Making the Hook-Up (14 page)

So, I confronted him about it, told him how he and his penis had distracted me so much I couldn't write another word for the rest of the day and how, when I was supposed to be thinking about irony and symbolism, I was thinking about his package and how it might feel inside of me.

Being the good and gracious neighbor that he was, Lonnie had apologized.

I, of course, had accepted, but I was sure to let him know that there was the unsettled matter of him flashing me and costing me a full day's work.

So, Lonnie agreed to a bargain.

The agreement was that we would fuck once, just get all that sexual tension out of the way and get on with our lives so that we could carry on like civilized people and be sensible neighbors, waving from across the street and borrowing cups of sugar and such.

And silly me, I figured he would be a mediocre fuck at best—most beautiful people were. I had run across enough of them in my twenty-three years and I had learned to expect to be disappointed.

But I wasn't disappointed with Lonnie. I wasn't disappointed at all.

In fact, I was in love, head over heels in love with his dick. It was gorgeous, solid and smooth. It was the perfect length and girth. He knew how to move. He knew when to give and when to take and he always came last, always.

Lonnie's dick made me forget he had hands or lips or even a face. He was the only man who could make me come using his dick alone, no fingers, no tongue, no dildo.

Of course, that type of pleasure always came at a price.

His dick was terribly distracting.

It made me wish he had fucked me badly. It made me wish he had been awful so that our relationship would become awkward and one of us would have to move. Then I wouldn't think about it so much. It wouldn't take up so much of my time and energy.

But instead, I searched for reasons to fuck him. Reasons like…I hadn't burned enough calories that day and it was too late to go to the gym…or I had this scratch in this really weird place, and if he could let me borrow his dick for just a minute I was sure I could take care of it.

Instead, I was calling him over to look at a sink that wasn't broken, or to taste my spaghetti with the special kielbasa sauce, or to read over a sample chapter, a sexy chapter, one that would have him all hot and bothered.

But, in true Lonnie fashion, he was soon on to me.

He mentioned it one morning after he had licked his way down my tummy, and I had viciously flipped him over and mounted him.

Instead of giving in, he said, “You know what you're doing, don't you, Stacey?”

“What do you mean, Lonnie?” I asked.

He said, “You're forming a habit.”

I shrugged and said nonchalantly, “Well, everybody has 'em.”

Lonnie nodded. “True. Then you should know what it is I'm doing, right?”

I leaned in, winked, played with the sleeve of his shirt because I knew what it was he
wasn't
doing. Then I said, “No, tell me, what?”

“I'm enabling you.”

I crossed my arms. “Damn, Lonnie, it's your dick for fuck sake. It's not like it's crack or anything.”

And Lonnie propped himself up on his elbows, cocked his head and looked straight at me. “Isn't it?”

And I couldn't argue, so I just gave in. I said, “Well, fine, Dr. Lonnie. What do you think we should do about it?”

“I think I should stop you. I think I should just take my dick away, cold turkey.”

That hurt. It hurt more than I thought it would.

I guess some would call it dramatic. But his dick really was that magnificent.

Luckily for me, along with an addictive personality, I had a penchant for playing with fire.

So, I said, “Okay, so take it away then.”

And suddenly there was a shiver in my stomach and a lump in my throat that made it hard to breathe when I thought Lonnie might call my bluff. I looked at him and waited.

He seemed to think it over for a moment.

“Not so fast,” he said. “We're going over something right now in my psych class. It's called aversion therapy.”

I leaned in. “Tell me more.”

“Well, the trick is, when you have those addictive thoughts, say, thoughts about beer for an alcoholic, you need to redirect your feelings.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Can you imagine if every time you got the craving for some of my goods, you got this little shock, sort of like you stuck your finger in a socket or something?”

I scoffed. “I don't really want to imagine that, Lonnie.”

“Of course, but what if every time you had an urge for my dick, you got a sound smack on your ass?”

I shrugged. “I don't know, Lonnie. I guess I'd have to experience it.”

He eased me off of him, stood up and said, “Then bend over.”

“Bend over?”

Lonnie was a spontaneous fellow, always creative and interesting in his fucking, but this threw me for a loop.

“Yes, right here, over the sofa.”

I did as I was instructed. I walked behind the sofa and leaned over. I poked my ass out and gave it a little shake in case he'd want to throw this whole spanking thing out the window and fuck me instead.

But Lonnie was nothing if not determined.

He pulled his hand back and brought it forward in a matter of seconds. I lost my footing, taken aback by the feel of his large palm on my bare ass. I quickly regained my composure and awaited his next move.

The second strike was playful. It barely even stung. The third made me grit my teeth. Then his licks became firmer, more forceful, until I felt a burning in my cheeks. By the time he gave me the last lick, I was biting my bottom lip, and…

Coming.

I came so intensely that my legs tensed and my stomach cramped.

Hoping that he hadn't noticed, I hurried Lonnie away, feigning a deadline. I crawled up under my covers, my ass tender and my cunt wet, and slept for what seemed like a hundred years.

 

The next day, Lonnie called.

I was curled up on the sofa, twisting the telephone cord in my fingers.

He asked, “So, what did you think?”

I couldn't let him know the truth. So I said, “Frankly, Lonnie, I don't really see the appeal. I mean, you'd have to be really screwed up to enjoy something like that.”

“You think so? So, that means you didn't enjoy it?”

“Well, I found it sort of degrading, and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.”

I believe Lonnie's psych professor would have called this reverse psychology.

“We don't have to do it anymore.” Lonnie sounded almost apologetic.

