It’s not like I know what I’m doing any more than Kyle does.
I swallow the last bit of chocolate, and then run my fingers down my dress, feeling its unique material— it cost fortune. More than I’d ever dream of spending on an item of clothing. And after all the effort it took to get this outfit ready, it should get some use. Some appreciation.
I may not be very experienced in the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean I should keep getting with guys who are so inexperienced! Who are good at telling me what I want to hear, not giving me what I need or want!
With these thoughts, I let my fingers tease the furry hem of the dress. The one by my thighs, and then the one by my breasts. I’m allowed to be inexperienced. Some men would kill to teach someone like me what to do in bed.
I drop my hand down the front of my dress. The lacy, practically see-through bra only makes my nipples feel harder. Bigger. Plumper, and irritated that they weren’t touched or sucked on by the man they’d gotten all prettied up for.
I was no stranger to dates, but I hadn’t found the right guy— the take-charge, dominant kind of guy I knew I needed. Instead, the guys I went on dates with seemed intimidated by me. The night would always get awkward when it became obvious I was more interested in sex than they were.
My male friends have told me I come on way too strong and scare guys away. That those men who always disappoint me can sense I want more than they’re able or willing to deliver. My friends tell me to come across as meeker and less interested in sex. But instead of changing myself, I want to find a man who can handle me the way I am. Take me or leave me.
Plus, I don’t know if I could be disinterested in sex if I tried. It seems to always be on my mind lately. Since I can’t find a guy to pleasure me in real life, I’ve been reading a lot of steamy romance novels and watching a lot of porn. Lately, I’ve even gotten into some BDSM stuff— but only in fantasy; I’m not sure how I’d even actually like it in real life.
Women shouldn’t have to know more than the guys.
I sigh— partly out of frustration, partly out of my rising, numb and chilly pleasure. I pinch and twist my nipples with my free hand.
Not in my world.
In my world, a man would take control. Would know more than I do and enjoy educating me.
Almost immediately, my mind runs wild with ideas about how such a man would “educate” me. Would make a true woman out of me, if I’m ever able to meet the right one. But before my mind can conjure any more of an image than that of a handsome shadow of man undressing me, I force myself to press “pause” on the movie my mind is about to play for me. I want to save that fantasy for when I’m in my bedroom.
I kick off my boots to one side of the hallway. From there, I hurry into my room and close the door.
At least when real life lets me down, I always have my imagination. When dates turn out to be duds in real life, I have my book boyfriends and big screen heroes. In other words, I may have found a cold reception from my date, but my fantasies are just heating up.
Chapter 2- Jane
I don’t bother to turn on any lights in my room. I don’t need to. I have bluish-white Christmas lights strung up for ambience, and they create a soft, subdued, and sexy atmosphere. I even have some light-up snowflakes stuck to one window, which provide just the right amount of mood lighting. Christmassy and cozy.
I go immediately to my bed and climb under the covers. I snuggle into them, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets against my warmer skin. Against the silk, satin, and fur of my dress. Already, I feel my breasts and hips jutting against the fabric, which is riding up in some places, and getting pulled down in others, the way I’d wanted Kyle to do. But I don’t want to think about stupid frat boy Kyle.
Instead, I imagine Mr. Experienced — the man of my dreams — catching me like this. Wearing such a revealing dress in bed, and letting it move enough to show off my lacy panties and eye-lit lace bra.
“What are you doing wearing such a naughty dress like that to bed, hmm, kitten?” I imagine him asking me. I imagine his voice is soft and deep right now, and very commanding. “Are we sulking?”
The way I imagine “sulking” coming out of his mouth is enough to make me squirm. I whine, feeling my pussy tingle.
“Yes,” I imagine myself replying like the spoiled little girl I know I am and want to be for him.
“Oh?” Mr. Experience says, running his fingers up my hip and to my ass. I imagine he gives it a slap. “And why are we sulking?”
“Because,” I imagine myself saying, “I dressed up really, really nicely and no one gave me a nice time!” Part of this internal dialogue bubbles up to the surface. “Nice time,” slips out of my mouth, as I pull down the front of my dress, and circle my nipples.
