t too bad, actually,” I said. “I have a single.” This was an unexpected stroke of luck. I didn’t know how a roommate would have taken to my decor, which involved a lot of tapestries and macabre little sculptures that my ex had made -- a skeleton, a supplicating woman, a carved, grinning mask.
Heath’s smile grew broader, and a flash of desire sparked in my veins. “I decorated it pretty cool,” I said. “If you want to see it.”
He looked at me with those wide green eyes. “I’d love that.” Was it my imagination, or was he standing a little closer to me than was strictly necessary?
“Cool. I kind of went crazy decorating, since the space is all mine.” My mind wasn’t on my words, though. I was pondering the possibility that in a few minutes, Heath would be in my room. My very small, private room. I liked thinking about him in my space. Those broad shoulders, those curving lips, those sparkling eyes, as though he were ready to be amused, entertained, enthralled.
I could think of several ways to enthrall him, and all of them made me blush.
As we made our way to my dorm, we chatted about our backgrounds. As I had suspected, Heath was from California -- “a really small town that’s only known for its annual garlic festival” -- and was studying finance “because my dad wanted me to. I’m not a tool, though, I promise.” Another flash of that smile.
As I led him into my dorm, which was still decorated with Orientation materials -- sign-up sheets for meet-ups and clubs, warnings about drinking too much at parties, free condoms on all the tables in the lounge -- I asked “Why would you study finance if you don’t like it? Like, who cares what your dad wants?”
Heath looked at me, still smiling. “I like finance. It’s easy, it follows rules, it makes my dad happy… it’s not a big deal. It’s not like he forced me.”
“You’re lucky,” I said. “If my parents had their way, I’d be at some Christian college with a dress code.”
“How come you aren’t?” he asked as we walked up the stairs.
I snorted. “Do I look like someone who gives a shit what her parents want?”
“Fair point.”
The truth was a little more complicated than that, but I didn’t feel the need to tell him that I had been awarded a fellowship on the merit of my portfolio. The school would cover my tuition, provided I exhibited my work once a year to the donors who paid for my schooling.
We reached my door, which my R.A. had decorated with a big sign that said DARA and a tiny bio she had made me fill out during our mandatory Orientation floor meeting. Unlike all the other bios on my floor, mine had no words at all. Instead, it was a self-portrait: a tiny ink picture of me, holding onto an umbrella and hovering away from a building that was clearly the college library. In the picture, I was wearing combat boots, and my umbrella pointed straight up into a starry night sky.
“Cool,” Heath said, examining the drawing.
“Thanks.” I led him into my room, trying to fight the self-consciousness that plagued me as soon as someone entered my private space. I hadn’t had many visitors, because I needed this 14 x 14 space on campus that was entirely mine, where I could make art in private, without worrying about anyone spotting a project that was still in its infancy.
“This is some decorating job,” he said, scanning the room.
“You think?” I asked, feeling a rush of pleasure. The room was dark, illuminated only by my string of skull-shaped novelty Christmas lights, and the tapestries I had hung on the walls gave it a cozy feel.
“Nice touch with the skulls,” he said.
“I have a whole collection of novelty lights,” I said. “Just wait til I decide to get festive.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” Heath said, moving closer to me until there was only a hairsbreadth of space between us. “I’d like to be around when you decide to get… festive.” He delivered the last word in tones that suggested “festive” was only a step away from “wanton.”
I liked that.
“You like it when girls get... festive?” I asked, matching his tone. I licked my lips, suddenly glad I’d gone with the pinup-girl red lipstick today instead of the sadsack black.
“Oh, yeah. I’m a big fan of… festivities.” As he spoke, he ran his fingers gently up and down my arms, making me shiver. “You’re so fucking hot,” he said, staring straight at me with a look that pierced me.
“You’re not terrible yourself,” I said, snaking my fingers into his belt loops and pulling him closer, so that we were pressed together. Even in my boots, I had to crane my neck to look up at him. He was staring at me, his eyes intense. Consuming. Like I was the only thing in his field of vision. His hands on my arms were gentle, slow trails firing across the surface of my skin, which was suddenly hot.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked, his body pressed to mine, our hips almost perfectly aligned, his chest hard and broad and welcoming.
In response, I raised a pierced eyebrow -- a move I had practiced in the mirror until I caught the perfect note between disdainful and interested -- and he smiled even wider. “Why did you invite me up here?” he asked, his hands sitting on top of my shoulders, the fingers trailing across to stroke my collarbones. I swallowed, my mind on little else but the nerves that had suddenly bloomed along my shoulders and neck and throat, almost painfully aware of his hands on my skin.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my hands stilling at his hips.
“I mean… why did you invite me up here?” His hands were still moving, and I took this as a good sign.
“Why did you come up?” I challenged.
“Because I’m interested,” he said. “Because I’ve never met anyone else who draws their notes, or designed their own tattoo. Or wears steel-toed combat boots, or dyes their hair any color but blond.” He was still looking at me as though he wanted to swallow me with those thick-lashed green eyes, as though I were the first person he had ever seen, and he couldn’t get his fill of looking.
There was only one response to that kind of look.
Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I stood on the tips of my steel-encased toes and kissed him, lightly, fleetingly, more an impression than a kiss. In an instant, his arms were around my waist, crushing me to him as his mouth sought mine, his lips insistent and warm against my own.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, using up the little breath I had left; the rest was knocked out of me, dispelled by the intensity of his kiss. His mouth moved against mine as though he were drowning and I were air, as though he were parched and I were water, as t
hough he were in darkness and I were the light. He kissed me like I was something he needed.
He said nothing, his hands still snug at my waist, his mouth moving in a slow trail from my lips down to my neck, lingering, sweet. He brushed the skin with his teeth, with his tongue, leaving me boneless in his arms, quivering with the sweetness of it, with the way my skin sang under his mouth. Inside my chest my heart was beating a wild tattoo, and his body felt like the only anchor I had in this world. Clutching his waist -- trim and narrow under my hands, the slim muscle hard, unyielding to my exploration -- I held onto him as though he would save me from the tide that surged hot and wild within me, but feeling his body only pulled me further under.
As his mouth moved from my neck to my shoulders to my chest, his hands found the zipper at the back of my dress. Slowly, without pausing, he brought his hands to my nape, tangling where the hair was finest, and traced his way down my spine -- one hand unzipping, clearing a path for his touch, the other exploring the newly bared skin.
My hips bucked against his, moving of their own accord to the wild drumbeat of need that had established itself between my legs.
“Do you like that?” he whispered into my ear, his hands still warm and teasing at my back, his mouth closing gently over my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“I’m gonna take your dress off now,” he said, his voice a warm suggestion. He pulled back to look at my face, and found only desire there. I basked in him, bathed in him, my whole body going boneless and pliant as he slid the dress down my body, leaving me in my black underwear and boots. As the dress pooled on the floor, he grasped my shoulders and stepped back, his eyes running over me as shamelessly as his hands had just a second before. Bolstered by his hands on my shoulders, his eyes’ slow rove over my form, I stood nearly naked and completely unashamed. I luxuriated in his gaze, feeling every appreciative glance of his eyes send a bolt of arousal to my cunt, which was slick with wanting him.
Strangers: Bedtime Stories Vol. I Page 1