sex in a car

Author Note: This story is an original work of fiction and the second part of an ongoing series. It is highly recommended the reader reads Chronicles #01 prior to Chronicles #02. All characters featured herein are at least eighteen, if not expressly stated, and certain characters may also be found in other works by the authors, published or forthcoming. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.

Copyright 2011 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.

This story stars: Benjamin Merriman, and features Caroline Cassidy, Courtney Daly, Beau Nivens, Danny Salvatore, Elizabeth Macintosh, Keri Merriman, Heather Simpson, Angela Merriman, and Frank Merriman, with a special guest appearance by Addison Cross.

This story contains: male-female erotic couplings, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal and analingus, cheat-sheets, bathtub sex, van sex, showers, staff meetings, car swaps, cheerleaders, post-shower nakedness, homosexual roommates, beautiful women, and a budding private detective with significant sexual skill.

This story begins on Thursday, September 22nd.

* * * * *

It goes without saying that my high school life was not what you might call normal. I was eighteen and a senior, and that is where much of the normalcy ended; typical high school seniors do not have the kinds of experiences that marked my first year of official adulthood.

They do not have to deal with crime rings, sleazy politicians, wealthy socialites, corrupt cops, dangerous criminals, deadbeat dads, missing persons, illicit dealings, breaking-and-entering, infidelity, underground gambling halls, drugs, high-priced escorts, affluent brothels, etc. I’ve dealt with such things and more, and all before I graduated.

My name is Benjamin Merriman . . . and these are my stories.

The Chronicles of Benjamin Merriman, Volume the Second

Dinner at my house is always an interesting affair, but the truth of this fact is most unmistakably exhibited when all members of the family are accounted for, and on this particular night of nights, a Thursday as it happened to be, the whole of our eclectic little household managed to attend, not to mention Beau (who came to dinner a lot) and Caroline (who did not). Beau, as you might recall me saying, is a member of the Discretion Investigations team and a close friend of the family for going on twelve years.

My father was seated at the head of the table with my stepmother, Angela, at the other end. Keri, my sister, and Heather, my stepsister, were on one side of the table, while I was between Caroline and Beau on the other. It was Thursday, as I mentioned, one day after my remarkable tryst with Jacquelyn Atkinson—which, of course, was the first thing my father wanted to talk about.

“Ben did field work on his own for the first time yesterday,” the man said, and it felt good to see the evident pride on his face. “He met with the client, relayed information, submitted evidence, and returned with new instructions. All in all, a very successful day on job.”

Keri clapped with genuine joy. “Great job, little brother!” she bubbled, ever cheerful and warm. She was like an effervescent Energizer bunny, and everyone loved her for it. “Isn’t it exciting, daddy? Ben’s in the family business!”

“Exciting,” muttered Heather under her breath.

It should be noted here, if I have not told you already, that Heather is a big-time bitch. She cares little for the feelings of others, nor their well-being; she cares only about her own social standing (she’s a cheerleader), her looks (she’s gorgeous), and her bank account (she’s not poor).

It should also be noted that Heather had been eyeing me strangely for a few days, and that this dinner was no different. Every so often I would catch her glancing at me, a weird look on her face, as if trying to figure something out. This odd and somewhat unsettling issue, however, did not stop her from acting very much the bitch.

Back to her comment, which garnered little reaction from the rest of the table. By this point the family knew how to handle Heather; she was what she was, everyone knew it, and so everyone ignored her. Simply stated, no one cared what she said anymore. There will undoubtedly be more such commentary from Heather in the course of these stories, but I won’t waste time again detailing why no one ever answers—not even Angela, her mother, who spoke next.

“How wonderful, Ben,” she said, and while there was a hint of emotion in her voice, it was mostly monotone; the woman was rather indifferent to most things beyond the scope of my father and her own life. Not rude, just indifferent.

“Blondie says you’re picking it up quickly, kid,” drawled Beau, who had been calling me ‘kid’ for years. He’s just one of those guys who has a nickname for everyone. Blondie, of course, was Caroline.

“She also said you’re a little aggressive,” said my father reprovingly.

Beau laughed. “Just like you, eh, Hefe?”

My father grinned. “In my youth,” he admitted.

“How do you like it, Ben?” asked Keri, hazel eyes still sparkling with enthusiasm.

I smiled. “I love it,” I said. “It’s everything I thought it’d be. Of course, Caroline’s been a great teacher, and I can’t complain when I get to hang around with her all day.”

Keri, my father, and Beau all laughed, Caroline rolled her eyes exasperatedly, my stepmother sipped from a wine glass, and Heather texted away on her cell phone.

Like I said, we were quite the group.

* * *

Frank Merriman lies in the bathtub, eyes closed, relishing the feel of the warm water as it laps around his body. Jets below the surface caress his flesh, soothing, soft, and rejuvenating.

His wife, Angela, is moving around in the closet, modeling some of her new purchases. She had gone shopping earlier that day, as she is often prone to do, this time to a few of the boutiques along Rodeo Drive. Frank wonders fleetingly how much her little trip cost him. Not that he cares, mind you; whatever makes the woman happy.

As he is prone to do, he begins to think about Lynn. It’s over ten years since she passed away, but the ache remains. She was the love of his life, the mother of his children, the other half of his soul, and he would love her above all others for the rest of his days, and reunite with her in the heavens when his own ending came.

Angela knows all this, of course—Frank considers himself an honest man—and does not mind. They met three years ago at a parent meeting at the high school of his children; she has a daughter the same age as his son. The two clicked immediately: he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the room (she was) and she knew of his reputation as the wealthy owner of an elite Beverly Hills investigative firm.

And so they began seeing each other, slowly at first and then more frequently, and marriage followed. Each is very satisfied with the arrangement: Angela is beautiful and uninhibited, and very sexual and affectionate, while Frank is an attractive older man who is very generous with regard to both his character and his wallet, and very skilled between the sheets. She wanted the financial security he was willing to provide and he wanted the companionship she was willing to share. They love each other in a certain kind of way, though nothing nearly as deep as what Frank had experienced with Lynn.

Footsteps along the hardwood floor, just barely heard above the whir of the jets and the pop of the bubbles, break him from his reflections. He opens his eyes and is pleased to see his wife come into the bathroom, sipping from a glass of red wine. A short silk robe covers her body, accentuating her long and supple legs—much of her five-foot-ten frame lay in those legs—and her full black hair is pinned up on top of her head in an intricate series of folds.

“How’s the water?” she asks, smiling softly. He knows well what the look on her face means and it has its intended effect instantaneously.

“Lonely,” Frank replies.

Angela sets down her drink and stops in the center of the room, just a few feet from the tub. She tugs at the sash of her robe, untying it slowly, letting it fall to the floor, and proudly displays her fantastic body for her husband to view.

She watches him drink in the sight of her long legs, the trimmed swath of soft black hair covering the pubic mound where they met, flat stomach, and full, firm breasts. Her dark brown eyes flash with the kind of sudden hunger that comes for her only after a long day of spending money. She steps into the water of the tub and sinks down into his arms.

“Mmmm, yes,” she sighs as the water envelops her. She gasps sharply, suddenly when she feels him press into her side, and adds, “Oh, Frank!” Her fingers sweep under the water to clutch his shaft, and gave it a quick and pleasurable jerk.

She rolls over in his arms and their slick, naked bodies mold together. Frank leans in and kisses her softly, only to be nearly devoured by her response: she is hot and horny, and ready to go. He knows spending money has this effect on her, so he really isn’t too surprised.

Frank runs his hands down the smooth curve of her back and digs his fingers into the taut flesh of her rump, and pulls her tight against him. Angela breaks their kiss, preferring instead to tackle his exposed neck, kissing and nibbling it all over.

“Mmmm, yes, baby, oh yes,” the woman mews as she pushes his legs together and straddles him, slithering her body up his to offer her fleshy breasts to his active mouth.

Frank wastes no time, releasing his hold on her ass to grip her round and ripe melons and squeeze them together. His tongue flicks back and forth over the shriveled, distended pink crests as her hand tightens its hold upon his seven-inch cock.

He smiles, knowing what comes next.

Angela’s hips slide further up his torso as she guides the purple head of his manhood to the folds of her pussy. His hands travel down from palming her tits to grab hold of her hips as she lowers herself onto his column.

