Her ToyBear

by Bonnie Burrows

  “Oh, excellent! And I make a good trout, if I do say so myself. Have you ever had it with almondine sauce?”

  “Uh, no, I’ve never had it like that,” said Wesley, as flatly as he knew how.

  “Then if I say so myself, you’re in for a treat. Honestly, this is one of my best dishes. I promise you won’t be sorry you stayed. Please, won’t you stay after?”

  She asked so sweetly, and Wesley felt something like a knife twist inside him for his complete inability to tell her the real reason why her invitation and her menu so caught him off guard. How could he possibly refuse, especially when she was so nice, so kind, so talented—and so pretty?

  It was only now really dawning on him—he had never given much thought to the difference in their ages because of the purely artist/model nature of their relationship. He knew she was an older woman, but he had never actually thought of her as one. That is, not until now, when she was inviting him to something on the order of a social engagement. And what was more, he did not seem to mind.

  “Yeah, sure, I’d love to stay,” he said before he was even fully aware that he was saying it. “I’d love to taste your trout.” And as soon as he said it, he pulled the phone away from his ear and winced, as if to stop her from seeing his reaction. Did he have to put it that way?

  Wesley put the phone back to his ear, and he could hear the pleasure shining through in her voice. “Wonderful! Oh, that’s wonderful, Wesley! I’ll make trout almondine and steamed vegetables, we’ll have some wine, and I’ll order a pie from the baker for dessert…”

  “Yeah, that sounds great. So I’ll come over for the session at the usual time, and then…”

  They talked for a few minutes more about dinner and about Jennifer’s plans to do some watercolors of him this time, and they both expressed how much they looked forward to their afternoon and evening together.

  “I think it’s going to be really wonderful, Wesley,” said Jennifer.

  “Yeah, me too,” said Wesley. “It’ll be great. And really…thanks for asking.”

  “Thank you, Wesley. It’s going to be lovely.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  They said their goodbyes and hung up. As soon as he was off the phone, Wesley let out a long, deep groan and buried his head in his arms on the desk.

  Holy crap. Dinner. DINNER! And she’s serving me trout! She’s actually gonna serve me TROUT! And she’s got no frickin’ idea. None.

  The fact was that Wesley loved trout. He’d had it many times back in Quebec. And it was safe to say that while he had never had it the way Jennifer was going to prepare it, she had definitely never had it the way Wesley was accustomed to having it.

  But the plans had been made, and Wesley had no intention of backing out. The bottom line for him remained the simple fact that Jennifer Casey was the nicest person he had met in his time in the city, and he would not back out and hurt her feelings if all the world depended on it. He was suddenly aware that hurting Jennifer would hurt him as well.

  He decided to go to the staff shower before heading home.

  _______________

  Jennifer climbed out of the sunken bathtub in the penthouse, wrapped up her hair in a towel, slipped into her robe, and sat at the mirror dabbing at her face with a cloth. She interrogated her reflection: Really, Jennifer, what is it that you’re expecting to happen with Wesley? What can you even expect?

  She had invited him to dinner. She had no reason to expect him to see it as anything more than an invitation to a meal. Why should she? After all, he was a young man and she was a woman of…the age that she was. What should she expect him to read into a dinner invitation? It was entirely possible that he would take it as a maternal gesture—an offer of a meal from someone he saw as a surrogate mother figure.

  Right. A mother figure who pays him to take his clothes off and let her draw pictures of his erect twenty-five-year-old hunkiness. Some mother. Try again, Jenny.

  Okay, then. He could very well take it as a purely friendly gesture. Or the kind of gesture that business people and clients make to each other on a routine basis. Ken was always taking clients to lunch or dinner, or bringing them home for dinner here. She had wined, dined, and entertained plenty of people with whom her ex-husband did business. It would be entirely in line for Wesley to take this as a business dinner.

  Michelle’s words came back to haunt her. Would you have gone to bed with him if he had kissed you that way, and can you honestly say you’ve never thought about it?

  In the privacy of her own mind, Jennifer actually let herself think—if not actually say—the words. Yes. I would have gone to bed with Wesley. Yes, I have thought about sleeping with Wesley. Yes—I believe I would very much like to let Wesley have sex with me. If he wants to.

  No sooner had the words passed through her mind than she felt as if someone had pushed her heart out the hatch of an airplane and it was now in free-fall. She put her hand to her bosom and watched her face shift from surprise to delight to embarrassment to dread, and various combinations of the above. She had actually let herself think it—expressly, explicitly. She had actually admitted to herself that she wanted Wesley in her bed, that she wanted that young man where no one but Ken had been for so many years. She wanted him naked, and she wanted to be naked with him. She wanted him on top of her. Inside her.

  Oh my God, I do. I really do. I want that boy.

  So what if she did want him? What good did it even do her to want him? What could possibly make her think the feeling would be mutual?

