9781618857569GettingitAllStorm (14 page)

Yes, they did it on the porn sites, but roughly and rapaciously. Only on a
few was it gentle and loving and not so…mechanical…so outside observing.
Anyway, she didn’t think that cunny…
cunnilig
…whatever,
was, like, part of the agenda, and for a moment she was annoyed with herself
that she hadn’t spent more time looking into how to respond.

And then…then…it was hard for her to think at all.

She knew about his mouth.
His wonderful lips.
He
kissed her fully and deeply, tongue and all.
Lovingly but
firm.
Taking possession yet playfully jousting. So, briefly, she
expected the same thing down there, once she had determined he was going to “eat
her out.” What a strange phrase, she thought. But then it wasn’t strange at
all.

His tongue pressed her firm labial lips apart, his breath hot on her
freshly shaved skin, his jaw slightly scratching. And then, after roaming and
searching, he delightedly discovered her clit, and her head exploded.

It was nothing like the images on her computer screen. She wasn’t outside
objectively watching, she was inside being devoured, being lavished, being
totally loved. Her ears sang, her nipples chorused, every limb electrified. She
fought for rationality, for remaining cognizant, coherent, but she was being
sucked under, sucked in, her breasts alive,
her
butt
buzzing.

She couldn’t believe how much her entire body was turned on by such a small
area, such a tiny, tiny bundle of nerves her lover knew how to play like a
full, fucking symphony orchestra. She tried, she really did try to stay aware
of what was happening, but her entire body hooted her simple little rational
mind down. She came blisteringly, like she had never come before.

He chortled and renewed his attack. And within blissful minutes she had
come again. He was easy, he was hard, he was demanding, he was…symphonic. She
came again.

Multiple orgasms were a wonderful, wonderful thing, she blissed, almost
incoherently. Thank you, evolution.

He muttered sweet
incomprehensibles
into her
begging maw as he ravished her with his mouth, something about nectar and
femaleness and deliciousness and other silly allusions that swam in and out of
her consciousness as she came again. She realized her throat was raw. She had
been screaming.
Shouting.
Lord, what must the
neighbors think? It was okay. They were a quarter-mile away.
Sitting
up in their beds, smiling at each other and smirking at each other and then
going at it too.
An entire neighborhood of shrieking,
delirious with joy women.
And all from Matt’s amazing
mouth.

She finally could stand it no longer and pushed him away, giggling,
keening,
murmuring
with utter exhaustion. Ohmygod! They
had just started.

What in heaven’s name was being fucked going to be like?

His face was on her pussy, gently stroking with his tongue. Not enough to
set her off, just enough to quiet her down.
To reassemble the
microns of her
sharded
mind.

What would, in all that was holy, being fucked by this awesome man going to
be like?

She vowed to give this man the blowjob of his life. She’d never really
given spectacular head before
—
what she had previously performed had been child’s
play, chickenfeed, furtive piddling behind the barn
.
She was going to give Matt all the blowjobs she should have given all those
years.

Now she was ready.

And she did.

And then she got fucked like she had never in all her life expected to be
fucked.

And as she lay in her bed blissfully recovering…mending…

…she could hardly wait to tell Dot.

* * * *

Dorothy was livid, thunderous, enraged. She stormed about her apartment
bellowing at the gods about her lack of having a pet she could frighten with
her fury.
A normally self-contained and self-sufficient cat
all fuzzy and self-satisfied which would take one look and spring to the top of
the wardrobe in quivering apprehension.

Except she didn’t have a wardrobe.

Or a cat she could turn catatonic.

A dog then.
A dog she could kick who would turn on her with bared teeth and an instant
transformative attitude from total loyalty to self-preservation.

Self-preservation.

Self.

Not for Lucy. Not Christy.

Self! Dorothy!

She slammed a door closed or a drawer shut or something in place of a
living,
suddenly imagined fleeing animal and tried to focus.
She had to finish dressing. She had eaten, badly. Her stomach was in turmoil.

Damn, Lucy.

She had called at the crack of dawn.

In love!

How dare
she
.

She didn’t know the meaning.

In her little mewling, puking voice.
Prattling on like a grown-up about what an amazing
man Matt was, how the date had been so unbelievable, but the evening afterwards,
when they were “you know”. Intimate. When they had fucked their eyes out!
Dorothy translated with a tongue sharper than a bored and angry U.N.
interpreter. The innocent darling knew he loved
her,
too, he couldn’t not and have been so amazing in bed.

“He was wonderful, Dorothy.” The tiny little urgent pleadings crackled over
the tiny little instrument. “He was everything, Dorothy. I know he’s older, but
I don’t care.

“I’m in love!”

How could she possibly know?

“True, honest, real, after-all-these-years love,
Dorothy.”

All these years! What was she? Twelve!
The giggling,
hormonal
splatterings
of a twelve-year-old.

He was the fucking shit
,
Dorothy,
the furious tigress interjected in her roiling mind. Everything she had asked
him not to do, begged him not to mesmerize poor little Lucy into
. Dorothy knew—better than anyone—what he was
capable of when she had told him not to
drag the stupid little…okay, not stupid…no! Yes!
Stupid
little numbskull into his “loving” circle.
Then made
her believe.
Built her up, up, up…and God! She seemed to have reached
the fucking heavens.