“Ahhhhhhh,” Angela groans as the familiar thickness spreads her pink lips. One of the draws of the man in her mind—aside from his warmth, generosity, and wealth—is his fantastic cock, and skill with its use.

Her hands clutch his thick shoulders as she sinks further and further down into his lap, impaling herself so pleasurably. When she bottoms out and the undersides of her creamy thighs settle upon his legs, she knows his cock can go no deeper, and she sighs.

Frank bends his head once more to lavish her glistening body with his tongue. He attacks her breasts, his tongue lapping at the valley of her considerable cleavage, even as his hands slip around her waist to grasp, once again, the cheeks of her ass.

Angela grabs his head and yanks back suddenly, for she has unique skills of her own, and brings her mouth down to devour his even as she begins to grind her hips in little circles. She is in charge this time, he realizes, and lets her go to work. The beautiful raven-haired woman pulls her tongue out his mouth and leans back, dark eyes locked on his as she slowly, ever slowly, slides herself up and down on his substantial shaft.

Frank brings his hands up to touch her breasts again, holding the flat of his palms like little shelves so that with every downward motion of her body, those luscious mounds come to rest heavily upon them. At the same time, he moves his own body just enough, thrusting his hips up to meet her. Water splashes and slops about, and Angela loves it.

“Just like that, darling,” she whispers breathlessly as she slumps against him, crushing her bountiful breasts into his chest but raising her hips until only the tip of his cock remains within the snugness of her sex. “Give it to me, hard!”

Frank needs no further encouragement. His hands return to the flesh of her ass and spread the cheeks wide to allow him greater access, and forcefully he begins to pound his cock into her velvety depths. Angela gasps softly into his ear with each powerful thrust.

“Yes! Oh, god, yes!” she wails, taking everything he has to give her.

She grinds her hips in skillful circles to take his strokes at different angles, increasing both of their pleasure, her left arm wrapped around his neck to hold on for dear life, while her right hand slips down the groove between their wet bodies and over her mound. She strums the swollen clitoris vigorously, her nails titillating his shaft as it continues its barrage of her pussy. The churning of the jets and the splashing of the water is scarcely heard above his grunts of exertion and her steadily rising squeals of pleasure.

“Oh, god . . . so close . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes! Yes! Yes Yes Yes Yes YESSS!” Angela screams as her sex explodes, quaking violently around his thick cock at the crest of her climax.

Frank holds her forcefully by the hips and does not stop, hammering his unflagging erection into his delirious second wife. He keeps her in the throes of climax for an excruciatingly long time as she trembles in his arms, breasts jiggling, pussy twitching, ass shaking, eyes fluttering, until finally she returns to earth and slumps wearily against him, his cock still embedded within her.

“Oh, Frank,” she whispers as she nuzzles his face with her own. “How did you survive that?” She gives his still hard and unsatisfied cock a squeeze with her vaginal muscles.

He grunts. “I have more in store for you, my dear,” he informs her. “Now flip that sweet ass over so I can take you from behind.”

“Oh, Frank,” she says with a new and seductive grin, and obeys.

Case File #003: The Case of the Classroom Cheat-Sheet

I suppose I should go into my school life some. Up to this point I’ve only really hinted at it, but it would do some good for you to know more. Also, it will tie in nicely to the story I have to tell about something that happened the next day, Friday, the day before Jacquelyn Atkinson was set to be married.

My school is the Rembrandt School, an ultra-elite private institution in Beverly Hills, one of a handful of top private high schools in Los Angeles. I have been a student there since ninth grade, the first grade the school offers, and like I said, my first two years were not the best from a social perspective. I was gangly, awkward, and shy, and relegated to the uncool part of the populace.

I remember wondering at the time how much of a part my beloved step-sister played in all that. When Angela and Heather came onto the scene, we were just starting ninth grade. Naturally, I was not in my prime—Heather, however, was fully bloomed, and instantly moved to the front of the popular crowd line. I wondered at the time if she was helping to urge, accidentally or even overtly, my lack of any kind of consideration by those in the elite social circles.

After my physical transformation, while certain students seemed more willing to talk casually with me, I did not make any kind of definitive push up the school’s social ladder; I was fairly sure that Heather was influencing this, too, but there was little could be done—and so I remained on the social edges well into my senior year, to which point we have come in my narrative.

And like I said, I was happy with that, which is why I harbored Heather no ill will. For one thing, it was still purely speculation on my part at that point, and I was not going to hold something against someone without more concrete fact. Perhaps this was due to my investigative training, perhaps just something innate within me; either way, it amounted to the same. I continued to treat Heather as nicely as I could, given her difficult attitude.

The Friday of this story—two days after Jacquelyn Atkinson fucked me in her familial mansion and three days after I wound up stuffed inside a closet with Caroline Cassidy—began like most the others. First and second period classes, math and English, passed slowly; both teachers were extraordinarily dull, and often times I found myself drifting off in class. Third period was free time for me, spent this day studying a pair of case files Caroline had given me the past afternoon. Fourth period was science, followed by physical education fifth, lunch sixth, more free time seventh, psychology eighth, and history ninth.

The action started ninth period. My history teacher was Mister Edelstein, a real pain-in-the-ass instructor with a bad attitude and a boring, often abrasive style. In short, he was one of my least favorite teachers ever. On this days of days, the guy was giving us a test.

The test went well. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d aced the thing when I raised my hand half-way through the hour to have him collect it. That was how the man operated—you raised your hand for everything, every minor and miniscule thing, even turning in your test.

Mister Edelstein walked over to my side of the room and, in doing so, noticed a small white strip of paper on the floor in the middle of the aisle. I watched him bend to pick up the sheet of paper, watched his face go red, and then watched him return to his desk, taking my test with him. It was a little strange, but did not seem to be much more than that.

Boy, was I wrong.

Once everyone had turned in their tests—he never let anyone leave early, ever—and the stack was neatly placed in front of him, Mister Edelstein turned to my side of the room and said, in a tight voice with an unhappy face, “Miss Jensen, Mister Mickelson, Mister Henderson, Miss Macintosh, Miss Smith, Miss Towne, and Mister Merriman, remain in your seats. We have something to discuss.” He faced the rest of the group and added, “Class dismissed.”


When the rest of the class had departed, the teacher turned again to address our small group of seven students, all of whom were located on the same side of the room, which to say not more than a few feet from where that little piece of white paper had been found—the piece of paper that Edelstein raised for us to see right before he spoke.

“I found this on the floor during the test. Would any of you like to lay claim to it now, before this gets unpleasant?”

I decided a little levity was in order. “If it has any kind of monetary value, Mister Edelstein,” I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s mine.”

A couple of students snickered, but our teacher was not amused. “It does not, Mister Merriman,” he said sharply. “What it is, I am sad to say, is a cheat sheet. It means one of you attempted to cheat on this exam. It means we have a serious problem.”

“Whoa,” said Stevie.

I immediately took an examining look at the rest of the bunch: Tara Jensen and Heidi Towne were cheerleaders, popular “in-crowd” hotties—and friends with Heather—with big tits and great legs, the former a brunette, the latter a blonde, and likely not half a brain between them; Stevie Henderson was a stoner, likely half-baked at present, and a slacker of significant renown; Elizabeth Macintosh was a quiet, bookish sort of girl without much fashion sense—baggy clothes, grandma glasses, no make-up—and no real desire to revel in her femininity, but she was also intelligent, very nice, and one of my better friends at school by virtue of multiple shared classes; Susan Smith was a brunette with big brown eyes and a lovely face, not to mention a varsity volleyball player which assured popularity, but she, too, was very smart and, to my knowledge, a very caring sort of girl; and last but certainly not least—as he himself would certainly argue—there was Adam Mickelson, one of the school’s “smartest” students, the son of a powerful State Senator, and an utter snob.

Mister Edelstein continued. “One of you is the perpetrator of this dishonorable act, that much is obvious; the evidence was found in your vicinity. Therefore, I will keep the seven of you after school, effective immediately, in detention in this room. You will only be allowed out of detention when one of you confesses to ownership of this sheet. If no one confesses, you will all fail the test.”

“Whoa,” repeated Stevie.

Adam was immediately up in arms. “Punish everyone! Mister Edelstein, you can’t do that!”

The man was unmoved. “I can,” he said coldly, “and I will. I will not allow cheating in my classroom.”