In my head, Mr. Experienced gives a sympathetic groan. I imagine he puts his mouth on my exposed nipples, and plunges knowledgeable, sturdy fingers down the front of my panties. In between my hot, moist lips.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he says, as he begins to rotate his finger around the head of my clit. Then he slides a few more into my puffy, swelling hole. “I know how to look after my girl.”
His strong and slim fingers go into my shaved pussy, and quickly stretch the skin. I feel every notch. Every bit of texture.
“Oh, you’re so pink,” he whispers. There’s an aching to his tone. Almost like my pinkness is sweet pain to him. “Look at all that cream you’ve made for me,” he adds, and I imagine that’s exactly what’s there: evidence of my aching need and desire for him. My full pussy on display for him, and my juices welling up so he can see how wet I am for him. “Such a good girl.”
I squeal, feeling my fingers rubbing fiercely up against my clit. I’ve been so lost in my fantasy that I’m not sure when I started playing with my pussy, but I don’t care. My long, silky nails are covered in thick, warm juices. I shove a few fingers in my pussy, imagining they belong to my perfect man, not me. I imagine that the soft mattress is his large, sculpted hand holding my ass.
“I am a good girl,” I whimper aloud, throwing myself back into my fantasy. “What are you going to give me for being such a good girl?”
Part of me can’t believe I’m saying these kinds of things out loud. The other part of me doesn’t care.
In my head, Mr. Experienced is giving me his answer. He’s dressed me in a schoolgirl’s outfit, and a leather collar and leash. He’s dressed like the headmaster of a school.
“You’re going to learn how to please me, and then you’re going to take this cock in your pussy.” He pauses, and in my head, I imagine he takes a long ruler and teases my clit — my lips — with it, before smacking my tits with it. “If you’re good.”
From the pockets of a long coat I imagine he’s wearing (it accentuates his light brown hair and goldish eyes), he takes out a handful of clamps. He puts them on my nipples through the schoolgirl uniform. I squeal, but he uses the ruler on my ass to keep me straight. Quiet. He puts the leftover clamps on my pussy lips. He even puts one near my hood. “If you’re bad, you’ll get it in the ass.”
I imagine him flipping up the skirt I’m wearing and accentuating his words with a finger eased into that hole. Warningly. Commandingly. “Do I make myself clear, young lady?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” I imagine myself replying.
I pull on my nipples. I squeeze the front and tip of my pussy imagining that’s the weight of the clamps, not the pressure I’m applying. “Crystal clear,” I say out loud, pushing myself toward the cliff of mind-bending pleasure I’m about to throw myself off. “I’ll be such a good student! I’ll study really hard!”
My clit throbs under the weight of my finger, and I began to rub harder than ever. I even run my fingernail into its soft spots a little bit, imagining it’s the end of Mr. Experienced’s ruler. This is more than enough to get me climbing into that burning, exhilarating atmosphere.
As my hips and ass rise off the mattress, and I hear my pussy’s wet lips smacking in the quiet snowf
lake-lit room, I imagine I’ve been bound to his desk with my legs spread open. I imagine they are being kept open by a black bar, built into my ankle ties. “Then pay attention. Listen closely, because I’m not teaching you this again. I’m not telling you twice.”
With that, I’m gone. My orgasm falls on me like a wild animal, gripping every part of me. Scratching deep into my pussy. I cry out, imagining that I have a similar orgasm on Mr. Experienced’s desk and that I get an A+ for it. He says so, as I feel pleasure roll through me, and ebb out from my fingers and toes.
Once my orgasm ends, my fantasy does too. The images and sounds fade, but not my tingly afterglow. It stays with me, like the peppermint schnapps I can feel sloshing around in my belly.
I stay in that fuzzy gooey zone for as long as I can. I wish I could float in this warm, fun bubble forever.
But soon my mind turns from fantasy to reality. And in that reality, I resign myself to only being dominated that way in my head.
