UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  I wonder if he planned on letting me see his braces but is having second thoughts. Not only do I desperately want to strip him—including his braces—I want, more than anything, for him to feel completely comfortable with me.

  I inch closer, take the bra from his hand, and discard it, linking my fingers in his, tugging gently to make him meet my eyes. “I want you. All of you. Trust me,” I say, smiling. My heart feels ten sizes bigger than it should be, beating against my chest, the air suddenly thick.

  He squeezes my hand, and I can feel the tension in his grip, see the hesitation in his eyes as he studies me, teeth catching on his lip. I know it’s only seconds, but time stretches into this tenuous, infinite thing, and I feel like we spend eternity locked in his decision.

  He takes a breath, pulls his hand away, drops it to his wheel, and I can’t help the sinking disappointment that hits me. Until I see he’s not rolling away. Instead he sets the brake and slides his feet off the footrest, adjusting them with his hands. He checks me one more time before grabbing one of the bedposts and using it to pull himself up, leaning on it for balance. His braces lock.

  My stomach flips. Suddenly his choice of furniture makes complete sense. He’s flushed, whether it’s from effort or embarrassment, I’m not sure, but I think it’s the latter by the way he can’t seem to meet my eyes.

  It seems so unlike him, his voice foreign when he says, “Are you sure about this?”

  I knee walk closer, laying one hand on his forearm, hoping to reassure him. “Only if you are.”

  He looks at me with those gorgeous chestnut eyes, so fathomless, so multifaceted, and takes a deep breath. He uses the bed to help ease his way closer to me, turns carefully, and sits.

  His shoulders rise and fall rapidly with each nervous breath, and I can see he’s tenser, less certain of himself now than I’ve ever seen him. It makes my stomach sink; I guess I deluded myself in thinking I could make him comfortable, okay with this, and I wonder if I should just tell him to forget it, to just leave and give him some time to take them off without me.

  But I don’t want to.

  I remove my necklace, set it on the table, then lean close, blow gently on his neck, tease the delicate skin with my tongue, kiss every spot I know he likes. His shoulders relax, his breathing shifts, and one hand finds me, cradles my ribs, just holding me. After a moment, his other hand goes to my cheek, pulls me to him. The angle is a little awkward, but he needs this, I can feel it, so I kiss him, melting into his touch, the bedroom around us falling away so it’s just Santiago and me and the taste of his tongue against mine.

  He pulls back, brushes his thumb on my cheek, staring into my eyes before releasing me, and planting his palms on either side of his thighs. He pushes himself back, onto the bed, shifting until he’s sitting, leaning against the headboard. I check his eyes before quickly removing each shoe, setting them aside. I crawl closer, needing to be near him.

  “You really want all of me?” he asks, a hand smoothing his thigh.

  I nod because I seem unable to speak, my tongue filling my mouth. I feel unlike myself—whether it’s from adrenaline, strangled arousal, anxiety, I’m not sure—but I know I want to get him naked, completely naked, and console him with my body until we both shudder and fall asleep, limbs entwined, a sheen of sweat clinging to our skin.

  It could be my imagination; it might be that I’m the one trembling, but his hand seems to shake as he takes mine and moves it to the side of his pants. They button there to make them easier to remove, a nice benefit when wearing braces, I imagine. I pop open one snap, then the next, my heart beat, beat, beating its own percussion in my neck. I can see the metal support bar start to peek through, and I touch it lightly with a fingertip before moving on to the rest of the buttons.

  I hear him unbuttoning his other leg, but I don’t remove the fabric. Instead I slide my hand under, my fingers moving delicately over his skin, hair, the support pads. I realize he’s not wearing boxers, which is hot.

  “Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are?” I say, unintentionally aloud.

  “Am I?” I can’t quite determine his tone. When I look up, he’s got this cock-eyed smile, his brows raised, but his eyes betray an underlying wariness remains.

  “Oh, God, yes,” I say. I cross my arms and pull my shirt off, dumping it on the bed. Then, together, eyes locked on each other, we tear off his pants, tossing them aside. We’re both half-naked now.

