by Kellie Hart
“You are so much more than anything I could have wished for,” I whisper.
Atticus dips his head and kisses me lightly on the mouth. With heated eyes, he frees me of my own clothing, and minutes later, another of my costumes lies in a heap on the floor. Like once before, I stand before him entirely nude, but he still wears his underwear. I’m fucking terrified to free the beast that must lurk behind that charming pattern of yellow parrots because the bird which lies directly over his dick became the victim of fowl play the very minute Atticus got an erection. Stretched beyond measure, the tiny Polly has gone on to peck at the eternal cracker in the sky.
At last, Atticus strips his underwear, and that monster log of his springs free.
IT’S BIG. IT’S BAD. AND IT’S PIERCED, TOO.
Dear God, let me join the choir eternal as an ex-parrot!
“You—you carry that around all day?” I ask in disbelief. “There is no fucking wonder there’s no room for a camera in your pants! Why haven’t you had to apply for workmen’s compensation because of a bad back?”
Chuckling, Atticus takes up my hand and pulls me into the shower. He slinks the curtain closed and pushes me against the wet tile. With inked arms on either side of my head, he locks me into place and stares down at me, blue eyes gone dark with want.
“Do you like my dick, Carey?” Atticus asks. He waits for my answer as he presses his warm mouth to my neck and sucks right below my ear.
“Yes,” I moan when his lips move to my shoulder.
“And do you like me as well?” His breath fans over my collarbone.
“Yes,” I moan yet again.
“Good,” Atticus whispers, “because I like you, too, more than I can describe.”
“May—may I show you how much I like you, Atticus?”
Atticus’s mouth stills against my skin, and he steps back as much as the tub allows him. He touches a finger to my bottom lip.
“You don’t have to do this, Carolina. Do you understand that?”
“You gave to me before, Atticus,” I explain. “I would like very much to give back to you.”
Some decision he makes flashes across his face; then, he spreads his arms wide. “My body is yours to do with as you desire, beautiful Carey.”
Desperate, I fall to my knees before him and lift his magnificent cock to my lips. His hands dig into my hair as I stroke up and down his length with my tongue, taking in each vein, lapping at the little ball that protrudes near the head, memorizing the taste of the shiny dot of precum on his crown. The water cascades around us, and when I finally draw him into my mouth, I blink through drenched lashes to find Atticus unlike ever before. Jaw strained, dark head thrown back in need. A low, guttural groan passes between his lips. Unkempt and raw, he is every bit the inspiration I need to bring him to the brink with my mouth, to pleasure him like I have never given to anyone before.
I work him over, my hands on his shaft, gripping, sliding, and tugging at his balls. He moves in and out of my mouth, into my cheek, down my throat; each pass between my lips elicits another cry. When his thighs twitch, he must be ready to fill me up with his release, and I am so fucking hungry for it. I demand to feel his warmth in my mouth, to taste upon my tongue what makes Atticus truly Atticus.
“Stop, stop, please, love,” Atticus moans above me. “I want you up here… Kiss me. Let me feel your mouth on mine.”
Wanting still to please him, I rise. Our tongues dance as Atticus lifts me and wraps my legs around his waist. He slams his dick between us and twists my nipples between his fingers. I cry out, but a line from our favorite poem that is inked across his collarbone stops me—Do I dare? Do I dare disturb the universe? I nip Atticus beside those words I adore, and as I suck the wound clean, he howls and drives me farther into the wall.
Wet and trembling, we both ride the other, giving as good as we receive, the pleasure and the pain, until we can no longer breathe. All too soon, his warm release spills between my thighs, and I scream his name, breaking the three syllables apart as I, too, break for him.
A few minutes later, Atticus frees me, and I slide down his body. I hold my hands against my chest, and we share sleepy smiles. He swipes a finger along my mound, scooping up some of his cum, and he smiles quietly again at the sight of his essence resting on his finger. Without speaking, he reaches behind me for a loofa, squirts some of my strawberry body wash onto it, and sweeps it across my chest. My jaw drops when I realize what he’s doing.
He’s fucking taking care of me.
Gentle hands move over my entire body. Even gentler fingers work shampoo into my braids and pompadour. Soft kisses are left in his hands’ wake, and when Atticus declares me clean, I am so put together, so grateful to be at ease in my own skin, it only seems natural for me to give back a little of this magic to its magician.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
I fill my time wandering Atticus’s body by tracing his tattoos twice over, taking advantage of the fact he offers himself to me once more. With each new pattern or portrait or poetic verse I discover, I wonder what keeps him from sharing his body with others. Atticus literally hides his true colors from the world, and I am desperate to know why.
“Why don’t you show off your ink in public, Atticus?” I ask gently. “You’re like a fucking work of art.”
“Are you finally exploring requirement number two for yourself?” Atticus teases, entirely avoiding my question. “Eager to finally get me into the sack for some classic fuckery?”
“Yes,” I say, “but if it helps, for each of my questions you answer, you can ask me something as well. Fair enough?”
“Absolutely. You are a dangerous little minx, and we nearly broke all of my requirements here in the shower. Let’s talk now and save the kinky shite for later, shall we?”