There’s no guy that would ever want to satisfy me that way, let alone take the lead, I think miserably, taking my hands out of my pussy and out from under my dress. Just keep it in the realm of fantasy, girl, I tell myself. You won’t get disappointed that way.
Chapter 3- Alex
Aspen, Colorado has class on the outside and inside.
Doesn’t matter how often I’ve been here, I’m still blown away by how pristine peaks and trees can give way to such black-tie sophistication in the lodge’s bar. I suppose I should expect nothing less since this isn’t just any old watering hole like the ones we have back at home.
No, this is practically a lounge — a place where well-to-do people come to put themselves, and their wealth — on display. Some of that wealth is in jewels and fancy watches; some of it is in fancy clothes. But most of it, as I look around the bar at all the hot honeys and snow bunnies, is beauty. Looks. Perfect proportions from top to bottom on nearly all of these girls. Thin waists and curvy chests and hips for days.
But, of course, my brother, Paul, can’t see any of it. Or if he does, it doesn’t do it for him. I notice this — the way he’s scowling, scrutinizing all the girls like there’s nothing good about any of them — as I look at the drinks menu. I don’t really look at it since I already know what I want. Beer. A German import.
I’ve got to get him out of that mood if my plans are going to be successful, I think, placing my order. He’s gotta find some girl he can send a look at for over five seconds, otherwise the invitation we paid a small fortune for will go to waste. Jordan takes the menu from me like we’re a couple of kids having to share the crayons. Can’t let that happen. Those invites are not given out to just anybody.
My friend Jordan orders a rum and Coke after thumbing through the menu just so he can comment about the names of the “fancy drinks.” He catches me looking and nudges his chin in my brother’s direction. The look on his face says, “Get talking to him. Do something.” He mimics Paul’s frown. His million-mile scowl.
“Talk to him,” Jordan whispers, “before he starts thinking we’re just here to get wasted.”
I nod at him, muttering, “Don’t you think I don’t know that?”
The bartender delivers my beer, followed by the shot of tequila I ordered for Paul. “I was the one who came up with this idea to get him off the hamster wheel called Darla.”
Jordan’s handed his rum and Coke by the bartender as I lean toward my brother and get his attention. I have it. But just barely. Paul looks about ready to clock out, and we just got here.
My brother waves down the bartender and ordered another shot.
“With all the pretty women swarming this place, I’m sure you have a good guess as to why I brought you here, right?” I ask.
Paul looks unimpressed. Unintrigued by my question to him, as if I’m the most obvious and unoriginal person who’s ever walked the earth. He practically rolls his eyes at me. He spits something into his shot glass. Maybe a bit of lime left over from his shot, as he peruses a gaggle of girls. All in snow bunny fluff.
“To get laid?” he replies in a bored tone.
The attitude laced through those three words is so thick it takes every muscle in me not to punch him in the face.
Not just to get laid, I think, reminding myself that he doesn’t know half of what I do, and that if he did, he wouldn’t be such a dick, to give you something Darla couldn’t give you even if she made a deal with the devil. It’s not this measly trip to the bar. This is just the beginning, brother of mine.
I’m just about to answer his cocky response with some variation of those thoughts when Jordan pipes in. “You don’t need just a fuck, man,” he says from over his straw. “If that was enough, we wouldn’t need to take you here to get your mind off your ex.” A pause, as he takes a sip from the small straws feeding him equal parts rum and soda. “You need an experience.”
“And we’re going to help you get it,” I say, sipping the foam from the top of my beer, before taking a deep drink.
My brother remains unmoved. Again, his eyes drink in the sea of beautiful women as if it’s a desert where sex appeal goes to die. Where he would rather die than be for another moment. He shakes his head resolutely.
“Nah,” he says. “None of these girls are gonna do it for me.” The bartender produces a second shot for Paul, and he knocks it back. “I’m 38. I don’t need or want another precious princess.” He grimaces with the burn of alcohol. Savoring and hating it, much like Darla, his ex. “Someone on her high horse who’s going to demand my worship.”
