by JD Hawkins
I put my glass down and look out at the scenery to think it over, understanding the question a little better, but perhaps even more stunned by it now. It takes me a while to even imagine, and even then…
“Honestly?” I answer without even looking at her. “If I don’t get this…it’ll break me.”
“Break you?”
I turn to show her how serious I am. “Yeah. It’ll break me. End me. This is it. My last shot. My future is either this position at M and B or…I dunno. Blackness. Nothing.”
“Whoa,” Hazel says, eyes blinking with surprise as she absorbs what I’ve said. “I thought you would say you’d start a business of your own, or move to New York or something. But that’s…kinda melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“No,” I answer firmly and quickly. “It’s the truth. Months of busting my ass for this position, of lying… I gave this everything I have, and if it’s still not good enough, then I’m done trying. More than that—a whole lifetime of trying. No…I could never try again if this doesn’t work out…
“It’s not about money, you know that, right? Fuck—I could take the work I’ve done for them and go act on it myself, be a millionaire before the year’s out. It’s about…security. It’s about achieving something. It’s about being a person on a path, instead of just another guy. I’ve never wanted to be that. Just another dude taking up oxygen until he kicks it… Maybe that sounds crazy to you. I don’t know. But there it is, that’s what I’m—”
The loud scraping sound of Hazel pushing back her chair stops me. She gets up out of her seat carefully and steps back.
“What are you doing?” I ask, as she steps back toward the doors. “Where are you going?”
As an answer, I feel the collar of my bathrobe pulled away from my neck, and then Hazel’s fingers press themselves gently over my shoulders, thumbs pushing into my back.
“You need to relax,” she says, standing behind me as she rubs. “I don’t know how you get anything done, the way you always cling to all that tension inside of you.”
I can’t even reply. Her fingers are magic, and she’s right. It’s only when her cool, delicate hands knead my neck that I realize how much I keep it tensed. Talking about my life, my disappointments, my anger, bringing it all up from my soul to my skin. And now the way she’s touching me, it’s like she’s reaching deeper than the muscles, easing more than just the physical tension away.
I succumb to her. Even if I wanted to resist, I couldn’t. No amount of self-control could make me stop this. I might be able to bench three hundred but I’m struggling to hold even my head up the way she’s molding me.
“Feels good, right?”
“Yeah,” I manage to reply, but it comes out like a resonating bass note.
She stops, and I almost wince from the sudden agony of not feeling her touch. “Why don’t you stretch out on the bed?” she says. “It would be a lot easier.”
I turn in my seat to look up at her, my neck already feeling slightly more limber. “You sure you don’t mind?” I ask. “You’re not too tired after today?”
I feel compelled to say it, though it almost pains me. Even though I know she won’t refuse me, even the small possibility she’ll say no after giving me a taste fills me with more tension, ironically. She smiles down at me and pats my shoulder.
“I like giving massages,” she says breezily, pressing her fingers into the back of my neck again. “In fact, that’s what I trained for before I decided to enroll in a nursing program. Massage therapy. True story. And you really need it. It’s like squeezing steel.”
She moves back into the room, heading toward her bag. I get up from the chair and follow her, unfurling my robe and throwing it on the chair.
“I work out,” I tell her.
“I’m a nurse,” she says, looking inside her bag. “I know the difference between muscles that are strong and muscles that are holding stress. You’ve got both.”
In nothing but my boxers now I get onto the bed, head on my wrists, watching her as she bends over her bag, still rummaging. Eventually she turns around and takes a step toward me, stopping a second, her eyes flashing a little wider when she sees me on the bed.
“What’s that?” I ask, meaning the bottle in her hand.
“Massage oil,” she says as she approaches the bed and clambers onto it. “To be honest, I’ll probably need a piledriver to work that stiffness out of you, but oil is all I have on hand right now.”