The investigator in me reared its head. “Is the sheet handwritten?” I asked. “Writing style may tell us quite a bit.”

“It is typed,” the man replied.

“What color font?”


“How can you be sure it came from one of us? What if someone else dropped it?”

“No one else was in range.”

“Circumstantial,” I said with a shrug. “Even so, you are willing to punish six innocents in your quest for the justice of one? Does that end justify those means?”

Mister Edelstein was very angry now. “This discussion is over, Mister Merriman. There is a cheater among you and that person will be discovered. In thirty minutes, I will return. By then, perhaps, the perpetrator will have come forward.”

And with that, the man left.

“Whoa,” said Stevie, for the third time.

Adam rounded on the group instantly. “Who the fuck cheated?” he cried. “If you fucking cheated, you’d better come clean.”

“Calm down, Adam,” I said. “Let’s talk about this rationally.”

He was unmoved. “No! I will not calm down, especially when it’s obvious who did it.” He pointed a threatening finger at Stevie. “You’re the fuck up here. Edelstein probably knows it’s you already. Just confess and let us go. I have important things to do.”

Stevie spread his hands. “Dude,” he said in his typical stoner drawl, “chill. I didn’t do anything, man.”

“Right,” Adam pressed, “like we’re supposed to believe that.”

“Look,” I interjected, growing tired of Adam’s grandstanding and realizing that something needed to be done, “from where I’m sitting, Adam, you’re equally as likely to be guilty as Stevie. In fact, you’re more likely, since you have more to lose should you get a bad grade. Stevie, come to think of it, is the least likely person to have cheated. What does he care about a bad grade.”

Adam opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. He realized I was right, and that shut him up.

I examined the women, who had yet to raise their voices. Tara and Heidi seemed to be watching intently, although in truth, they could’ve been staring off into space for all I knew. Susan was paying attention, I knew, and looked concerned, but not overly so, while the always shy Elizabeth had her eyes rooted to the desk, which was also not uncommon.

“Anyone have any ideas about how we settle this?” I asked. Tara raised her hand. “I’m not a teacher, Tara. You can just tell us what you think.”

Tara lowered her hand. “We have cheer practice in, like, twenty minutes, so we need to speed this up.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think you people understand something here. Mister Edelstein is a petty, mean-spirited teacher. He’ll keep us here as long as he wants, and will definitely follow through on his pledge to fail everyone if no one comes forward.”

No one spoke for a long moment, and when someone did finally speak, the speaker and subject were very surprising.

“Were you at our football game against West Mountain?” Heidi asked, looking at me with a weird sort of look on her face. It was the same look Heather had been giving me for days, and suddenly things began to click into place.

“When was that?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

“Like, I don’t know, like, a week ago?”

I pretended to think. “Yes, I was.”

“What the fuck are we talking about?” Adam cried. “How is any of this important?”

Tara got in on the action. “Did you meet . . . I mean, like, did you see . . . do you know anyone from West Mountain?” she asked.

I figure the following happened: after our night together Courtney told her friends about it, those friends told other friends, and soon the whole West Mountain cheer squad knew we’d hooked up. Cheerleaders are usually popular and have friends from other schools who are also cheerleaders, and so the story spread until it reached the girls from Rembrandt. I knew, however, that no one knew my last name; Courtney and I had not given them to each other. But there were only a few Benjamins to choose from, so it could not have been too hard for the cheerleaders at school to narrow their list.

I shrugged. “A few people,” I admitted.

Heidi and Tara were leaning forward, as if this was the most interesting thing they could think of hearing—no doubt, if able to confirm the rumor, the whole detention experience would be considered worthwhile in their eyes.

Heidi asked, “Any cheerleaders?”

“A few,” I repeated.

Right on the heels of that, Tara asked, “Do you know a girl named Courtney? Courtney Daly?”

So that was her last name. “We’re friends,” I told them, and that was as far as we got before being interrupted. Really, though, it was all they needed if they had half a brain between them—which, as I said, was not likely.

“Excuse me!” Adam’s voice was shrill, much like an angry mouse might sound if it knew how to speak. “I don’t care about whatever the fuck you idiots are talking about. Can we figure out what the fuck we are going to do?”

“I never knew how foul your mouth was, Adam,” I said casually. “You’ve always seemed so controlled. Might be tough on a young politico to go places and accomplish things if he’s constantly peppering his discourse with the word fuck.”

It might not have sounded like much, but it hit him harder than if I’d used my fist. Luckily, he did not have to respond, for at that moment there was a knock on the door.

Knocking meant that someone other than Mister Edelstein desired to speak with us—the teacher himself wouldn’t knock to his own classroom, and in any case the thirty minutes were not up yet. I had a pretty good idea who our mystery visitor was, however, and when Principal Cross entered with a soothing smile upon her face, my guess was proven correct.

“Hello, students,” the woman said.

Addison Cross was not your average, every-day educator. She was young and attractive in a sexy librarian kind of way: brunette hair tied up in a bun, sharp, conservative clothes with just a hint of playfulness beneath. There were plenty of on-going jokes among the male populace regarding how hot the woman was, not to mention what she’d be like in the sack. Personally, I’d always figured her as the type to know about each and every story out there, and revel in them.

“How are we doing?” she asked as she moved to the front of the room.

Surprisingly, it was Susan who answered with a tiny little laugh, saying with plain amusement, “It’s been a very interesting discussion so far.” Yes, I thought, the girl was a smart one.

Principal Cross leaned back against the desk in the front of the room, and said, “Mister Edelstein has communicated the situation to me. It’s unfortunate that someone went to such great lengths to create a cheat-sheet, when that time could have more effectively been used to actually study. It’s also unfortunate that this incident occurred ninth period, which allowed for the decision to keep the seven of you after. I am fully aware most of you are faultless. However, I must back my teacher for the time being and leave you here to try and resolve this issue.” She studied the room before her eyes fell, surprisingly, on me. “I’m sure you can figure out what to do.”

And then she rose, nodded her head, gave another compassionate smile, and left. Which left me to wonder exactly why that last comment had been directed at me.

“What do we do now, dudes?” asked Stevie.

“Wait for you to confess, moron,” Adam sneered.

And then it hit me. “I’ll confess,” I said, and Adam turned slowly to face me.


“I’ll tell Edelstein I did it.”


The word had not come from Adam, but rather from Elizabeth Macintosh, who had been very quiet up until this point. She was staring at me with wide eyes before she realized what she was doing and lowered her gaze again as she said, “Um, you’re a smart guy, Ben. You wouldn’t need to cheat. Why would you tell them you did?”

I smiled at her. “For exactly that reason. I will confess to appease Mister Edelstein, but make it painfully clear to Principal Cross that I find this whole thing ridiculous. Also, that I am innocent. If they still want to punish me, knowing I am innocent, well . . .”

“You would do that?” the girl asked, and this time her eyes were raised and locked on mine.

“Of course, he would!” Adam exclaimed loudly. He jumped all over the opportunity to be exonerated and be done with the whole thing, even if it meant sending another man in as a sacrifice. “It’s a great idea!”

Tara and Heidi just continued to stare at me with confused expressions. It was obvious they still had not wrapped their heads around the fact that it was, in fact, me whom Courtney had been talking about. Fleetingly, I wondered what the ramifications of such information getting out about me were going to be.

It was shortly thereafter that Mister Edelstein returned. His face was grim. “What have you accomplished?” he asked coldly.

I raised my hand. “I would like to speak with the Principal, sir. I have something I would like to tell her.”

Mister Edelstein stared at me. “You are going to confess?”

“I will only speak with the Principal, sir. You might as well let the others go.”

“I want a confession now, Mister Merriman.”

I kept my tone civil, but firm. “You won’t get it, Mister Edelstein, and you’ll have fourteen angry parents breathing fire down your neck by dinner. I will speak to the Principal, or not at all.”

The stare continued, but I did not back down. I stared right back, dead in the eye, and won. “Very well,” he said at last. “The rest of you may go.”

Which is how I found myself in the head office, sitting in the chair opposite Principal Cross while Mister Edelstein waited outside. She was looking at me, curiosity etched on her face, and then she said, “I am surprised, Benjamin. I would not have expected someone to come forward. Nor would I have expected that someone to be you. In fact, as you might have noticed when I visited the classroom, you were the one I expected to come up with some sort of positive solution.”