“While I am aching to know how you define kinky after what we just did,” I explain, “I want you to know you make me want to talk. I rarely discuss anything emotional with Jacque or Char, but talking with you is so very different. It’s difficult to explain, but it feels as if I have no defenses when it comes to you. You tear down my walls, whether or not you realize it, and I am both terrified and thrilled by that.”
Atticus watches me until his mouth lifts into a heart-stopping smile.
“What?” I say and smack him in the chest with the loofa.
“Nothing,” he laughs. “I enjoy talking to you also, when I can. It would be nice to get a word in once in awhile.”
“You’re such an asshole,” I giggle and try to turn away, but he sweeps me into his arms. “Wait! What are you doing?”
“I’m carrying you to bed, Carolina.”
“But, we’re still showering!”
“The water has gone so cold I’ve had to order Brigadier General William Broadshaft and my balls into a formal retreat.”
I stifle a groan, and he notices, his smile faltering.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asks.
“No! No, not all,” I say, suppressing another giggle. “It’s just that in my line of work I hear men’s nicknames for their dicks all day long, and you’ve named yours General Billy Broadraft.”
“Brigadier General William Broadshaft,” Atticus corrects. “I feel the name is truly befitting his status, and if you knew the name of Chadwick’s dick, you would agree mine is more masculinely titled.”
“Part of me can die very happy not knowing what Chad calls his cock, but what the hell. What has Chad named his love machine?”
“Big John Fitzdicktrick.”
I slap a hand to my forehead in realization. “Oh my God. That must be the Little Johnny Char says is always scratching at her back door. I thought it was a cat, Atticus. A fucking cat!”
“Well,” Atticus mumbles, and I can’t help but laugh as he falters. “I’m not sure what else to say about that.”
I’m still laughing as we stop a quick second for me to turn off the water and grab two towels. A toe point to the left guides Atticus into my bedroom. My
little space is nothing special; it’s merely comprised of white-washed walls, covered in black and white stills I’ve taken of New Orleans or pictures of me, back when I still classically danced. Some are even photos of me and my grandmother; others show the entire gang that were taken more recently and are now haphazardly pinned to the tongue-and groove-boards. I can tell Atticus wants to study my work because his head turns to a portrait I took of the Cathedral years ago, but he doesn’t say a word as he sets me on my feet and gently dries my hair and body. I do the same for him, and when he finally lifts a cream blanket, we snuggle between the sheets of my ancient wrought iron bed. He draws me to his chest, and I nuzzle my face into that warm space between his shoulder and neck. Comfortable and content, I splay my hand over his abdomen, letting my fingers rise and fall with each of his breaths. We stay that way until I am convinced he’s finally succumbed to sleep, but when he speaks later, as if he’s been taking time to gather the words, he offers me a tale I was not expecting.
“Back in London, when I was a small boy, I fell in love with a girl named Sophie. Our parents were best mates, and she and I were inseparable. She never expressed any romantic interest in me, until one day, when I thought I had no more hope of us ever being together, she kissed me. I remember it so well. Freshman year at Cambridge, we attended a film in one of the local cemeteries, and she huddled into my side, claiming the movie frightened her. I knew better. Sophie was fearless, and when she shivered, I looked down at her. She looked up, and our lips came together. It was magic, and I told her I loved her shortly thereafter. Years passed, and I pretended we were happy, until it was proven we weren’t.”
Because I am not sure how his story answers my original question, I gently rise up to catch his eye and ask, “How does that explain why you cover up your tattoos?”
Atticus slips a hand through the hair that’s free of my pompadour to draw my head back to his chest, and though I can’t see him, I feel him swallow nervously before continuing.
“Sophie and I had differing opinions as to what was expected of me. I actually wanted to leave uni and freelance my photography, but she said I was made for better things. Of course, I stayed at Cambridge, moving later to Oxford, to keep her happy, yet all the while, I visited parlor after parlor, slowly painting my body with ink. I think it became my way of declaring my independence from her when it otherwise didn’t exist. At first, Sophie tolerated my changing skin; then, one day, she looked me over as if she’d never seen me before. She declared that she’d leave me if I didn’t cover myself up. Terrified to lose her, I obeyed. I loved her, and I thought she loved me, and they were only tattoos. Why sacrifice the love of my life for another prick of ink?”
I rear up so I can look into his eyes again. “What kind of bitch would demand that of you? Telling you to cover up the art you love just for her happiness?”
Atticus smiles, but it’s weak, sad. “Sophie thought she was doing the right thing at the time. In many ways, she was. Uni had its standards, as did our families, but she and I were never the same after that. We went through the motions: we graduated, we moved back to London, and I proposed. I spent years watching her plan the wedding of her dreams, and I remained on the periphery, suffocating from the tight leash of a life I didn’t want anymore. On the night I planned to tell her that it was over, I came home to find her in bed with someone else. We hadn’t made love in months, so I wasn’t surprised. As I took my final steps from our flat, she admitted they had been fucking for years, long before I ever considered proposing. I politely told her to fuck off, and without looking back, two days ago, I hopped on a plane with nothing but the clothes on my back and my camera at my side, and I came here. To you.”