She straddles my back, and the softness of her ass on mine, her thighs around me, has the opposite of a relaxing effect on me. I hear her flip open the bottle, squeeze it, then toss it aside and rub her hands together. She lets out a little laugh, and I feel it through her pelvis.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing…” she says. Then, “Your back is more beautiful than most men’s faces.”
I let out a chuckle myself. “I work hard at it.”
“I’m sure…you don’t seem to do anything other than work hard.”
Her fingers reach once again into my skin, my body, into the depths of my soul, and any attempt at a reply becomes futile. The only thing I can do is sigh, and grunt a little every time she twists some of the hardness I live with out of me between her expert fingers.
Hazel pushes and pulls, searching for knots and working them out, stroking tension away in long palmed strokes, balling her fists up to lean and beat up and down my back, leaving nothing but glorious lightness in the wake of her touch. I feel like I’m going to sink through this bed and ascend through the roof at the same time.
Her hands go over my shoulders again, to my arms, and she pulls them.
“Put your arms back,” she says
I let her pull my arms all the way back, so that my hands touch the cool, smooth skin of her thighs. Lazily I trace my fingers up and down them as she continues to rub me.
“What’s that smell?” I ask in between soft growls of pleasure.
“Jasmine. It’s in the oil. I love jasmine. It’s the scent of Southern California in the spring. That and all the citrus blossoms.”
After another sigh, her fingers now rousing me as much as they relax me, I say, “I smelled it on you yesterday…smelled it on myself after I left…”
She lets out a laugh, but it’s not the air-filled sparkle it usually is, more a smooth, intimate purr. Everything about her now, her touch, her voice, her position on my back, turns me on.
“It’s really sexy,” I add.
Again that laugh, a little lower this time. The movement of her hands slow, and then she takes them off my back. I hear the swish of cloth, and feel a slight shift in her weight as she makes a sudden movement I can’t see, then hear something like fabric falling on the floor. Her hands return to my back.
“It’s sexy, huh?” she says, her voice quieter but full of something now. Erotic and playful. Flirty and tense.
One of her hands moves up my neck until her fingers are in my hair, gripping and brushing it lightly. When she speaks again I hear her voice close to my ear, as she lowers herself onto me.
“I think so too… That’s why I like it…”
Instinctively, without me even realizing it, my fingers are searching higher up her thighs now, under her shorts, pulling and feeling the round softness of her ass. I crack the mystery of the falling cloth when I feel the unmistakable hardness of her nipples, the soft weight of her breasts, pressing against my back.
Her fingers still in my hair, she takes my earlobe in her teeth and pulls gently, then closes her lips around it and sucks. This close I hear her tender sigh, the delicate moans she can’t hold back.
Even though I can’t see her, I’ve never felt this horny in my life. It’s as if the massage has heightened every sense, turned me ultra-receptive to every tiny gesture, every whisper-quiet sound, the enveloping scent. The kind of horny that simple fucking couldn’t satisfy. The kind of desire that feels as good as satisfying it.
I let her cultivate the hot embers inside of
me a little longer. Pulling my hair, biting my ear, pressing and rubbing her breasts across my oiled back. The jasmine like a heady fog now, mingling with the smell of her hair, clean skin, warm breath, to wrap us together. She’s grinding her body so tight into me my hand can push all the way up the leg of her shorts now, to the mound of her panties.
“You relaxed yet?” she whispers into my ear, then purrs another throaty laugh. Her voice a sensation that goes straight to my balls, making me so hard it’s almost uncomfortable to lay on my front.
In one swift movement, catching her off guard, I buck her off like an animal, flipping her onto her back on the bed. She shrieks happily as I sit in front of her, between her legs, finally getting a look at the sensational body she’s been grinding into me. Splayed out before me, her hair over the edge of the bed, her naked breasts heaving, I could just sit here and look at her all night, but the rumbling inside of me wants more.
“I wasn’t done,” she says. Then she laughs, and it makes her breasts and stomach ripple beautifully.
“Any more and I would be, though,” I reply with a smile, catching sight of the oil.