I shrugged. “I have, Miss Cross,” I told her. “I’ve not confessed—not yet, at least—so as of right now, I’ve done nothing wrong, except perhaps in the eyes of Edelstein. I am prepared to take the heat on this, however, but there are three things you should know first.”

A slender eyebrow arched inquisitively. “I’m listening,” she told me.

“First, Edelstein only required someone to confess to ownership of the cheat sheet, not to its use. I am prepared to confess to the ownership of it, as he wishes. Second, you should know it was not actually mine to begin with, nor did I cheat in any way on the test. Also, I don’t think any of the others did, either.”

She frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

I shrugged again. “I know who actually did create the sheet; I figured it out when we were all talking. I don’t think this person used it during the test, nor deserves to be punished. This is not a person I think has it within them to cheat. I guess I could be wrong, but I’m not.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “And the third thing?”

“That the method used by Edelstein is ridiculous.”

She was with me until that point; it’s not like students can go around speaking ill of teachers, even behind closed doors. She was about to raise an objection, about to say exactly that and admonish me for it in her own easy way, but I continued too quickly—I knew I needed to finish before she spoke again.

“Punishing innocents for the crimes of one,” I added, “which he would’ve done and is within his authority, I guess—something you might want to reexamine, by the way—is a poor way to seek justice. Therefore, I decided the best course was to speak with you directly, so that you may deem what course is suitable—and know the truth, which is that I’m doing this to protest his actions, and to protect the other students in that classroom, whether they realize it or not.”

It was quite the speech. I was amazed at how level and logical it sounded.

She was silent a long moment, her brown eyes still thoughtful as they studied me. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, which I realized just then were clearly quite large. She was, truly, a very beautiful woman.

Finally, she said, “You’ve put me in a difficult position, Ben.” I opened my mouth, but she held up a hand and I stopped. “I know, I know: that was your intention all along. You believe your innocence and sound reasoning will protect you.” She sighed. “You’re right, of course. Very impetuous and very presumptuous, but right.”

I grinned. “I figured you’d say that.”

“You’re a smart boy, Ben. Your classmates are lucky to have you on their side. I’ll take your word for it—no small thing, mind you—that the person you think wrote the sheet will not do it again, although I would like you to get back to me if you learn more. All this does not, however, answer the question of what I should do with Mister Edelstein. He is out for blood.” My grin widened, and she added, “Let me guess: you have a suggestion.”

“Actually, I do,” I told her. “Suspend me for a day. Tell Edelstein I confessed to ownership, but you’re satisfied I did not actually use it. Tell him he is barred from speaking of it, that the suspension will serve as punishment enough, and you will report back to my parents about it. Do not put the suspension on my record.”

She considered for a long moment. “You’ve thought this out, haven’t you? Given those conditions, the suspension would amount to a day-off from school.”

I grinned again. “Consider it my reward for chivalrous behavior.”

She chuckled, finally, and I knew my plan had succeeded. “I might have to keep an eye on you, Benjamin,” she said. “I had no idea you were so . . .”

“Intelligent? Brilliant? Charming?”

It was her turn to grin. “I was going to go with cunning, but those work, too.”

And that was how my visit with the Principal went, which was as good as I could have expected.

* * *

There was someone waiting for me when I left the Principal’s office. She was sitting just outside the administration building, on a stone bench overlooking a grass quad, eyes rooted to the ground in front of her, and she was alone. School was long since over.

I walked over and sat down next to her before she even knew I was there. She jumped, startled, and when she saw it was me, her eyes widened even more. She was waiting for me, but she was obviously nervous about it, and so I took it upon myself to jump-start the conversation.

“Why’d you do it?” I asked softly, looking at her.

Elizabeth raised her face and met my gaze. We were good friends, her and I, though in a casual kind of way, much in the way two people on the social fringe might share a common bond and find friendship. We shared, as I said, several classes together. She’d never had a problem speaking to me in private; it was speaking in any kind of public setting that terrified the poor girl.

But there was strength in her, I’d always thought, if only she could see it.

Her eyes were wide and brown behind her glasses. Not for the first time, I wondered what she would look like if she took even the smallest pains to make herself look presentably feminine. Her eyebrows were a too thick, her hair not that well taken care of, her skin shiny, etcetera, but she was kind and warm to those who knew her well, a good person, and very smart.

Which is why it had come as a shock when I reasoned out that she was the guilty party, and why I really wanted to know what had prompted the desperate measure—although, in truth, I had my assumptions.

“I . . . I didn’t . . .” She was having a difficult time of it and her eyes dropped to the ground again.

I reached out and took hold of her chin, and lifted her head. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “your secret is safe with me.”

And then something unexpected happened: Elizabeth Macintosh flared to life.

“I didn’t cheat!” she cried. “I made it, yes, but not to cheat! I’ve always made little cheat sheets to help me study, and I keep them in my pocket for good luck! I’ve been doing it since eighth grade! I never looked at it, not once!”

I smiled. “Good to know. I had wondered why.”

She looked at me then, curiously. “If you knew it was me, why didn’t you say anything? Why did you turn yourself in?”

“It seemed the right thing to do,” I told her with a shrug. “I knew Cross would see it my way once I talked to her, and Mister Edelstein has no right to act that way, and once I figured out it was you, I knew there had to be a good explanation for it. I’m just glad you didn’t say anything.”

She whispered, “I was so scared.”

“I know, it was one reason I figured you out.”

She looked at me for a long moment, blushed, smiled, then lowered her eyes again. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what it means to me. I’ll find a way to make it up to you, I promise.”

I shrugged again. I found myself shrugging a lot these days. “No worries,” I told her. “We’re friends, and friends look out for each other.”

Surprisingly, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. This was surprising on many levels: one, she’d rarely shown an affinity for affection; two, she was extremely shy and the hug she gave was anything but; and three, she sighed girlishly as she did so, and Elizabeth very rarely acted girly. I did not mind, however, and hugged her back.

And with that, the school day ended.

* * *

There was a staff meeting scheduled at Discretion for five o’clock, so it was a good thing the whole Edelstein mess cleared itself up with relative speed. The damn thing could have taken hours had we not come up with an agreeable solution.

“First order of business,” my father said as Beau, Caroline, and I settled into our seats in the main conference room, “is an update on Veronica. As you all know, she is working the Christy Tyler case in Arizona. Christy is being blackmailed by unknown subjects; Veronica is out there running down leads. One of those leads back to a Los Angeles strip club, the Red Velvet.”

Beau whistled. “That place has ties to the Mora crime family,” he said.

“True,” Frank agreed, “though Veronica has reason to believe Giovanni Mora is not involved and has no knowledge of the scheme. I would have to agree. Giovanni is under significant heat from the feds right now; I doubt a blackmail scheme by an underling would be approved. Blackmail’s never been one of Mora’s things to begin with, much less the blackmail of a Hollywood starlet.”

Caroline asked, “You think someone within the organization is acting alone?”

My father shrugged. “Veronica seems to think so. At least, she thinks a Mora man is acting as brawn to someone else’s brain. The blackmail evidence is a series of pictures with Tyler . . . well, let’s just say she’s cozying up to another scantily-clad female at an A-list house party in the Hollywood Hills. A Mora man could not have been in position to take such photographs.”

“There have been rumors of her bisexuality for some time,” Caroline said thoughtfully.

“Exactly. Our client does NOT want those pictures circulated, nor does she want to have to pay two million dollars to retrieve them.”

I have to admit, working with my father’s firm was the most exciting thing I could possibly imagine: gorgeous movie stars, crime families, blackmail. Every day brought something new.

“What’s the plan, Hefe?” Beau asked.

“Two-fold,” my father replied. “First, we speak with Giovanni Mora.”

Beau whistled again as Caroline asked, sharply, “Why?”

My father grinned. “He needs to know what his people are doing. He does not want additional heat from the feds brought down upon him. Mora himself is a source of information, and an easy way to ensure the photos never surface.”

“And second?” I asked, getting in on the talk.

“We gather information on-site,” he replied.

“How exciting,” Caroline muttered unhappily.

“We’re still a ways away from need for that course of action, my dear,” my father said with a smile. “Let’s move on, then, shall we? Status reports. Beau?”