Paul’s eyes settle on some woman on the other end of the bar. I go to look at what has caught his attention but see nothing of note.
“What I need is a girl who’s submissive, yet feisty,” he continues, ordering a third shot. “And I don’t think there’s any girl here that fits that bill.”
Part of me wants to break his nose for his unceasing pessimism, but I decide on patting his shoulder instead. Much more conducive to the “brotherly love” I’m trying to show him by bringing him on this trip. By making this about much more than just some time on the slopes, in or out of bed.
“You let us worry about that, bro,” I say. I try for a smile and to put some energy in my words to him. After all, he didn’t ask to find his girl in bed with another man. And anyone would be pissed after that.
Paul downs his third shot as quickly as the first two.
“We’ll help you find the right girl, yo.” That’s Jordan. As I look over, I see he’s halfway through his drink. “By Christmas, you’ll be jingling all the way.” He’s the only one to laugh at his joke, of course. But he doesn’t seem to care. By the glow in his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes, the Coke must be extra heavy on the rum.
I take out my urge to punch something on Jordan’s arm.
He says “ow,” but does too much laughing for me to take him seriously.
“Yeah,” says Paul, getting up from his place at the bar and heading away from us, “all the way home.”
He looks more depressed after some alcohol, not less like he’s supposed to. I’m disappointed that so far the whole point of this trip has failed. We brought my brother here to drink away his sorrows, not drown himself in them. But luckily that’s not all we brought him here for.
“I’ll be waiting outside the lounge. Come get me when you boys are done,” Paul adds.
“Okay, Dad!” says Jordan, now holding an empty glass and looking very happy for it. He guffaws, even when Paul glares and storms out.
I want to say something to him, but I can’t think of sufficient words. Paul is always like this when things don’t go his way. When he’s not in control of the situation. Since he’s my brother and I know him so well, it’s obvious there’s nothing I can do except wait for him to come around.
Next to me, Jordan’s about to order another rum and Coke. I stop him, asking for a beer instead. Something with a little less hard liquor. I have plans for us to lounge around in the hot tub after this, so Paul
can hopefully find a girl in a bikini, and I don’t want Jordan completely smashed.
When his beer arrives, and I’ve had a few more uninterrupted sips of my import, I say, “Honestly glad this weekend isn’t just about him, Jordan.”
Jordan clumsily sips at his beer.
“If it was, I’d be more upset about his piss poor attitude,” I add, picking out several beautiful girls from the crowd. “But I’m gonna find myself a girl, too.”
As I watch the faces of these gorgeous woman, I amuse myself by thinking about how many of these refined creatures have an invite to the exclusive place we’re going to tomorrow. How many of these faces— and near naked bodies— I might see up on stage, waiting for me to buy them for a night of out of this world pleasure.
Jordan burps and hiccups, disturbing my thoughts. “Pent-up, huh?” He leans forward. He looks like he’s somewhere between telling me a secret and falling on his ass. “That’s why I keep the snake skinned, at least once a week,” he says, not-so covertly making a jerking-off gesture above his pants. “Keeps me nice and loose.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “I don’t want to think about anything on you being loose,” I say. “And the kind of frustrations I need to release can’t be done by hand.”
I let my thoughts wander to what I would do if I could enjoy some leather play. I’d put clamps on the woman’s breasts, thighs and pussy lips before making her wear a horse mask and bridal. I’d then make her prance around for me, before impaling herself on my cock and riding me reverse cowboy style. “Get me a little leather, a riding crop, and a woman with impeccable manners, and my tensions are a thing of the past.”
It takes a few seconds, but Jordan finally gets the idea. “Good thing we’re not just relying on your charm,” he says, standing up. The gesture isn’t as graceful as I know he thinks it is. “Half of these babes aren’t going to be into that kind of thing unless you pay them.”
I finish my beer and leave a lot of cash on the bar for the bartender. “Yes,” I hiss, grabbing Jordan and walking him out with me, “Which is why I plan to. And you need to shut up about that right now. If anyone gets too curious, consider our invitations gone.”
Out of Line: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Page 118