Trapper and Emmeline

Trapper

and

Emmeline

Copyright 2012, Lindsey Flinch Bedder

Al rights reserved
.

This story is a work of fiction. Al characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

This story contains graphic sex scenes that may offend some audiences. This work is meant for mature audiences aged eighteen or older. Sexual y active characters in this work are eighteen years or older.

Cover image: © Can Stock Photo Inc./diego_cervo

Page graphics: oldbookil ustrations.com

Contents

Prologue: Emmeline in a Snapshot

Day 1: Emmeline to the Rescue

Week 3: A Toy for Al Men

Week 4: The Long Tease

Week 5: On Home Ground

Week 6: Leaving Emmeline

Week 7: Emmeline Ascendant

Men.

I wanted to write you the most amazing, sweet, damaged, and real fantasy-girl ever. Thank you for the glances, the flirting, the touches, the support, and the protection. Thank you for the thril s, the love, and the romance. You are more loved than you know.

Lindsey Flinch Bedder

2012 / Tennessee

Prologue: Emmeline in a Snapshot

She holds my hand as we leave class. We step into a brisk summer breeze.

Her dress is barely legal. Too short on her ass by an inch, too low in her chest by two more. Thin enough to be almost sheer when she enters the ful sunlight streaming between the buildings. With her next to me, Manhattan seems light and friendly, ful of airy promise.

I glance at her and my heart bolts in my chest. The fabric of her dress dances around her legs. It wraps over her torso like a plastic bag blown up against a Greek statue. She doesn’t notice the people gawking at her in the street. She’s too busy tel ing me she aced her exam.

Manhattan loves her.

Day 1: Emmeline to the Rescue

I was a second-semester sophomore on the first day of spring classes at NYU. I was the world’s youngest twenty-year-old, but I thought I was hot shit.

Emmeline was less than ten minutes away from entering my life.

My latest girlfriend had broken up with me two weeks earlier in a scene like the sack of Rome. It played out at a restaurant in front of our parents, who were meeting for the first time. It seemed Brynna took issue with the pile of porn under my bed, and also with some escapades in my diary that she recited to us with perfect recal .

Brynna and I had many relationship problems, the main complication being that she was a psychopath. But she was
my
psychopath, and I missed her crazy energy. Suddenly single, I vanished into my man-partment with my roommates and became a Jägermeister sponge.

I only emerged when Spring Semester started. I cleaned up, shaved, and went into the world to score with al the easy NYU coeds.

I wasn’t ready.

The long hibernation had put me under too much pressure to succeed. In daylight for the first time in months, I was slow and awkward. Stil , I forced myself toward a curvy blonde girl outside the door of my first class.

She was precisely my type. Black lace choker, too-bright lipstick, disorderly drug chic clothes that only the most awesome females could pul off. She was inviting and she knew it. Obviously she would be receptive to a stammering, sweaty boy trying to interrupt her reading.

Trapper,
I told myself,
be brash and embrace a philosophy of you’re-probably-going-to-fuck-this-up.

“You look like you’re built for speed,” I told her.

Her eyes drifted up to mine, where I stood ready to eye-fuck her with manly confidence. To seal the deal, I had a big, desperate smile that I tried to keep going.

With unhurried blinks, the girl closed the book she’d been reading. I took that as a good sign. Her eyes were arctic blue.

“You said
what?”

Her voice was lovely, with a tinge of a Russian accent.

“You’re built for speed, girl!” I said. I’m not a kind of guy who adds ‘girl’ to a sentence, ever. Hearing myself say it, I understood why. The students around us turned to watch.

“I must not understand,” she said calmly.

“Oh, it’s just a thing we Americans say,” I said. “It’s a joke about your smal chest.”

Crap! What the fuck was I doing?
‘Smal chest built for speed’ is something the girls on my High School swim team said. Why I reverted back to swim team, and why I used her chest as the centerpiece of my pick-up, I’l never understand.

Big fuck-up.

She seemed to agree with me. “I am certain I did not hear correctly.”

If I was going to salvage this, I would have to double down. When you’re going to die, die big and take out bystanders.

“I think your smal chest looks great. There’s nothing wrong with tiny breasts. You shouldn’t worry.”

“Is this a social thing for which I have not
any
patience?” The more I seduced her, the thicker her Russian accent became. “My breasts are very large.”

Fuck! They were!
How did that happen? Usual y I’m somewhat aware of a girl’s breasts.
Fuck! Incompetent!

“See what I mean?” I blurted. “And that’s after only two minutes of talking to me.”

“I am confuse.” Her voice was stil without emotion. “Am I more sleek and fast with my breasts gone?”

If I could have pul ed a plug in my ass and farted myself out of her eye line like a deflating bal oon, I would have. Those bal oons change direction quickly and they are hard to track; I would have had a real chance to escape.

Those were my thoughts. In the real world I merely reached for my ass. She took a quick step back.

“I’l explain, girl. I didn’t see your big tits because I’m not a guy who goes around seeing big tits. I’m about the personality. The woman’s soul is what I love. I love women’s souls
best.
I want to devour them.”