  He’s holding his breath, waiting for my reaction as I see his braces—in full—for the first time. They’re not at all what I expected, and yet, somehow they are. Sleek, minimalistic, and sexy as hell—so very Santiago.

  A single lateral metal support bar rests against his outer legs, curving along his skin, with black soft pads extending out from it onto his legs at his upper thigh, above and below his knee, and his lower leg on each side. They look expensive and well-fitted, and I’m surprised he’s wearing them against bare skin. I wonder if that’s normal, or only for today since he hadn’t planned on keeping them on long.

  I slide my hands over his legs, admiring the shift in texture from skin, hair, pads, metal. I look up and realize he’s still watching me, waiting for confirmation that exposing himself like this wasn’t a mistake. I can think of only one way to reassure him in this moment: I crawl forward, dip my head, sweep my hair to the side, and take his cock in my mouth.

  He lets out this sexy combination of a grunt and moan as I suck softly, urging him to grow against my tongue. He tastes even better than I imagined, and I love the subtle shifts in his breathing, the minute sounds he makes that tell me what he likes, that what I’m doing feels good. I’ve never enjoyed giving fellatio, but with Santiago, like so many things with him, it’s different. I want to give him pleasure, I want to hear him moan, I want to suck him until my jaw’s sore and I taste his cum in my mouth.

  I brush my right hand over the thigh pad of his left brace, and I pull myself up, sucking toward the tip, popping off with a flick of my tongue in his slit. He whines reflexively in complaint at the loss of suction. I grin. It’s strange to feel as if I have power over a man, especially in bed. Strange yet wonderful.

  I lay a hand on his leg, nudging around the straps, trying to figure out how they detach. They give the illusion of being one solid piece, but I know they have to come off somehow. Santiago stares at me, his face colored by disbelief, but he guides my fingers to the outer side of his leg. The metal bar is warm where it touches his skin, cool on the outer portion. He stops when we reach a nub, and his fingers move around mine, pull something away, unhooking the strap.

  “Quick release,” he says, and I can feel his pulse jumping in his wrist.

  Like a rubber band fitting over a nail, I realize, glancing down. I’m ready to melt. This is happening. My stomach feels as if it’s floating inside me. I’m dizzy, excited, buzzing with arousal and adrenaline. I lean forward and kiss him, hungrily, hurriedly, then, with his help, undo the rest of the straps.

  He lifts his leg out of his left brace, and I pull it out, shocked at how light it is.

  “Two pounds,” he says, easing his right leg out of its brace. “Cost me a fortune, but probably the best money I’ve ever spent.” His cheeks redden, and he darts his eyes away.

  I can’t resist studying them for a moment; they have to be incredibly strong, and yet are practically weightless. I set them carefully near his crutches, which are leaned against the wall as if he hasn’t used them since I saw him last. In my peripheral vision, I catch him pulling his tee over his head, so I hop off the bed and slowly strip for him.

  As he watches me, he spits in his hand and starts stroking himself, slow, mesmerizing movements. God, I love it when he does that. I’m torn between wanting to take him in my mouth again and needing him to fill me. Although I’m normally shy, being with Santiago disarms me—but in a good way—like I don’t need to hold back with him. I hope, in letting me see him like this, help him remove his braces, he feels the same way a
bout me.

  I climb back on the bed, standing on my knees, and slide my hands over my hips and stomach, past my bush, dipping my fingers into my wetness and bringing them up to my clit, teasing around it. With my other hand, I fondle my breast, gently squeezing the nipple to get it hard.

  His breath seems to catch in his throat, and when he speaks, his voice dips lower, his words scratchy. “Never mind. That first-class ticket to ECAC was the best money I ever spent.”

  He strokes himself from base to tip, squeezing lightly before sliding back down, slowly. I rub myself some more, mostly for his benefit, because he’s so fucking sexy right now I could probably come just from watching him. I slide my hands along his calves, moving up to his thighs, fingers slipping over the shift in skin from where his brace pads were, easing my way closer to him.

  His arm moves quicker, and he’s making the sexiest little grunts, his breathing heavier. He stops when he feels my warm breath on his balls, his cock jerking.

  “So sexy,” I whisper, licking my lips, inhaling his musky scent, thick and heady, a blend of sweat and desire.