Beau flipped open his folder and looked at some notes. “Waiting on payment from the attorney with the adulterous wife. I testify next week on the rape case from last year. Current case load includes work for Saul Fishman, a convict who says he’s innocent, and Terry Ventura, the jeweler, who had some merchandise high-jacked in transit. Cases progressing.”


“Closed the file on the delinquent father last week. Closed the file on the stolen briefcase, too, the one with the scrawny yuppie businessman and his lost three thousand cash. He misplaced the damn thing; took me all of twenty four hours to figure it out and find it. Awaiting final payment there. Current case load includes new work for Timothy Stone, the senator whose daughter went missing two days ago from UCLA. Also, Watkins wants me to info gather an underground gambling ring in Chinatown. It might be worth more than the usual fee.”

Jack Watkins was one of the higher-ups at the Los Angeles Times. Like I said, Caroline often did some work for the paper on what were considered tougher assignments.

My father nodded. “Good. What about Ben?”

Caroline glanced at me. “He is . . . doing well.”

Considering the source, it might have been one of the best compliments I’d ever received. Caroline was not one to compliment, much less a grunt like me. I was thrilled, and by the wide smile on his face, so was my father. “Excellent. Ben, anything to add?”

I looked around, not really knowing what to say, and decided after a moment to just follow the lead. “Jacquelyn Atkinson wants us at the wedding. We’ve already got pictures of her fiancé with another woman, but Atkinson wants us there to document any improper action before, during, or after the ceremony.”

My father nodded again. “Ok, keep me posted as things continue to develop. All right then, people, let’s get back to work.”

* * *

I had not planned to go out. It was Friday night, but the high school football team was on the road some two hours away, the Atkinson wedding was the next day, there was no party I was keen to attend, and there was no girl I was planning to see. It was to be mellow sort of evening.

Was to be, I said.

When the phone rang, I considered letting it go through to voicemail. I did not recognize the number and figured, therefore, that no good could come of it. I was wrong, of course, which was known to happen from time-to-time; the voice on the other end of the line was girlish and familiar, and somewhat anxious.

“Hi, Ben!”

“Hi, Courtney,” I replied. Amazingly, it’d been only a week since our carnal encounter. So much had happened since then. She was fun, though, and it was good to hear from her, so I said so. “I’m glad you called. What’s up?”

Her voice dropped low. “I want to see you again,” she said conspiratorially.

I grinned. “Why are you whispering?”

“My dad’s in the other room. I don’t want him to hear me. I want to see you again.”

Two soft, round ass cheeks popped into my mind. Yes, I thought to myself, I could definitely go for some Courtney Daly again. “Let’s do it. When?”

“Tonight,” she said breathlessly, relief in her voice, “after the football game.”

And the devil in me reared its head yet again. “No, during the football game.”

“During the game?” She was suddenly very, very nervous.

“Come to the parking lot at half-time, after your routine.” I got hard just thinking about it.

There was a long moment of silence, and then she said, softly, breathlessly, “Ok.”

There was an important call I needed to make as soon as Courtney hung up. I dialed the cell phone number, hoping he was available, praying he had nothing better to do. “Hello?” the man asked as he picked up, and I thanked the heavens above.

“I need your van,” I said hastily.

“What?” Beau asked, a little confused.

“Important stuff to do tonight,” I told him. “I need your van.”

“My van?”

“Your van.”

“What will I drive? I can’t use the Harley, engine’s busted.”

“We’ll trade for the night.”

“The Range?”

“The Range.”

The man thought for a moment. “What do you need it for? Would you dad approve?”

“Can’t tell you,” I said, “and probably not.”

I heard a chuckle. “You got yourself a deal.”

Which is how I found myself pulling into the football field parking lot of West Mountain School right around eight o’clock that night, and parking the car in as isolated but visible a spot as I could find.

The roar of the crowd let me know the game was still progressing through the first half of play. Sometime later, whistles rang out and speakers blared to life, pumping some kind of hip-hop dance mix. It was my guess (correct) that the cheerleaders were performing, which meant it was only a few minutes before Courtney showed up.

And then she did.

She was wearing the same outfit she had been when we met, that insanely sexy high school cheerleader outfit: tight white sweater with the letters “WMHS” emblazoned in red on the front and an ultra-short pleated mini-skirt, white with red trim. Her tummy was bare, as were her legs, all the way down to her tiny white socks and sneakers. Her brown hair was done up in a ponytail. Her skin was flushed and a thin layer of perspiration shimmered in the light.

It was insanely hot to witness her in all her cheerleader glory.

She walked briskly up to me and began to speak, but “I only have a few minutes before—” was as far as she got. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to me, and without a word pressed my lips against hers. She stiffened, surprised, but instantly melted into me, her soft lips parting to allow my tongue to slip into her mouth. She was an excellent kisser, I had to admit; I could get lost kissing her for hours. But on this night, I had other plans.

“Get in,” I ordered.

She was confused. “What do you mean?”

“The van,” I told her. “Get in.”

Courtney stared at the thing for a long moment. Then she grinned, and leaned in to flick her tongue out just across my lips.

I was grinning myself as she accepted my hand and gracefully climbed through the door into the back section of the van. I had to hand it to Beau; he did keep the place clean and versatile. Currently, there was nothing in the back except a couple of plastic storage crates and the blankets and pillows I had brought along.

I followed her and seated myself on one of those crates, and pulled her to me again. We had very little time, minutes at best; it was going to be a quick, hard, nasty fuck. And by the start of the fourth quarter, I assumed, all her friends would know about it.

She straddled me and threw her arms around my neck, and her sweet uniform-clad body pressed against mine. My hands went to her hips, helping to hold her in place as my tongue trailed up her slender neck. I could taste the salt of her sweat from the game as I traced the line of her jaw, all the way back to nibble at her ear. She moaned and yanked my head back, smashing her lips onto mine, shoving her tongue into my mouth.

My hands roamed over her and she took the hint; up went her hands, straight above her head as I peeled off the tight sweater-top and unhooked her bra to liberate her fantastic breasts. They were handful-sized mounds of delightfulness, and instantly my mouth closed over the left crest, savoring once more that salty taste. She shrieked and her fingers clawed at my head and hair as my tongue danced rings over the shriveled nipple. The other nipple was not far behind; I switched to the right, then back to the left, then back to the right.

After several seconds of suckling, it was Courtney’s turn. My shirt was off in no time and the girl was licking down my chest, her tongue fluttering across my skin. My jeans and underwear followed as I lifted my ass to allow her to undress the rest of me, which left my fully naked body completely exposed to her. She still wore her cheerleading skirt, socks, and shoes.

I watched as her eyes took in the sight of my swollen cock for the second time, and nearly exploded from the anticipation as she languorously lowered her head. Her sweet lips parted and the mushroom crown slipped into her warm, wet mouth, and all was right with the world.

She cupped my balls in the palm of her hands, teasing them even as she was teasing me with her mouth. Of course, there was not enough time for teasing, so I placed my own hand on the back of her neck and guided her further down my shaft. Her tongue fluttered as she descended.

It was an incredible sight: imagine a beautiful, half-naked cheerleader in your lap, eyes closed with her lips wrapped around your cock. The sight alone nearly did me in.

My fingers took hold of her ponytail as she pulled back and dropped lower, lapping at my testicles with the flat of her tongue. I moaned, which made her smile, and also made her decide to spend some additional time down there as she licked my balls repeatedly with long, soft strokes. She took one into her mouth and suckled it, then grinned as it plopped out.

“My turn to get naked,” she said with a playful grin.

Courtney rose to her knees and tucked her fingers into the waistband of her skirt, not to mention the white spandex underwear beneath, and slowly swiveled around. She bent forward and ever-so-slowly started to slide those garments down over her wondrous ass.

I do not think it was possible to stare any harder than I was as the top of her crack came into view, and my eyes did not leave their target as the shorts and skirt dropped around her ankles. There, beguilingly displayed for me yet again, was her gorgeous pink pussy and sweet little rosebud of an asshole.

The look was not a long one, however. She turned back to me, grinning, and moved forward – breasts jiggling as she came – then straddled me again and cried, “Fuck me now!”

And you can guess what happened next.

Courtney’s fingers wrapped around my rigid cock, holding it straight and steady as she lowered herself onto it, and the mushroom head parted her rubbery pink lips and surged deeper as she impaled herself completely. She was tight, very tight, and burning hot, and she began to grind her hips, forcing my meat deeper and deeper inside her hole.

