The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance

by Scott Hildreth

  She reached in her pocket and pulled out her phone. After unlocking it, she extended her hand, with the screen facing her. “Don’t get mad.”

  “Okay.”

  She turned the screen to face me.

  The picture was of me with my back against the wall. My legs were spread, and my feet were even with Tysons midriff. My dress was crumpled around my waist, and my ass was bare. The fingers of Tyson’s left hand gripped my butt cheek firmly.

  He was looking to the left slightly, and his jaw was tense.

  My eyes were fixed on him. The look on my face told a story that words were incapable of.

  I was in sexual heaven.

  The mood captured in the picture was amazing. I studied it for some time, and then handed Jenny the phone.

  “I’m not mad,” I said. “You’re right. That’s sexy. Will you send it to me?”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t believe you caught that moment so perfectly.”

  “I took about fifty pics.” She laughed. “A little video, too.”

  “You took a video?”

  “Just a little one.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure.”

  She fidgeted with the phone, and then handed it to me. “Don’t go scrolling around after you watch it. There’s shit on there you don’t need to see,” she warned.

  “Of me?”

  “No,” she said. “Of me.”

  “Oh.” I giggled. “Okay.”

  I pressed play.

  Tyson’s shorts were around his ankles, and he was fucking me slowly. My dress was up to my shoulders, and my boobs were bare. Tyson’s right hand was on my left boob, squeezing it firmly. His left hand rested under my butt cheek.

  With each stroke, my back was pressed against the wall.

  My arms were draped over his shoulders, and my hands were clenching his shirt in balled fists.

  After half a dozen thrusts, I arched my back. “I’m going to come. Right now.”

  The muscles in Tyson’s legs flared as he began to fuck me ferociously. Each savage thrust slammed my back against the wall. Both of his hands squeezed my boobs as if doing so brought him great pleasure.

  After a several second-long pounding, my back arched. My eyes widened.

  No one in porn could duplicate the look on my face, that much I was sure of. It was one of sheer and utter satisfaction.

  The video ended, mid-orgasm.

  I found it odd that my recollection of the event, and the event itself, were different. Watching the video was strangely satisfying.

  I handed her the phone. “Send me that, too.”

  She smiled. “Sexy, huh?”

  A long breath escaped me. “Yeah.”

  “Chemistry,” she said as she fiddled with her phone. “You two have it. There, I sent you both.”

  “Will you delete that stuff?”

  She looked at the phone, and then at me. “Do I have to?”

  “I don’t want anyone to see it. It makes me nervous.”

  “Not to sound weird, or anything, but I like watching you two fuck. It’s sexy as hell.”

  “I guess you can keep it, as long as you don’t show it to anyone.” I chuckled. “I’ll just tell myself you deleted it.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  I took a step toward my desk, and then paused. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but the thought of you watching us have sex is kind of sexy.”

  “The thought of me watching might be kind of sexy, but actually watching you have sex is sexy as hell. Best shit I’ve seen in a while.”

  “You didn’t show it to Shawn, did you?”

  She seemed offended. “No,” she snapped.

  “Okay. Don’t, please.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s for my eyes only.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, you two are like, what, an item, or whatever?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there at the end, he said he never wanted to stop fucking you. You agreed. I just thought that meant you two were, I don’t know, together.”

  I’d given the comment Tyson made in the throes of passion little, if any, consideration. The thought of being in a relationship was impossible for me to fathom. I was the permanently single nerd who was lucky enough to get fucked once upon a time by someone who happened to smell the desire leaching from my pores.

  “I don’t know,” I responded. “We haven’t talked about it since.”

  “Well, you should. I like the thought of you two being together. It’s a cute story.” She slid her phone into her pocket and shrugged playfully. “And, I like watching you fuck.”

  I wasn’t sure if Tyson and I would ever be in a relationship, but from the little bit of video I’d seen, I liked watching us fuck, too.

  18

  Tyson

  I desperately needed to resolve my issue with impotence. Convincing myself that Jo was more than an object of sexual desire was crucial. If I could find a way to once again see all women as being attractive, and not just Jo, I could get back to normal. The first step was to be in her presence, and not fuck her.

  I had no idea if I possessed the ability to spend time with a woman if we weren’t engaged in a sexual act, but I intended to find out. Seated at a quaint little Italian joint across from Jo, I asked the first question that came to mind.

  “Of all things, what made you choose an erotic book store?”

  Her eyes thinned a little, and her gaze fell to the table. After some thought, she looked up. She brushed her hair behind her ear. “A love of reading, I guess.”

  “Have you always loved reading?”

  “I have. I started before I was four, from what my mom says.”

  “You were a natural.” I admired her hair, which was down and curly, and then met her gaze. “Why an erotic book store? Why not a run of the mill, one store covers all type affair?”