  And I do something I’ve never done before, but which I want right now more than anything.

  I take one of his balls in my mouth.

  His body relaxes; his breathing quickens, grows deeper. He’s fumbling with his hands, as if trying to decide whether he should touch himself or me, trying to reach for one of my nipples. I suck gently, and he gasps. I smile, glancing up. Head back, eyes shut, he’s given up trying to do anything with his hands, so I take one of mine and grasp his cock, stroking gently, loving how hard he is beneath my fingers.

  He moans—the sexiest little sound—when I manage to time squeezing the head of his cock and sucking one of his balls at the same time. I feel a flash within me and a longing in my pussy, wanting to be filled, wanting him to fill me. But I’m not done with him yet.

  I pull away, taking my mouth off him, replacing the touch of my tongue with my hands, cupping his balls and adjusting myself. I tease him, licking just the tip of his cock with little flicks of my tongue. His stomach jerks, and I smile, leaning forward and taking just the head in my mouth now, sucking oh so gently. His breath catches, then releases with a satisfied, breathy laugh as I take him all the way, surprising myself, sucking as I go. I listen so I know what he likes better or worse, stroking my way up with my tongue, winding it around the head as I come back down.

  “Oh fuck, Di,” he gasps when I do that.

  I make a mental note, suck hard, and try to keep the pressure as I pull back up, slowly, again teasing the base of the crown with my tongue, dipping the tip into the slit, feeling him tremble when I do that. I keep sucking, holding the root with my hand, trying to stroke him while I suck so he’s never without sensation. I would never have thought so, but hearing him get so turned on by what I’m doing makes me hot; the entire space between my legs is buzzing with heat, and I want nothing more than to make him come.

  Although my jaw’s beginning to ache, I ignore it, moving faster, trying to keep the suction, smoothing my hand on his inner thigh, moving my tongue up and down the shaft along with my mouth. I feel his hand in my hair, and he’s pushing and pulling me toward and away, enhancing the movement.

  I love the way he tastes, stronger now than before, surprisingly sweet and delicate, with the hint of saltiness as he leaks on my tongue. He’s close, I can taste it, and I can sense it by the way his breathing has picked up even more, rapid breaths punctuated by groans as his tip hits the top of my mouth.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, barely able to speak through his heavy breathing.

  I laugh, and he does too, with pleasure; I guess the vibration felt good. I don’t stop, sucking up to the head and focusing on it, keeping the suction and using my tongue to tease around it, licking, poking, tickling while I continue stroking the shaft. I glance over and see he’s clutching the sheets, the fabric between his fingers. His entire body, even his thighs—to my surprise—seems to be tensing.

  “Di, I’m going to come,” he says in warning.

  And that’s exactly what I want to hear.

  I pick up the pace yet further, so I’m sucking as fast as I can, gripping the base. I feel his cock jerk in my hand, expand in my mouth as he lets out a loud grunt and the hot, bitter taste of his cum coats my tongue. Santiago holds my head while he jerks again, less powerfully this time, before his entire body relaxes and his hand falls from my hair.

  I pull back, licking the tip delicately to get the last of his cum, and he shivers from the touch. I reach over and grab the sheet, wiping my mouth before climbing up to lie beside him.

  He uses his hands to push his hips out, sliding down to lie next to me. High on endorphins, he’s smiling, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Wow,” he says, pulling me close, fingers blindly searching for a nipple to tease. “I’ve gotta have sex with married girls more often.”

  “Hey,” I say, angry, grabbing his wrist.

  He rolls onto his side, matching my frown. “I’m sorry. I meant it as a joke.” He thumbs my left nipple gently with the pad of his thumb, his eyes sorrowful like a scolded puppy, though still glazed with postorgasmic euphoria. “Joking when I shouldn’t. Again. Sorry. Let me make it up to you?”

  Before I can say anything else, he’s taken a nipple in his mouth and is easing his fingers down, down, down to my clit, across it, and into my wetness. And I’m wet. He pulls off enough to speak, his fingers gliding along my lips, easing them so he’s just barely entering me.

  “Fuck. That’s all because of me?”

  I flush, suddenly embarrassed. I manage to mumble, “Mmm-hmm.”