I kissed her again, our tongues dueling as her sweaty tits rubbed up and down my chest as she rose and fell, and my hands took hold of the fleshy but firm cheeks of her ass, pulling her even closer against me. My hands were like wild animals as they rambled over her flesh, and swiftly made their way into the crack.

And yet they could not stop there. Even as Courtney gyrated her pelvis in my lap, grinding her pussy down onto my cock, her breasts like paintbrushes coating my torso with her sweat, my hands wanted more.

Which is why they grazed lightly over her little back door hole, and why Courtney moaned loudly and pushed her tongue even deeper into my mouth at the new sensation. Encouraged, my right pointer finger pressed harder, taking up residence right there on the wrinkled skin of her anal opening, and began to massage little circles against it.

She was very close to orgasm, I knew, as the grinding increased. She pulled away and buried her face in the side of my neck, and emitted a series of low whimpers. Her hot breath tickled my skin.

“Do it,” she whispered, and I knew exactly what she meant.

I plunged my finger into the beautiful cheerleader’s ass and held on for dear life as she exploded from the pleasure. Juice poured over my cock, so much it trickled down the shaft and onto the crate. She rose to the highest heights for long moments before returning to earth.

And then she did another incredible thing, just another mark in the favor of this delectable girl of limited inhibitions. Before her orgasm ended, before I even knew myself what was happening, Courtney had taken charge, pushing me off the crate and flat onto the ground. She straddled my face and sank her slick pussy down over my mouth in the classic “sixty-nine” position.

Immediately my tongue extended, eagerly looking to taste the sweetness of her nectar, and I was not disappointed; her ass tilted forward to allow more room, and I assailed her delicious pussy with gusto. Meanwhile, and once again, my juice-covered cock found its way into her mouth; Courtney licked up and down, up and down, gently suckling the head before swallowing nearly the entire length down her throat.

But as sweet as her pussy tasted, I had some other nasty ideas and time was running short. Her puckered little anus looked so sweet and tender, I decided to switch up my tactics. I tilted my own head this time and my tongue touched down tentatively on the rim of her anal opening, and the moan I received for my efforts was twice as strong as her others had been.

“Lick my ass!” she cried, and I was more than happy to oblige.

My tongue swiped lazily across the wrinkled, pink skin. I spread the toned cheeks with my hands and stabbed my tongue into her hole, and my cock dropped from her mouth as she wailed and moaned, and pushed her ass back into my face. The girl absolutely loved me licking her ass!

Somewhere nearby, we could hear the music of the halftime period change, which meant we were now running very much out of time; a couple of minutes left at most. Courtney groaned and cursed, and pulled away, allowing my tongue to slide from its place in her ass.

She dropped forward to her hands and knees and I wasted no time scooting and rising to position behind her, and with one hard thrust my cock was back into her oven-hot cunt, embedded to the hilt. My strokes were hard and fast now; my thighs slapped up against the cheeks of her ass, and my hands held onto her hips for dear life.

“Wait!” she panted, very much out of breath. “Stop!”

Which is why I immediately pulled my cock out of her, because above all things I respect the wishes of the women I am with. I wondered if something was wrong; it was not, I surmised, when she glanced back over her shoulder with a naughty, wickedly nasty grin on her face.

“On your back,” she ordered breathlessly, and instantly I complied.

Courtney hovered over me, grinning devilishly, looking down at my naked body and the rock hard cock between my legs. Then she dropped low and slithered up my body, her tongue drawing a line of fire from my navel to my lips, where she finished with an immensely intense kiss. My cock was right next to her pussy and I wiggled my hips in vain to get it inside.

“No, no, bad boy,” she said with a grin. “Wrong hole.” Here we go again, I thought to myself as she shifted her body forward and guided my stiff cock right to the opening of her ass. Her grin widened. “This one, please.”

Courtney closed her eyes and bit her lip as she reversed direction, pushing herself back onto seven inches of waiting meat. She relaxed, and the head of my cock popped past her anal ring, and she moaned louder and louder with every inch of depth. Then she leaned back fully, putting her hands on the floor of the van behind her.

“So nice,” she half-whispered, half-groaned, eyes still closed as she wiggled her hips to get every last bit of my cock into her greedy hole.

It was another one of those sights you could never forget: hot cheerleader, uniform discarded but for socks and shoes, sitting on my lap with my dick in her butt, glistening pussy lips swollen and twitching, body and hair a sweaty mess, eyes closed in euphoria as she rocked back and forth.

I could not help it: I began to hump my hips up into her. Courtney responded by clenching her ass down hard on my shaft, which very nearly snapped it in two. In the most pleasurable way imaginable, of course.

“Fuck my ass, Ben! Fuck me harder!” she screamed, and I prayed there was no one in the parking lot close enough to hear her.

She threw her head back, feet and hands firmly rooted to the floor, and began to really go to town on my cock, bouncing up and down, up and down, harder and harder with each passing moment. I watched, amazed, as her bowels sucked up my cock, only to spit it back out again an instant later. How her tight ass could handle such a load was simply amazing.

Then she brought one finger to her clitoris, and that simple little touch sent her over the edge. Her body tightened and her bounces became tight little thrusts as she spasmed with the force of her orgasm, whimpering all the while about how good it was; she mentioned god several times.

It was the end for me, too, when I felt her ass clench with orgasm around my cock again. My dam burst and wave after wave of hot white cum spewed up into her depths, unloading the full contents into her ass.

She sprawled forward onto me, the sticky sweat feeling of our togetherness very much noticed as my softening cock plopped out of her ass. “Wonderful,” she breathed into my ear, not moving.

“Indeed,” I said.

The music from the stadium ended and Courtney immediately perked up.

“Shit!” she squeaked, and scrambled to find her clothes on the floor. “I have to go. Call me, ok?”

She sounded serious, which was a plus in my book; I would definitely call her, even just to hang out together without sex. She dressed quickly and, after another searing kiss, was gone and back to cheering for her team, which meant it was time to return the van to Beau.

Who, of course, had no idea what it was used for.

* * *

Caroline gets home late, just before midnight to be exact.

The day has been several hours of work on the Melissa Stone case, which she is not feeling good about. The college student and daughter of Senator Timothy Stone had gone missing two days earlier. The police had no leads. Background work and police interviews produced very little. She is going to have to think outside the box.

She shoves away all thoughts of work as she heads through the apartment and back to her room. She has two roommates, both of whom are likely asleep.

The room of Caroline Cassidy is simple, unlike the room of a typical female. She spends little time there, which explains its scanty decor. There is a large four-post bed, a nightstand, a chest of drawers, and a computer desk and chair. The walls were blue and the bed covers white. It is clean, and little else can be said of it.

Caroline drops her bag and keys and strips off her clothes without pause; she’s been in them for close to eighteen hours. She moves into the bathroom, a trail of discarded garments in her wake.

She catches sight of her naked form in the full-length mirror on the bathroom wall, and stops to appraise herself. She is quite fond of her appearance, there is no denying that, even if it means she has to deal with idiot men hitting on her or trying to smooth-talk her on a constant basis. Unlike other beautiful women, she likes the root, but not the resulting attention.

Her breasts are round and firm, and real; this a main reason why guys of all leagues approach her, to stare up close at her tits. The rest of her body is lithe and lean – she was an athlete in high school – with a hard stomach and a golden tan.

Her own personal hygiene is very important; she brushes her teeth three times a day, showers more than necessary, and goes to pains (sometimes literally) to keep herself neatly groomed, and in some places waxed. In fact, she thinks as she studies it, the blonde swath of tiny curls set just above the hairless pink area below it could use a trim. She turns to the side and her palms cup her buttocks, and hefts them; her bottom is as firm and tight as it was when she was eighteen.

She opens the glass door to the shower and twists the shower head to hot. The nozzle gurgles and sprays a cool stream across the tiled walls, and soon steam rises from the liquid as it cuts through the air.

They were driving together, somewhere

They were in the car, and it was raining hard.

“Can you see all right?” he asked.

“Sure. I’m fine,” she said.

She liked driving. And she liked the rain. The sound was soothing. So was sitting near him. She probably wouldn’t have enjoyed driving in pouring rain on the highway, but slowly weaving her way through back country roads — she liked it.