I grab it, flip it open with one hand, and squeeze it onto her, rolling it over her breasts and belly and sides with my other hand until she glistens like a goddess. She closes her eyes, hands in her own hair, stretching out to dangle over the bed like she’s falling.
I massage her front slowly, savoring every curve and tremble. My hands move across her slickened stomach, dwell at her breasts to cup and squeeze, to roll her nipples until I search upwards, her neck in my palm. She arches back onto the top of her head, pressing her throat into my palm.
Back down her sides until I reach the top of her shorts, she reads my intent, lifting her legs so I can peel shorts and panties down her glorious thighs and toss them away. Feet back on the bed, knees up either side of me, I push her thighs apart and roll my thumb over her clit. One hand on my own cock, stroking slowly through my boxers so I don’t come at the sight of her expressive face, eyes heavy lidded with burgeoning pleasure.
I take my time, not wanting to rush her, not wanting to give up the sight of how nicely her body moves at my touch. A soft breeze moves through the open balcony doors and tickles our oiled bodies as if wanting to join in. I push and roll and squeeze her clit between my thumb and forefinger.
“Nate,” she moans, eyes closed.
Her gasps get deeper. Her body gets looser. Her pussy gets wetter. She squeezes her own breasts now, pulls her own hair, as if wrestling with the sensations in her own body now, struggling to bear them. All the while I glare at her with the intensity of a man in the presence of absolute perfection.
I slip my middle finger inside her, then the fourth finger. Pinkie resting between her tensing ass cheeks. It feels like she’s entirely within my control now, my fingers searching inside of her for the spots that make her shudder and shake and squeal open-mouthed.
“Breathe slow,” I tell her, enjoying the feeling of control, of making her feel this good. “Easy…”
Whether she enjoys the feeling too, or is just so lost in her sensuality that my voice sounds like it’s her own thoughts, she obliges, and I watch her breasts slow their rise and fall, her belly roll in softer waves. I ease my own movements to give her a chance to relax, and then slowly begin to roll her clit again, to curl and thrust and pull my fingers inside of her again, working her back up into those spasms and wails. Until she’s arching her back and slamming her shoulders back against the bed.
“Easy…” I say, realizing that I’m smiling around the word. “Relax, Hazel…”
Once again she melts, slows her breath, twisting and grinding the back of her head into the mattress. Coming back down to earth so I can slowly tease and finger fuck her pussy back into a state of hot, wet need. I’m hard as a nail now, cock outside my boxers, but I stroke slowly, resisting the urge to fuck her properly, knowing that once I do I’ll lose so much of this, of being able to watch her, to appreciate her. Holding myself back becoming my own kind of delicious torture now.
But eventually it’s my own desire that compels me to pull my fingers from her. Her moans an arousing cacophony, her body too beautiful to just look at, even the scent of her pussy making me ravenous. I dive between her trembling thighs and place my tongue against her, licking long and broad at her wetness, lips closing in a kiss to her clit.
But her hands are at my hair again, and she pulls me away so quickly I almost think something’s wrong. Until she twists over me, pussy sitting on my face in reverse so that she can tear off my own boxers and take my cock in her nimble fingers, then her hungry lips. The two of us going at each other in a sixty-nine that feels incredible. It’s as if she’s too horny to just receive, as if she feels too good not to share.
I pull her ass cheeks apart, pull her pussy down over my mouth to reach inside with my tongue, barely able to think about what I’m doing now. The sensation of her own mouth over my cock, her breasts squeezing and brushing over my abs, twisting my sense of pleasure so that I can barely focus on one thing, let alone the two.
I’m all animal now, pressing myself into her, gorging on her warmth, her taste, her smell. Perfect thighs around my face. As one we roll onto our sides, and I impulsively thrust myself deeper into her mouth as she hums and moans vibrations down my shaft. Now the hard bonfire she set and cultivated in me with her soft breasts, she’s sucking out of me with her hard grip and flicking tongue.