Though I am nearly stunned to silence at how his story aligns fucking perfectly with my own wrecked past, I still find myself whispering something for the second time since he came to find me, “Why me, Atticus?”
“Why not you, Carolina?” Atticus asks softly. “Why not you?”
Because you aren’t worth it, Carey. God, everyone knows it.
I feverishly shake my head, trying to free it of Mike’s words that escape to torture me whenever my heart tries to beat anew, but with my lips to his chest, I give Atticus a soft kiss that I hope says everything I cannot.
I understand more than you will ever know.
“I do believe it is my turn to ask a question,” Atticus carries on entirely unaware of the war within me. “So, tell me: why do you also hide yourself from the world? Why not dance as Carolina Grant, instead of Lola Golden?”
I close my eyes tight and put my hands to my ears as the onslaught of memories I have failed to bury rages on.
Get your fucking fat ass over here, Mike laughs like it is yesterday. Be glad you found someone who can live with tapping that shit.
Stop with the fucking jokes, Carey. You’re a real fucking embarrassment, Mike admonishes as if he is right beside me. You know what? Just keep your goddamn mouth shut, and let me do the talking.
Why are you so fucking clingy? I need some breathing room, you selfish bitch. Don’t fucking touch me.
You’re such a cheap whore. Getting that cherry was so fucking easy. It’s proof you really will spread them for any goddamn thing that moves.
Get out, you stupid bitch, but remember something for me, will ya? All you’ve ever been is an easy fuck, and without me, you are useless. Always fucking remember that, Carey.You are nothing.
“I—I—,” I try to begin, but I can’t because the awful words will not obey my fucking orders to come out as if they, themselves, protest being spoken.
I do not realize I’m sobbing until Atticus runs thumbs over my cheeks, wiping away my tears. He draws my face to his and kisses me until the panic passes. When he releases me, I press my ear to his chest, and the steady rhythm, the life-giving drum of his heart, matches my own beat for beat, and I realize he and I are exactly the same—two broken souls weighed down by the chains of their pasts.
“Mike and I started dating in highschool,” I begin quietly. “My God, was he handsome—tall with big brown eyes and brown curls to his shoulders. He wore his hair in a man-bun long before it was popular. Mike was also smart and funny; you know the type—the guy everyone wants to be or be with. When he asked me out, I had trouble believing that of all the beautiful girls in our school, he chose me, but I fell quickly for his charm anyway. His charm also helped convince me I looked better in looser, less form-fitting clothes. I mean, I was a dancer, and I thought I had a nice body. I wanted to show it off, but I wanted to keep him happy even more. So, I changed myself for him. In private, he would apologize, telling me I was gorgeous and how much he wanted me, but when I wore clothes which hid my body, he felt better because he knew no one else could see what he said belonged only to him. As sick as it may seem, it was easy to forgive him—he could have had anybody he wanted, but I had him.”
“Fuck him, Carey. Your body is perfect, a bloody feast for the senses—curves topped with the softest skin my fingers have ever touched. I would never ask you to fucking hide it away,” Atticus whispers against my neck. “And I would never, not even if my life depended upon it, ask you to change for me. But, I’ve interrupted you. Go on. I fear your tale is not finished.”
“It’s not,” I agree. I close my eyes, and as I do, the memories of Mike’s hands on me, his words in my ear, come flooding back even stronger than before, as if the very dam in my mind has given way, yet somehow, I continue. “The night of junior prom, we had sex for the first time in the back of his old Mustang. Mike spread my legs, and I gave him virginity. Thankfully, he was sort of sweet and caring—a departure from the Mike I had come to know. Over his shoulder, I watched the sun set. As I did, I felt something inside that I’d never felt before—this dread, a panic, the fear that he and I were all wrong—but I ignored it. I was a kid, but I knew I loved him. When we finished, Mike held me in his arms, and he told me he loved me, too. I had never expected to hear those words from him, so I said it back
, and I meant every fucking word of it.
“Time went on, and the cycle we established continued. Mike beat me down, and he was insatiable. We never talked or laughed or did anything, but we did fuck. All we did was fuck, whenever Mike wanted, however Mike wanted. When we finally made it to Tulane, and Mike brought up the idea of marriage, I was thrilled. Despite everything he said or did, I convinced myself he wanted something more for us, but during the fall of our sophomore year, Mike started withdrawing. Honestly, I didn’t question it because Mike was a pre-med major, and his classes were only growing more and more difficult. One day, he told me his study group was coming to our apartment, so I went shopping to give them a quiet space. I hated shopping—I had since I began trying to meet Mike’s standards—and I came home early. When I unlocked the door, I dropped my few bags on the dining table, and I heard them. I don’t remember how I made it to the bedroom, but I did. Mike was in bed with two blondes I didn’t recognize, and I couldn’t stop myself from watching one of them suck him off while the other fingered his ass. The image was entirely degrading and disgusting, but as I took in the look of pure, fucking pleasure on his face—an expression I alone never put there—I learned something I wouldn’t forget. Though I had tried to become what he wanted, I never was, and never would be, enough for him.”