  She tried to play the scenario out in her head. She imagined the two of them sitting down to dinner, enjoying the food and the wine and each other’s company. There would be stories, laughter, and smiles over wine glasses. A touch, very tentative—just fingertips brushing against each other. Then, perhaps, her hand on his. And his hand holding hers. And more smiles.

  Perhaps then they would retire from the dining room to the living room, sitting on the sofa. Drinking more wine. Watching the city lights. Sitting a little closer. More touches. Closer yet—and then perhaps he would kiss her again. Just lightly, on the cheek, the way he did at the door last time. And then, perhaps it would be something like what Michelle had said. Longer, deeper kisses. His arms would encircle her. She would undo his shirt.

  What would he be wearing? Not one of his tank tops, not for dinner. He’d have on a tight pullover sweater or a polo shirt, something that would still show off his muscles. She would slip it off of him, and he would kiss her all the more deeply, slipping his tongue into her mouth. He would ease her back onto the sofa and lie over her, kissing her mouth, her neck, and her shoulders while opening her blouse. She would brush his hair and ask him if perhaps he’d like to take this somewhere else. And they’d move upstairs, to her bed, and there they would strip naked together for the first time.

  And then…and then…

  It would go on all night, Jennifer pinned to her mattress under Wesley. He would go down on her and then back up again, and mount and hump her for hours on end with all the vigor and stamina and passion of a lad halfway through his twenties. The pleasure would be out of this world. They would go to bed as a young man and an older lady, discovering something that thrilled them both. They would lie together in the first light of dawn as new lovers.

  And in the morning, Jennifer would realize that neither of them had taken the slightest precaution.

  She snapped out of the fantasy and caught herself in the mirror, staring wide-eyed and shocked into the glass. Oh my God! Precautions! What about precautions?

  Quickly, Jennifer leaned to one side and took out the tube of spermicide and the case containing her diaphragm, neither of which she’d had any need for since Ken had moved out. When the marriage ended, she had put them away and wondered if she would ever need them again. To her amazement, she might actually need them now.

  Or would she? What if her dinner with Wesley went exactly as she imagined, but only up to a point? There was eve
ry possibility of it going right up to the touching at the dinner table, or even to the wine on the sofa in the living room—and Jennifer trying to get close, even to kiss him, only to hear from him that he wasn’t really interested in being “that way” with her. That he really enjoyed her company, her friendship, and liked working for her as a model, but didn’t want anything more.

  That would be utterly crushing, totally mortifying. She would cover it, of course. She would act as if it were all perfectly fine. Outwardly, she would just shrug and brush it off. Well, of course, that was all he’d want. What was she, after all, but an older lady who was nice to him?

  Young men surely appreciated older ladies being nice to them. That didn’t mean they wanted to sleep with them. For his benefit, she would simply brush it off. Inside, however, she would feel like an aluminum beer can that he had crushed in his strong, athletic, young hand.

  It would be quietly devastating for her to offer herself to a twenty-five-year-old lad who turned her down, that much was certain.

  But then, how would it feel if it really did go the other way, the way she’d first imagined—and it bore consequences unplanned and undesired? After all, she was over forty, but she was not menopausal yet. How embarrassing would it be to be a forty-five-year-old woman, pregnant with a twenty-five-year-old father?

  She broke out the spermicide and used the diaphragm.

  _______________

  When he arrived the following afternoon, Jennifer was surprised to find Wesley actually wearing a collared, button-down shirt with his usual khakis and boxing shoes. He looked positively semi-casual, which made him all the more enticing and made her want him out of those clothes even more. She ushered him up to the studio and took her place behind the easel, and again she appreciatively watched him strip for their session.

  She decided to add something new to their work today: a white terry-cloth robe that she had bought just to see him in it. “See the robe lying on the back of the futon? Would you put that on, please?”

  He eyed the robe, then glanced curiously at her. “You want me to wear this?”

  “Keep it open, of course. And…do things with it. Be creative.”

  He made a shrugging expression. “Okay…I can do that.” And he leaned that achingly perfect body over, displaying the curvature of his bottom and letting his member hang free, and took the robe. He stood straight again and put it on, keeping it open as she instructed to keep his endowment in view. And they began.

  Wesley stood with the robe open, his legs apart and his arms behind his back, showing himself off to her. His tool responded at once, growing and hardening into a full erection as it always did. Jennifer went into a deep concentration to capture him that way. Then he slipped the robe off one shoulder and let half of it hang off him; keeping his legs apart, he put one hand on his stomach. She held her concentration and briskly sketched him that way as well.

  That was when Jennifer, her mind intent on the way she hoped the evening would end, decided to get a little bit bold. Ever since she’d first had the idea of inviting him to dinner, something had been in the back of his mind. She recalled the websites from which she used to draw her subjects. Her gay friends had pointed some of them out to her; others she had found on her own. Looking at some of these sites, she actually had to overcome an irrational self-consciousness, as if anyone could see where she was surfing in the privacy of her own penthouse.