  He kisses my breasts around my nipples. “How was I so lucky to find you?” he whispers, then takes my nipple in his mouth again, teasing it gently between his teeth, with his tongue. I close my eyes and sink into the pleasure as he slips two fingers into me, sliding them in and out, a thumb on my clit. I’m floating.

  He sucks harder, moving his fingers faster, and I’m so aroused as his fingers rub and press my spot I cry out. He laughs, still sucking, and I can feel him, already semihard again, pressing against my leg. He finds my other nipple and squeezes. It’s enough to push me over the ledge I’ve been tottering on since I climbed into his lap. My legs tense and tense and tense, my body winding itself up before it releases, as if I were Santiago’s personal toy.

  He pulls away, flicking my nipple one last time with his tongue. I’m spread out on the bed, my entire body relaxed, mellow. He kisses my cheek, then settles beside me, pulling me in, embracing me closely. The air is heavy with the scent of semen, sweat, and sex, but right now, it’s the best smell in the world.

  “Thank you,” Santiago whispers into my hair, his hands cradling me close to his body. “That meant a lot to me.”

  I smile, leaning my head into his chest, pulling myself as near to him as possible.

  Soon we both drift off, arms wrapped around each other, sated and content.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’m lying on my side, my head propped on my hand, watching Santiago sleep. He snores softly, not loud enough to be obnoxious—it’s almost cute. He’s sleeping on his stomach, embracing a pillow, his head turned toward me, his hair tossed endearingly. The sheets drape over the middle of his back, and I want to reach out and stroke his skin, but I don’t want to wake him. Instead, I admire him for a while longer, the curve of his shoulder with its slightly tanned olive skin, his thin biceps leading to his muscular forearms, covered in a light dusting of dark hair. His eyelashes, long and full—enough to make me jealous, I’ll admit—flutter endearingly in his sleep. I could lie here forever watching him, but nature calls, so reluctantly, I roll out of bed humming We The Kings’ “Friday Is Forever” softly to myself, trying not to disturb him.

  I’m chilly, but I spot my shirt, along with part of his pants, entwined in the bottom of the sheets near his feet, and I worry that trying to extract them will wake him, so instead, I pull open the first drawer of
the dresser on the other side of the bed. Boxers and socks. I shut it, try the next one. Workout clothes, it looks like. Some track pants, neatly folded, shorts. I pull one out; it has a generous drawstring, and so I decide to slip those on, pulling and tying it to keep them from falling, rolling down the waist to make them more comfortable as they sit on my hips. The rest of the drawers don’t yield anything else useful, so I pause, half-naked, thinking. I realize the way the room’s laid out, the furniture placed carefully, Santiago can probably walk around the whole space without crutches and always have something to lean or grab onto for support and balance. I wonder if he can stand without his braces, and if so, how well?

  On the wall opposite the bed are two closets. I carefully pull one open, hoping it won’t creak and disturb him. I know I shouldn’t be snooping through his stuff, invading his privacy, and the feeling grows stronger when I see the inside of this closet. Several different sets of forearm crutches lean against the wall, where clothes would normally hang, and next to them is a pair of leg braces, completely different from the light, sleek pair I stripped off him earlier. These are bulkier, made of molded plastic, with two metal support bars instead of one, and Velcro straps; they look almost like a robot’s exoskeleton. Beside these is a built-in shelf, obviously intended for shoes, with a pair in each cubby. I wonder if these are the shoes he wears with his braces. On the bottom shelf is a pair of L-shaped ankle braces, metal and plastic, looking like a hybrid between the old and new full-leg orthotics. On the other side of this shelf are more shelves, on which I spot a couple yoga mats, rolled up, along with resistance bands and a set of hand weights, color coded from one pound to five. Below that, tucked in, resting on their sides on the floor, is a set of tires, completely different from the ones on his chair, and a tool box.

  Now I feel dirty, like I’ve seen something he would have preferred I didn’t. I suck in a breath and ease the doors closed as quietly as I can, glancing over my shoulder. He stirs, his toes twitch on one foot, but otherwise, he’s still sound asleep. How could he believe his feet are ugly? I think they’re just as sexy as the rest of him.