  She chuckled. “I get asked that, a lot. Well, my senior year in college, the Indie book world was just starting to gain momentum. It had been around for a few years, but it wasn’t perceived as producing worthwhile literature. I read a few Indie published books and liked them. I always known I wanted to do something with books but didn’t know what. Maybe be a freelance editor, or work for a firm as a literary agent, or something. When I realized the books written by the Independent authors were as good, or oftentimes, better than the books that were published by the big publishing houses, I decided to do what I could to assist those authors in getting their names out there.”

  “I want to ask something, but don’t think I’m a complete idiot, okay?’

  She smiled. “Okay.”

  “What, exactly, is an independently published book? What’s the difference?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Good question.” She rubbed her palms together and leaned forward. “Traditionally published books go through this process: The author writes the book, or a portion of the book, and pitches his or her book to an agent, usually through an email. An agent is the only way to get the book in front of a publisher. Without an agent representing them, an author has no hope of a publisher ever seeing their work. So, the author submits his or her query to hundreds of agents. Maybe one in ten thousand, if that, turn into a published book. Over the years, there’s been all these books, authors, and ideas that have just evaporated because an agent either didn’t take time to read the query or didn’t like the book. Amazon came along and gave authors a platform to publish their books independently. It allowed the author to upload their book, develop a cover, and publish it into an ebook that could be read on Kindle, which was Amazon’s e-reader. Amazon took thirty percent of the revenue, and the author got seventy percent. The authors who had a room full of unsellable manuscripts were now able to publish them and see if anyone liked them. Some of the authors learned that their ability to write was as good as anyone out there.”

  Her level of excitement showed just how much she enjoyed doing what she did. “I had no i
dea how that worked,” I admitted. “Hell, it sounds like the process was pretty shitty before Amazon came along.”

  “It was.”

  “So, I could, theoretically, write a book, and publish it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Has anyone really succeeded?”

  “Have you seen the movie, The Martian?”

  “Yeah. Matt Damon? Gets stuck on Mars?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yeah. It was great, why?’

  “Independently published book. The author’s name is Andy Weir. You’ve heard of Fifty Shades of Grey, right?”

  “Yeah, who hasn’t?”

  “Independently published,” she said. “E.L. James.”

  “Damn. Okay. Well, that’s awesome that you’ve devoted your bookstore to those types of books.”

  She beamed with pride. “Thank you. Do you like to read?’

  “I will if I have to. Honestly, I think my escape is my car. I work on it even if it doesn’t have anything wrong with it.”

  “There could be worse hobbies.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Did you do well in school?”

  I picked up my fork. “I did okay.”

  “Did you play any sports?”

  It was a question I hated to answer, because it often opened a floodgate of memories I hated to recall or admit. I opted to answer truthfully, but without giving her reason to press the issue any further.

  “A little football,” I responded.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, just football.”

  “Were you good at it?”

  I wasn’t willing to travel down that particular path of memory lane with her, or anyone for that matter. Football was off-limits with me and had been for eighteen years.

  I cut the corner off my lasagna and raised it to my mouth. “Not bad.”

  “Not good enough to make it a career?” she asked. “Or to be a coach, or something?”

  I poked the food into my mouth, and then shrugged. “Hurt my ankle.”

  I chewed my food, realizing I’d opened the gate. I lowered my left hand beneath the surface of the table and crossed my fingers in hope that she’d change the subject.

  “How’d you hurt it?”

  There I was. Between a rock and a hard place. I realized I’d placed myself there and wondered if my subconscious mind wanted to talk to someone about it. Consciously, I had no desire to reveal that part of my life to her, or to anyone for that matter.

  I tried to swallow but struggled to do so. After taking several drinks of water, I realized I was sweating profusely.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I wiped my brow with my forearm.

  I was far from okay. I pressed my fork through the edge of my lasagna and paused. After a moment, I began to shake.

  I set my fork aside and wrung my hands together. I’d lived my adult life telling myself everything happened for a reason. That theory left me wondering if Jo’s presence in my life was for more than simply having sex with her.

  My subconscious mind decided she was in my life for other reasons. Before I could stop my lips from moving, they were telling her what I’d shared with no one.

  “I was,” I stammered. “I was in a car wreck.”

  It was over. I said it. There was no reason for me to elaborate, or to explain the horrible sequence of events that transpired that night.

  She would say she was sorry, and I’d shrug it off.

  “Oh my gosh,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry.”

  I gazed blankly at my food. “It’s okay.”

  I desperately wanted to change the subject but couldn’t seem to get my mind pried away from thoughts of the horrific event that changed my life forever.

  “Was anyone else hurt?” she asked.

  No one else was “hurt” that night. It was much more complicated than that.

  My chest felt heavy. I pressed the heel of my palm against my ribs. Much to my disappointment, the pain sharpened, as if someone had poked an ice pick into my heart. Reserving hope that telling her would provide relief, I did just that.

  I didn’t need to tell her everything. Just enough to ease my pain.