“So, how’s the writer’s block going?” he said.

She smiled.

“Still blocked. I’m setting a record by now. I haven’t been able to write in months,” she said.

“But why?” he said.

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m generally blocked. If you know what I mean?” she said.

“I understand. But still, why?” he said.

She eased into a right turn, and cranked the windshield wipers up a notch.

“I don’t know. I mean, it isn’t like the words, or the feelings, aren’t there. They are. Almost too many,” she said.

“Like I maybe have too going on. My insides are too frantic. I need a way to center, and I’m sure there would be some kind of general explosion,” she said.

“Can you get some quiet time by yourself?” he said.

“I can try. Now I almost feel afraid of what will happen,” she said, laughing a little.

“Well, the longer you wait, the worse it is going to be,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

She was wearing a really plunging neckline. It was difficult for him to maintain his gentlemanly eye contact. But he knew she did it on purpose. Which made it even more important for him to not look.

“I’m worried something might happen in the meantime and I’ll lost control and do something stupid. I’m sort of on edge,” she said.

“If it’s been months, I can see why. What do you mean, do something stupid?” he said.

She thought about it.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should be quiet now,” she said.

“Come on. You can tell me anything,” he said.

“I know,” she said. Paused to think.

“This is almost hard for me to think about. Let alone say,” she said.

“Spill it,” he said.

“Well, the other night, you remember I told you I was talking to that other guy?” she said.

That other guy was someone they both knew through work. She flirted with him a lot. And he did not keep his eyes in gentlemanly places when he was around her.

“Yes. Did you do something with him?” he said.

“Well, no, but…” she said.

“But?” he said. He was surprised to feel a small surge of what he recognized as jealousy, then dismissed it as ridiculous. Still, it nagged him a bit.

“You know how he looks at me,” she said.

“I do,” he said. And he did. He’d seen it himself. Found it amusing in a way, that other guy’s utter lack of self-discipline around her.

“Well, you know I don’t necessarily mind guys looking at my chest. Or down my shirt. Depending on the guy,” she said.

“I’m aware. Especially when you wear shirts like that. You can’t blame them,” he said.

She laughed.

“I thought you didn’t notice. I’m touched,” she said.

“I notice. I’m human. I’m just not quite as obvious as that other guy,” he said.

She let herself smile at that for a minute.

“So, anyway, this night for some reason, it was more than ever. Maybe I’m giving off some vibe that…I don’t know. You know…,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“That I need….something,” she said. She was blushing now.

“I see,” he said.

“So we were in this office, alone, talking. And he was standing over me, taller than me. I felt small. Sort of powerless. But in a good way,” she said.

“I get it,” he said.

“And we were talking about some stupid shit he was all fired up about, and I would look him in the eye, but every, single, time, I turned my head, I could feel him looking down my shirt,” she said.

“What were you wearing?” he said.

“That’s the thing, I was like a sweater…maybe a little clingy, but…, nothing like today,” she said.

“Maybe a little clingy. Yeah yeah,” he said.

“I mean, when you sort of have boobs the size of mine, it stands to reason that something is going to be a little clingy,” she said.

“I’ve noticed,” he said.

She turned to look at him now.

“Look at you! Being all open and sharing,” she said.

“If you keep pointing it out, I’m going to have to realize it and stop,” he said, smiling.

She laughed.

“So anyway, I’ve always had this sort of ebbing and flowing tension with that other guy. But this tension was ridiculous. It was so tense, so crackling in that room,” she said.

“It was almost like he could barely wait for me to look away so he could look at my chest again. All he while, we are talking about nonsense, but I can feel his eyes on me. And he had to know I knew he was doing it,” she said.

“But it was seriously like he couldn’t control it. And the stare was so hard. I could almost feel it, feel his eyes touching me, pouring over me, over my body,” she said.

“And here’s where I should probably stop talking,” she said.

“You can’t stop now,” he said. He found he was hanging on every word, in a way. A way he couldn’t describe.

“Well,” she said, blushing again.

“I knew, somehow, maybe it was this tension, that he was trying to find my nipples, the outline of them, under my sweater,” she said.

“No doubt,” he said.

“Why am I telling you this?” she said.

“Because I told you to,” he said.

“Keep going,” he said.

“We’re almost there,” she said, with relief.

“Pull in here. I’ll walk from here,” he said, directing her to a parking lot that was mostly vacant.

“It’s raining,” she protested.

“I won’t melt. Easier for you. Plus you need to finish your story,” he said.

“Ugh,” she said.

She stopped the car, the rain still pounding.

“Now I have to look at you when I’m saying it though,” she said.

“No you don’t,” he said.

“Ok,” she said, leaning her head against her seat and pulling a leg under her. She was wearing a skirt.

She looked nice in skirts, he thought.

“So I knew he was looking for the outline of my nipples, and I thought to myself, stop thinking that right now, but once I realized, I couldn’t get it out of my mind, so I tried to look into his eyes, but then I thought he might see…,” she said.

“See what? That you were getting turned on?” he said.

She closed her eyes.

“Don’t say it. Yes. Exactly,” she said.

“I’m really bad with that, it is really, really obvious when I’m turned on in my eyes. I’ve literally had guys have to walk away from me in a public place because the look in my eyes was driving them too crazy,” she said.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, laughing a little.

“No lie! Don’t make me show you,” she said, smiling.

“Ok, ok, I believe you,” he said.

“I can control it a little, but not when it gets as bad as it was with that other guy in this moment I’m describing,” she said.

“So I’m getting so flustered and turned on and my choices are to look into his eyes and have him see it or look away and feel his eyes crawling all over me, over my shirt, down my shirt, and I’m thinking about what he’s straining to see, and then what do you think happens?” she said.

“What?” he said.

“What would be a bad thing to happen at that moment, being turned on and him trying to find my nipples under my clingy sweater?” she said.

It sank in finally and he started to get a little uncomfortable, in a good way, himself.

“Your nipples got hard?” he said.

She blushed again.

“Yes, and I could feel it, and then it was really bad. There was no way he didn’t see it,” she said.

“And then I started thinking what if I just said, ‘This is ridiculous….’ and just pulled my sweater over my head, and said ‘is this what you wanted to see?’” she said.

“Wow. That would have made things interesting,” he said, trying not to picture it himself, her, turned on, probably trembling, pulling her sweater off, her hard nipples poking through the bra she was probably spilling out of.

“And then I knew it was time to go. Because if I didn’t leave at that moment, I knew I was going to give some sort of hint, some sort of invitation, some sort of yielding to him. I knew all I had to do was look into his eyes and he’d be seeing only one message in them,” she said.

“Which would be?” he said.

She looked at him.

“You can’t figure it out?” she said.

“I can guess. I just wanted to hear what you were thinking,” he said.

“I knew that all my eyes would be saying was ‘Yes, do it. Just do it already. Throw me on this desk. Pull me down on the floor. Push my back against the wall. However you want it. Just fuck me already,’” she said, slowly and quietly.

It was quiet for a moment.

“Wow. That would have been a hard invitation to turn down, I’d guess,” he said.

“And he wouldn’t have. And it would have been rough and unrefined and probably the farthest thing from some Casanova type passionate moment, but…” she said.

“But….that’s exactly what you wanted. What you needed, right?” he said.

She leaned her head on the seat of the car and turned to him.

“Yes. Right. You understand,” she said.

“It was that naked hunger that was turning me on. That uncontrollable need that he was putting off. I can relate to it, it found the same in me,” she said.

He looked into her eyes.

“So what did you do?” he said.

“I ran,” she said, turning to look out the windshield again.

“I won’t say like a coward, because it was the right thing to do. And it was a hard thing to do. But I made a quick escape,” she said.

“Right. But couldn’t you have used that inspiration to….,” he asked.

“I suppose I could have. But like I said, it was almost too much. I’ve just been putting these feelings away, and it is only when something stirs me that they call come pounding to the surface,” she said.

“I’ve gotten good at that whole repression thing thanks to you,” she said, turning to him and smiling again.

He could have used some repression skills himself at the moment.

“You’re not entirely repressing,” he said.

Their brown eyes were locked together.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I can see it in your eyes,” he said, smiling. And he could, faint clouds of something gathering in her eyes, like a sudden storm over the ocean.

She was startled, and covered her eyes with her hands.