And I could see my newfound pleasure slipping right through my fingers. So I said, “Well, it wasn't
that
bad. Professionally speaking, I respect your methods, and I appreciate that you want to, you know,
help
me with my problem. I mean, I've barely written a word since I started fucking you. Clearly, I need help.”

“So I'll help you, then.”

But I didn't wait for Lonnie to decide when our next session would be. I showed up at his door two days later in my favorite jeans and most flattering top, bearing a gift.

When he pulled the brown leather belt out of the box, he half smiled, flipped it over in his hands and said, “This is really nice, Stacey, but I don't really need a belt.”

I frowned. “That wasn't really the point. The thing is, I have a confession. I thought about your dick today. I tried not to, but I got sort of bored this afternoon and it just crept in. And I do have integrity and I can take my punishment like a woman.”

So he spread me across his bed. It was good for a different kind of sensation, he said.

It was a different kind of sensation indeed. I tensed at every lick. I clenched my thighs and arched my back so that my pussy pressed into his crumpled sheets.

I grabbed one of his pillows and held it to my mouth to stifle
my moans. I gripped a handful of his sheets and pulled them to me. I felt the lashes all over my ass, on the backs of my thighs and in the small of my back.

“Are you still thinking of my dick?” Lonnie inquired between lickings.

I shook my head. It was true. I wasn't thinking of his dick at all. I was thinking of his spanking. I was thinking of the many painfully sweet licks he was giving me as I lay naked across his bed.

He ceased shortly after I came, slowly and silently.

A satisfied smile on his face, he folded the belt in his hand, left me shivering on his bed and walked out of the room.

 

I felt Lonnie's last licks for three days after. I began to long for the pain. I loved how tender my ass felt when my hand brushed against it.

In the mirror, I admired my purple ass. Throughout the day, I thought of Lonnie's licks and became warm all over.

So it was a pleasant surprise when one afternoon Lonnie showed up at my door.

“How's the recovery coming?” he asked. “Thinking about my dick much?”

I saw the suspicion in his eyes, but I gave it a go anyway. “I fantasized about it today in the coffee shop, as a matter of fact,” I said.

Lonnie cocked his head and held his bearded chin in his hand. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I was having a double latte and out of nowhere, all I could think about was kneeling down in front of you, and taking you in my mouth.”

Lonnie dropped his hands at his side. “So, why don't you?”

And then he unzipped his jeans and whipped it out. I looked down at his dick, in all of its solid, dark glory.

And there was nothing.

No spontaneous shivers.

No sudden gush of wetness between my legs.

Lonnie chuckled and shook his head. “This isn't exactly what you're after anymore, is it, Stacey?”

I hung my head because he was right. His dick was no longer the focus of my attention.

I said, “Damn it, Lonnie, it's all your fault. You and those sweet fucking licks of yours.”

Lonnie shrugged. “I suppose it
is
my fault. It was good while it lasted, though.”

He turned to leave. He reached for the doorknob.

I grabbed his arm. “Before you go, Lonnie, would you mind, I mean, if it's not too much trouble, could you…just a little?” I brought his hands around to cup my still-tender ass.

Lonnie seemed to ponder the unspoken request. Then he shook his head. “No, Stacey. I don't think that would be wise.”

I threw my hands up. “Well, why not? It could sort of be like ‘one for the road,' you know?”

Lonnie nodded. “I know. But don't all addicts say that? It's like, ‘I'm gonna smoke this last cigarette and then I'll quit' or, ‘Just one more hit and I'll go clean.' Well, you know what the trick is?”

I didn't really want to know, but I obliged him. “What's the trick?”

“The trick is, you never have that last cigarette, you don't take that last hit.”

And Lonnie turned the knob and walked out of my apartment. I stood at my sliding doors and watched him walk across the street to his own place. He wasn't even inside his door before I felt the cold sweat, and the tremors began to take over my body.

 

 

 

 

 

Nola Vernier couldn't stop her mind from wandering. After sitting around the huge conference table for the last five hours, her large backside was almost as numb as her mind. She couldn't take her eyes off of him. They'd been sequestered for three days and he was the only member of the jury still bothering to wear a suit—or at least dress pants and a collar shirt.

He still took the task seriously. Not that everybody else didn't, they just couldn't be bothered with dressing any more uncomfortably than the situation warranted. She relished her choice of a lightweight summer dress that clung to her curvaceous frame, but the matching overshirt added the right amount of professionalism. Unfortunately, no neckline, however modest, would prevent her ample bosom from looking anything less than inviting.

Taking in what she could see of him, she noted that Number Nine's crisp, white shirt accented his dark chocolate skin while
containing the firm muscles of his arms and chest. His close-cut hair complemented the shape of his head the same way his neatly trimmed moustache and goatee framed his square jaw.

For eight weeks, she had been observing Number Nine and she knew he had been watching her, too. Nola couldn't help but stand out. Standing just less than six feet tall, she was stacked and packed, and her plump, creamy toffee-colored skin made her a tempting treat. Men who saw Nola Vernier couldn't help but want to eat her up.

 

Tyrell couldn't wait. He grabbed both of her ankles and hoisted them up toward her head and from there, he commenced to pile drive into her.

Nola raised her hips and gritted her teeth. If she hadn't known better, she could've sworn he'd busted through to her cervix. She didn't care. He could fuck a tunnel to her brain stem and she'd still grasp on to his ass, to urge him deeper as she was doing now. He leaned forward and put his lips next to her ear.

“I'm gonna fill you up and drink you dry,” he growled.

 

“Pussy tickler,” she murmured.

“What was that?” asked Number Ten. He'd been elected foreperson on day one. He was possibly the oldest member of the jury but the only one who appeared comfortable enough to mingle with everyone else without suffering from the awkwardness that comes with getting to know a person.