  But on some of those sites, the beautiful male subjects did a little bit more than just pose with their maleness in full view. Some of them did very provocative things with the ample tubing between their thighs. There were sites that Jennifer had visited that almost made her feel what those lads were doing with what they had. During last night and the first part of this day, anticipating her session with Wesley, Jennifer had gone back to those sites and looked at those stunning men doing those things with what nature had given them. And it gave her an idea that she would now summon the courage to use. The worst Wesley could do was decline. But she decided she would be bold enough to ask.

  “Wesley,” she asked, “when you’re posing, do you ever…touch yourself?”

  He looked mildly startled at the question. “You mean…do I ever, like, stroke and play with my piece while somebody’s drawing me? Like I’m jerking myself off?”

  Jennifer felt herself blush a bit at having actually “gone there” with him. But the question was now out and could not be unasked. So she replied, “Yes, that’s right. Do you ever touch yourself while you’re posing?” She waited for him to be offended. He was not.

  “You know, I’ve never done that.”

  “Would it make you uncomfortable to do that?”

  “No,” he replied. “I’m cool with my body. My whole body. I’m proud of what I’ve done with it. Nobody’s ever asked me to stroke it while I was posing for them. I jerk myself off sometimes when I’m by myself, just like any guy, but I’ve never gotten that request.”

  She was surprised at his frankness and his comfort in telling her this in such a purely matter-of-fact way. At the same time, it made him even more irresistible. “Oh,” she said.

  “You want me to touch it and stroke it for you?” he asked, perfectly calm.

  Jennifer smiled, feeling as if a barrier had somehow been broken. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I think I’d like to capture you…doing that.”

  “Okay,” he softly said. And in a moment that made Jennifer hold her breath, Wesley slipped the robe all the way off and turned to one side. He hung the robe on the shoulder facing the futon and looked down at his unabashed erection. In a gesture that made Jennifer want to lick her lips like the cougar to which Michelle had compared her, he began to caress his masculine length.

  The way Wesley grasped his tool with one set of fingers and ran the other up and down that pipe of flesh made Jennifer envy his hands. He took his piece by the base, cupping his sac while sliding his fingers up and down his long, thick root, and made it throb at his touch. She wished it were her touch as he pulled the turtleneck of foreskin up and down, covering and exposing the bluntness of his tip.

  She suppressed a sound of “Mmmm…” at the sight of Wesley working at himself and noticed in his exquisitely handsome profile, a narrowing of his eyes and a licking of his lips. She couldn’t blame him for that. He looked as if he were enjoying himself every bit as much as she would like to enjoy him.

  Wesley next draped the robe over both shoulders and sat down with legs spread wide on the futon. In this latest pose, he continued to stroke and play with himself. Jennifer’s heart leapt and raced while she worked on the drawing of him. She was riveted not only by the sac and shaft that he was playing at with his hands, but by what began to play on his face; the sheer pleasure that he was giving himself, which his body seemed to radiate like an invisible heat.

  He shut his eyes completely now, and his tongue swept from side to side along his parted lips. She could swear that she almost heard low groans emitting from his throat, and she wondered how much louder those sounds would be in bed, on top of her.

  Next, Wesley lay back on the futon, propping up his head with a pillow on the arm while bending one leg up on the cushion and letting the other foot rest on the floor. He continued to stroke and pull at his massive member, sheathing and unsheathing his glans in the foreskin. His mouth widened, and he breathed deeply as he worked at himself. Jennifer seemed to quicken the strokes of her charcoal on the paper on her easel to keep time with the rhythm of his pulling at his erection. She watched him carefully squeeze his flesh berries while running his fingers up and down his length, and in the back of her mind echoed Michelle’s voice: I’d say he’s at least eight inches of ‘that.’ Maybe nine. Jennifer could only imagine that it was much closer to nine. Some stray thought deeper in her mind remembered that he was Canadian and wondered what nine inches was in Metric.

  Another thought shipped it aside: Who the hell cares?

  Suddenly, in a voice thick with self-pleasure, Wesley looked o
ver at her and asked, “Uhh…Jennifer…would you mind if I run to the bathroom real quick?”

  Snapping out of her concentration to process the question, Jennifer looked up from her easel to see him sitting back upright on the futon, his meat throbbing and pulsing in his hand. “Um…no, not at all. You know where it is.”

  The moment Jennifer’s answer crossed her lips, Wesley was up and half-running out of the studio, leaving the robe on the futon. She watched him leave, admiring the way his buttocks moved, until he was out of sight. Then, letting out the long, heavy sigh that she had been holding back, she settled into her chair and turned to review the work she had done.

  Wesley shut the bathroom door behind him and switched on the light. Leaning against the door, he could barely see the expensive porcelain and stainless steel fixtures around him before he shut his eyes tightly and worked ever harder and faster at his erection. His muscular, hairy young body heaved and throbbed all over to match the hardness between his legs as he worked himself to a fever pitch. Clenching his teeth, he let out a deep grunt that vibrated off the bathroom walls at the fiery hot tingle of the climax that welled up from his loins.