“Damnit!” she said, laughing.

He pulled her hands away.

“I think your problem, on all fronts, is fighting all this all the time,” he said, gently.

The fiery clouds gathered more in her eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling things. Let yourself feel them,” he said.

His voice was hypnotic. Lulling, but not in a sleepy way.

Unconsciously, he reached out to touch her face, gently.

“Isn’t that better? Let it go. Just let it go,” he said.

It was so much better.

“It is better,” she said.

“But you don’t realize what you’re dealing with here…” she said.

“I’m like….I don’t know. What’s that thing on a gun that makes it go off without almost any effort?” she said, softly.

Still, their eyes were locked. His fingers still traced the side of her face, drifting to her neck, her shoulder.

“A hair trigger,” he said.

“It’s called a hair trigger,” he said.

“You remember I have experience with guns. I can handle a hair trigger,” he said.

It was too much. She looked down.

“Don’t do that. No running away,” he said.

“You’re never going to get through this if you don’t face it,” he said.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered.

His fingers moved down to that plunging neckline of her shirt, teasing the seam of it with one finger.

“Don’t,” she said, the physical response pummeling her brain like popping popcorn.

“You know, if you’re going to get all flustered when someone looks down your shirt, maybe you shouldn’t wear shirts like these,” he said, his fingers still tracing the neckline, teasing her, barely touching her.

“Because I don’t see how any man could help it,” he said.

“You help it,” she whispered, paralyzed. Hypnotized.

“You just don’t catch me. But trust me, when I see you wearing a shirt like this…” he said.

And then he looked. Looked all over the front of her shirt, down it. God, she could feel it, he stared at her so hard.

“Please. Don’t. I can’t deal with it,” she said.

“Sure you can,” he said.

Her eyes were filled, smoked over with fire, her teeth biting into her lower lip. His fingers moved over, pulling now at the neckline of her shirt, moving it to the side, moving over her bra, find her hardening nipple, and tracing it with his finger.

She gasped out loud.

“The thing about a hair trigger is, you just have to be gentle. Be in control. You have to make sure the gun doesn’t go off until exactly the right moment, until you want it to,” he said.

“I don’t think that you’ll be able to do that in this case,” she whispered.

“Are you underestimating me?” he said, smiling.

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said. He moved into the back seat of the truck, and pulled her with him. It was still pounding rain.

He pulled her onto his lap until she was straddling him, feeling him hard underneath her.

His hands went to her face, holding it in both hands.

She couldn’t breathe, waiting. She wasn’t going to do anything or ask for anything, though every thought running through her mind was some form of begging and pleading.

He could see that in her eyes, see the urgency. See the need.

The pleading to please, just please, do something. He thought of her pulling that sweater over her head, urging, begging, pleading.

His hands moved behind her head, pulling her to his mouth in a soft, deep kiss. His tongue found hers. She shuddered and shook, her fingers deep in his hair, both of them holding onto one another. The kiss was enveloping, the kiss of a thousand years of hunger, the kiss soothing an ache, urging them on, and on.

Her hips moved on his lap, grinding against him, and his hands moved from her neck to digging his fingers into her back, to lower, finding her ass and holding it there, holding her against him.

The rain was wet but the late afternoon was warm and the car got hotter. She leaned back and hit the button for the sun roof, letting the pounding rain in for a moment, falling on her hair, leaning back and feeling it across her body, droplets running down her chest, into her cleavage, on him, and they were both getting wetter, He stared as her shirt clung to her.

She saw his eyes, and this time she did not look away.

She pulled the neckline of her shirt open, away, her bra wet, thin, transparent really.

“Is this what you want to see?” she said.

“Oh yeah,” he said.

Oh yeah.

The tension now beating in both of them, thundering like the rain, and he reached up and tore the shirt from her hands, yanking the sides down, trapping her arms against her and pulling her body to him, tightly, roughly, looking into her eyes.

“Feel it? Are you feeling it now?” he whispered.

“Yes…yes,” she whispered.

He looked first, her full pale breasts, her hard, pink nipples, reddened with heat and aching, begging him, begging him to take them.

He pulled her to him, tightly holding her arms against her, and gently took her hard nipple into his mouth, gently easing into his mouth, his tongue dancing around it, and he knew that the moment he put any pressure on that aching, hard nipple, she’d explode. There was no question. Her nipples were so hard, so exposed.

She took her fist in her mouth, biting down, hard, as he sucked her nipple deep in his mouth. Her hips bucked wildly, and still he held her tightly. Down, hard, impossible to escape. Because he knew this was what she feared and what she would try to escape.

There was no escape from it, and he heard her nonsense whispers, not sure what to beg him for, but begging, please, as her gasps grew shallow, high, soaring sighs, and now her hands tightly rested in his hair, pulling, holding him to her, and he sucked and licked, teased with his teeth, harder, faster, not stopping.

And her sighing, her gasping, and now, now, now, she sighed, shook, whispered.

“I’m going to scream,” she whispered.

“I am, I…I… can’t.. I’m going to….going to…..going to..,” and her words disappeared into racking sighs that elevated into moans she tried to fight until the orgasm that ripped through her rendered her utterly speechless.

Her head back, her mouth in a silent scream, and she fought and smacked him off until she fell to his side on the seat of the car, shuddering, shaking. Trying to breathe.

He moved over her, pushing her back down against the seat, climbing over her, holding her down on the seat, leaning in to kiss her mouth, tongues twirling, tied together, and the kiss was relief, it was more tension, it was hot, and he pulled away, both breathing hard.

“Do you think I’m insane?” she whispered.

“Does it look like it?” he said, his body moving over hers, her hips moving beneath his.

“Do you think I’m a nymphomaniac?” she says.

He leaned in to kiss her again, gently, tongue teasing hers, breathless again, pulling away.

“A nymphomaniac fucks anything in sight,” he said.

“Obviously if you did that you wouldn’t be in this state,” he said.

His finger touched her lips.

“You know what you need?” he said.

She laughed.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

His hand moved to her hip, and squeezed.

“You need a really good screw,” he said.

Her body moved under his.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Yeah. A really good fuck. One of those weekends where you just lie in bed, and don’t do anything else, except maybe eat a little. Just over, and over,” he said.

Her eyes fluttered.

“That would fix me,” she whispered.

“And you’d keep going, even if you thought you were too sore. You wouldn’t care,” he said.

She laughed quietly.

“I wouldn’t get sore, if it was with you, but I’d enjoy you trying,” she said.

“Oh yeah? How do you know?” he said.

Her legs opened involuntarily. He moved in closer, pushed between them.

She looked right into his eyes.

“Because you have no idea how wet you make me, it would make it so easy for you,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“Oh yeah,” she said.

His hand had lowered from her hip and to her thigh, and moved under her skirt.

Her breathing was shallow.

“You know you’re really wet, when you’re taking a bath, and you feel wetter than the water,” she said.

His dick was getting harder. He couldn’t help it. His fingers felt the tops of her stockings that ended mid-thigh. Reaching the soft skin of her thighs, and her legs yielded to him.

“That’s impressive,” he said.

“You want to see, you don’t you? How wet you make me?” she asked.

He did. He really did.

His fingers found her panties.

She gasped.

“Watch that trigger,” she whispered.

He traced her clit through them.

“I’ve got it under control,” he said.

She moved under him as his fingers teased her, and her hands moved to his shoulders as he leaned in again to kiss her, hot, wet, breathless.

Her hands moved down his body, down his arms to rest at hips, opening her legs to him more, pulling him down, holding his hips tightly, as their tongues twisted around each others.

She struggled to breathe and found the button of his jeans, blindly opening it without conscious thought, just opening it, pulling them open, her fingers finding him hard, holding him, stroking him, and her eyes fluttered.

He pulled away from her mouth, closing his eyes to the feeling of her hands on him, his hands pushing her shirt up and over her head.

He was still over her, her back against the seat, but the feeling of his hard dick in her hands drove her to lift herself up on her elbows, trying to get closer, closer.

He could sense what she wanted, and moved up her body, climbing over her, with her back leaning against the seat, he moved closer to her mouth.

One last surging forward for both of them, and still holding his dick in her hands, sliding her fingers up and down it, he got closer to her mouth, until it was at her lips, barely touching them, her eyes fluttering, her lips opening, her tongue reaching.

September 2018
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