She rolls and twists and bows in my arms like water, and it feels like I’m swimming in her. Sinking deeper and deeper into her. Every sound and scent and sensation mixing so that I lose myself in her, becoming one, and yet at the same time separate, bringing forth more from each other. I curl and pull my tongue inside her pussy until she’s gushing over me, quaking around me, shivering and shaking all over me.
I feel her orgasm so closely, in my mouth, under my grasping hands, against my body, that I could almost mistake it for my own. It’s so total and infectious that I could almost believe it was my own body—and then, inevitably, it is my own body.
She hums the loud announcement of her coming with my cock in her mouth, gripping onto it like she’s clinging to reality. It destroys any last resistance I had, conjuring forth all the fire and weight inside of me.
No massage could relieve this much tension. As I come hot and hard inside her mouth, it feels like all my energy, my mind, and the weight of my own body is rushing out, leaving nothing but a light soul and a relief bordering on spiritual. She swallows every drop down, her body shaking with the last of its little tremors, and my cock feels utterly drained.
I pull away to lie on my back and catch my breath. I hear the rustle of her moving, feel her shift her weight off the bed, and then she laughs a little—probably at the sight of me so knocked out—on her way to the bathroom.
A minute later she emerges again, and I’ve recovered enough of my senses to open my eyes and turn to watch her approach. Naked and perfect. I shift my arm, a gesture to come join me, and she crawls back onto the bed to lay against me, head on my chest, mixing her oil and sweat with mine as we lazily trace fingers over each other.
“Well…” she murmurs groggily, “that was very different from last night…”
I stiffen a little at her bringing up last night. I still haven’t thought about it—I was still avoiding thinking about it. That rushed grasping of selfish pleasure, like thieves in the night. After what we’ve just done I feel guilty for bending her over the bed and fucking her like she was nothing but a one-night stand and I was nothing but the kind of guy who indulges in them… And then I feel guilty for what we’ve just done—the kind of fucking that’s too good to be merely physical. Patiently pleasing each other the way true lovers might, tenderly and with affection. A connection beyond just sex. Perhaps last night was better—at least that way there’s more of an excuse.
“Sorry…” she says. Maybe she felt me stiffen beneath her cheek, or maybe it was the fact that I’d stopp
ed stroking her thigh.
“No,” I say, forcing a smile, “it’s…last night…”
“It’s fine,” she says, lifting her head a little to smile up at me.
Immediately I forget it all. It’s a smile that could make a murderer forgive himself, the kind of grace you’d find in a church. She lets her head rest on me once again and I feel balmed.
“Listen,” I say, hating how heavy I sound in this moment, “I’m going back to Chicago tomorrow.”
“I know.”
Suddenly I’m flailing for something to say, unsure of why I even brought it up. Suddenly I’m wishing I was the kind of guy who could lie easily, if only to maintain this contented moment. I’d tell her that I’ll come back and see her again. That maybe we could date. That we’d do this again. And even though she’d know I was lying, she’d play along. We’d imagine this wasn’t the last time, that there weren’t a million obstacles the second we step out of this hotel room, and enjoy imagining a future where we could feel like this again, instead of the reality that this is a one-off.
But I can’t lie like that. I’m too much of a pragmatist. I don’t want a girlfriend, a fiancée, another woman. I don’t ever want to be responsible for anyone but myself again.
Maybe the whole reason this feels so good is because we knew from the start it was never anything more. That it was always going to be just a game of pretend, just a night between strangers in a hotel room. There’s no doubt this would be ruined if it meant anything more. Besides, I hardly even know her…
“You’re getting tense again,” she says, reading my thoughts, her fingers tracing my abs.
I let out a strangely relieved sigh, as if caught. “I was just thinking about all the work I’ve got to do when I get back.”
“No you weren’t,” she says, making it sound more playful than an accusation. Her fingers trail a little lower, and I realize I’m half hard again. “Don’t worry, Nate. To me this was just a…vacation fling.”