  “My father,” I muttered. “He was killed.”

  Surprisingly, the words came past my lips with ease. As I extracted them from the compartment where they’d been hidden, however, they cut through my soul like razors.

  She stood, walked around the edge of the booth, and sat down beside me. After draping her arm over my shoulder, she nestled at my side. Overcome with sorrow, I laid my head against her chest. Memories of my childhood, and of my mother, came to mind. As a young boy, resting my head against her chest brought comfort.

  I mentally hummed the words to Third Eye Blind’s How’s It Going To Be. Halfway through the song, I cleared my throat.

  “The car I drive now…it was…it was my father’s first new car. We picked it out together. It was only a few months old when he died.”

  “You remind me a lot of my dad,” she said with a smile. “Your father would be proud of what you’ve done with it. I’m sure of it.”

  I hoped she was right. I desperately yearned for his approval and felt keeping his car in tip-top condition would pay homage to what was once his pride and joy.

  I drew a long breath. “I hope so.”

  “Your mother? She wasn’t in the car?”

  I should have expected Jo would ask, but the question hit me like a sucker punch, nevertheless.

  I lifted my head from her chest and gazed blankly at the adjoining booth, which was empty. “When I was in sixth grade, my father found out my mother was having an affair. He confronted her about it and gave her a chance to work on repairing their marriage. Instead, she left. They got a divorce a few months later. She moved away with someone completely different as soon as the divorce paperwork was signed. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Tyson, I’m—” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  A tear trickled along her cheek. I wiped it with the edge of my finger. “What about your parents?” I asked. “Are they still together?”

  She nodded. “They got married the instant they graduated high school and were married for almost twelve years before they had kids. My brother is your age. They’ve been married forty-seven years.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “They’re great people.” She wiped the corner of her eye with the heel of her palm. “I’d like for you to meet them sometime.”

  Someone staying married for forty-seven years was commendable. Unbelievable, in my eyes. “Forty-seven years, huh?”

  “Forty-eight here in five weeks.”

  “That’s admirable,” I said. “Quite an accomplishment.”

  “I go over there every Sunday and eat dinner with them and my brother. He had a car just like yours, by the way. It was a Cobra.”

  I nodded in acknowledgement. Her brother sounded like my kind of guy. I folded my arms over my chest. “No shit? A Cobra?”

  “It was red. Other than that, yours and his are pretty much the same. His didn’t have a supercharger, though. At least that’s what I remember him saying about it. You two would get along great. He takes care of cars just like you do.”

  I grinned. “I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about.”

  She removed her glasses and brushed her hair behind her ear with the tip of her finger. “You’re welcome to come meet him and my parents, anytime. You could come to dinner if you like.”

  “Does your mom like to cook?”

  “She loves it. She’s an amazing cook.”

  The only home-cooked meals I’d eaten since my father passed were tossed together by Shawn’s mother. She was single, worked two jobs, and couldn’t cook a decent meal to save her ass.

  My mind drifted to the dinner table, talking to my father about the modifications he’d one day make to the Cobra. With my mouth salivating, I gazed blankly at my lasagna and recalled my father�
��s go-to Sunday dinner.

  “My father was an amazing cook, too. Chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans with sautéed onions and chunks of bacon was my favorite meal.”

  I stole a quick look at Jo. Despite the sorrowful look that she wore, her brown eyes glistened with innocence. As I admired them, I realized until that moment, I had no idea what color her eyes were.

  I hated to bring her the grief that came with my childhood. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about losing my father since it happened and speaking to her came easy. I wondered what was different about her. Maybe I needed to speak to someone more than I realized. Maybe I trusted her. Maybe we were just in the right place at the right time. Whatever the reason, I continued to explain the most trying time in my life.

  “After he died, I went to live with Shawn,” I explained. “His mother didn’t have the time to cook. Shawn’s dad dipped out before he was born, and she worked at least two jobs the entire time we were in school. Frozen pizzas were her specialty. I miss siting down to eat a meal.”

  She grinned. “You’re welcome to join us, anytime.”

  One half of me wanted nothing to do with meeting a girl’s parents, ever. It was the first step in relationship development, and I didn’t do relationships. The other half of me wanted to believe it was possible for a relationship to last a lifetime.

  Forty-eight years, if nothing else.

  The latter half of me spoke. “I’d kill for a home-cooked meal.”

  Her eyes gleamed with hope. “Are you busy Sunday?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well,” she said with a smile. “You are now.”

  19

  Jo

  When I shut the front door, my father woke from his nap. After wiping his eyes, he glared at me from across the room. “What on God’s little green earth is going on, Jo?”

  “I wanted to talk to everyone at the same time.”

  “This couldn’t wait for four more days?” He collapsed the footrest of his recliner and stood. “You know I don’t do well with surprises.”

  “Is that Josephine?” my mother asked from the kitchen.