So awfully far to fall…

Dorothy checked herself in the mirror before she slammed out of the disheveled
apartment.

She looked mean.

Good.

Christy would be delighted to know dear sweet simple little Lucy had all
but usurped her lead in this tawdry little competition.

Christy would just be thrilled.

Her thumbs did the dirty work as she stalked toward her car battering in
Christy’s number.

“Good morning,
Starshine
,” she cooed. “Guess
what?”

Chapter Six

Matt stormed into The Crowning Glory and came up short. The overwhelming
scent of the beauty parlor produced waves of nostalgia that shot through his
hot head enough to instantly put the brakes on his temper.

The women inside turned toward him expectantly.

“Well, hi there, Matt,” the head of the shop called to him from her station
as her client looked up surprised and obviously not too thrilled at having been
discovered by their handsome male guest with a head full of sliver strips
writhing through her knotted hair.

“Uh, hi, Amelia.
Ladies.”
He had an initial distinct urge to back
out, thoroughly chastened.

“Is my Oldsmobile okay, Matt, dear?”
Brunnie
Mendle
looked up from conferring with Marta
Dalaport
over what looked like a glossy fashion magazine.
“I hope there’s no problem.”

“Uh, yes ma’am.
Brunnie
.
No. I mean, it’s…we need a part that's proving hard to
come by, but we’ll get there. Buddy's a beaver about things like that. And you
know Waco. If he has to fabricate that part himself, your Oldsmobile is going
to feel as spry as I'm sure you do.”

He took a deep breath. Eye-stinging memories of going with his mom to this
very place and waiting in this very room while she had her hair “done”, until
he got old enough to go off on his own free as a bird for two or three hours
wandering the wonders of his beloved small town and its nearby environs swirled
round him. He had his first haircut here. He thought it might have been
Amelia's mom. And then he grew old enough for his dad to take him to Leo’s
barbershop.

Where his life had never been quite the same.
He had gone from being fussed over by sweet-smelling
brightly chattering ladies laughing and gently batting their incomprehensible
secret female codes over his head like an elegant badminton game to being
gruffly and loudly integrated into a spicily scented male environment. It
seemed that in traversing a couple of hundred yards of
CoveHaven’s
Main Street he had gone from being a protected boy to instantly becoming a
vulnerable young man filled with manly instincts. The transition had unnerved
him for years.

Brunnie
laughed raucously, glancing wickedly at Marta, using the
glossy pages
to hide what
might be loosened dentures. “Matt, you are back to your old utterly charming
ways. And I for one couldn't be more pleased. Not that you haven't always been
a perfect gentleman, but it's nice to see that perhaps your loss doesn't lay
quite as heavily as before.” She sighed, probably remembering her own loss
years ago, and most likely many others during the intervening interval. “We all
have to move on. Our loved ones would want that. We owe it to them.”

Matt nodded in agreement but at the same time also strengthened his
resolve, trying to direct his attention toward the traitorous Dorothy nervously
working over a customer at her station on the far side of Amelia. At her first
glimpse of the raging Matt, she had instantly turned her back, girding her
loins. She knew
he was aimed for her.
And he was.

“Hope you’re enjoying the loaner,” Matt said pleasantly to
Brunnie
, his fury settled, more or less, into a dull
throbbing anger. “It's the latest model.” But at least he was being civilized.
That was good, because now came the test.

“Oh, it's a beautiful car. Perhaps a bit subdued for my tastes. Automobiles
seem to have gotten so much more...blocky...instead of that lovely smooth line
they were once on. But it rides well, I'll grant you. Thank you, Matt. Not
quite as secure a feeling as my beloved Olds, but then they don't make them
that way anymore, I don't suppose, do they?
So many buttons
and things to switch and punch and screens to touch.
And it all seems
so...
plasticy
.
Way too many choices
for my poor old brain.
But it does get me where I want to go.”

She gave their handsome male interloper an appraising look, especially
around the hips. “You’re looking very svelte these days, young man. Nice to see
you’re taking good care of yourself.” A big engaging smile and she and Marta
went back to conferring over the
fashion
spread.

“Hi, Dot.” His greeting came out much more loudly than he had intended,
feeling anything but svelte, having obviously been discombobulated by the
evaluating women. “I wondered if I might impose on your time for just a
minute?
” That was also much more subservient than he had
planned, but at least he sounded almost humane.
Almost
charming.
And not like he was out to strangle her on the spot. What a
shame he didn't have a white hat he could gallantly whip off and hold
respectfully in front of him while he toed the floor shyly with his boot.

Dorothy froze, wide-eyed, staring at him over her client, a young woman
half-smiling, peering at Matt trying to place where she might have seen or
known him from.

“Sorry, Matt. As you can see, I’m working.” She sounded brisk...and
terrified. Good, you deceitful bitch, he thought, unapologetically.
“Maybe…maybe in a few hours…” she finished, turning back to snipping the head
of hair.

The others in the shop heard the change in her voice, but took it
differently.

Marta, looking gorgeous and stunningly put together, spoke up. “Matt, it’s
so good to see you out and about, among us ladies.
Finally.
We’ve missed your handsome presence.”

Damn, that woman could always get under his skin.
Speaking
of
plasticy
.
Way too pulled-together for the
middle of the day. She always made him feel dusty and rumpled. “How’s Milton,
Marta?”