Untamed : An Erotic Romance Story (2 page)

Rafael, my lithe, Puerto-Rican dream man who worked with me at a bookstore that shall remain unnamed, while I attended a local Catholic college and shared a roach-infested two bedroom apartment with three other girls, which is why I still have so much college debt, but I had to get out of my parent's house. Rafael's body was smooth and hard, with upper thigh muscles that he loved to flex as I ground my wet, open pussy across the sinewy definition of them,  the motions he made with those thighs and the way he held my waist and urged me on saying "You go, girl, ride papi" left me breathless, and that was only the prelude.

Rafael elevated foreplay to an art form, managing my body as if he were sculpting me to be frozen in the perfect pose of come, sucking my pink, puffy nipples with just the right amount of pressure, fingering my pussy with a sure, rhythmic touch, then entering me slowly with his waggling, Puerto-Rican cock, ah Puerto Rico, me encanta.

"You should sweat when you fuck, Molly-suavé." He purred my name adding suavé to its end with an inflection and accent that made me all the wetter and, like any good Catholic girl, made me come all the harder. We stayed naked in his Humboldt Park apartment creating our own little garden of Eden. He did the cooking, authentic Puerto Rican cuisine, blending rice and beans and chicken and fish in ways I will never taste again, his specialty, Asopao de pollo, a gumbo-like concoction with a little bit of everything. We ate and made love, sometimes both at once, as I took the food from his lips, yes Rafael had lips to kiss, almost like a woman's lips. He will probably be the only man who will ever make me come with kisses, as if his lips were the angel lips of his namesake, there was no end to him or beginning to me as we fell inside each other's open mouths.

I didn't worry about STD's back then, or what my family would think. When I brought Rafael home for Christmas dinner, my father thought I was getting back at him for whatever and never said a word, just lots of uncomfortable sidelong glances and pregnant pauses, my mother smiling bravely through it all. Only later did my younger sister tell me how relieved they were when 9/11 came between us. He joined the marines in this macho fit of patriotic fervor. He had already signed the papers when he told me and I remember beating my fists against his naked chest, my Puerto-Rican papi, my man of shimmering, golden sweat. He was going to train to be a medic and go to nursing school when he got out. We corresponded with passionate letters, real letters written by hand, until the last one, because there's always a last letter when love ends.

———

My Dearest Molly-sua
vé
,

Things are pretty fucked-up here, but I'm sure you knew that already, because you thought the whole idea of me enlisting was fucked up, but just right now I am thinking about your ass and how it's shaped like two eggs close together and running my hand over that sexy, smooth curve of it, and maybe going a little further, down to your taint, and hearing you moaning in my ear, damn, girl, I am getting hard writing this and I know you are thinking, well then why did I give that up? I mean no one put a gun to my head.

I wish we could have done it one more time, no ten more times, no a thousand more times, because no girl before you ever felt like you did, oh baby, you made your papi so fucking hard, your body like cream, and your red hair and blue eyes making me crazy hot for you, if only I could smell you right now, one whiff, baby, how dizzy I used to get being inside you, because that was love, baby, real love. We were loving each other, which is so much more than fucking, and you made me feel like I was someone special, me Rafael  from Humboldt Park, where so many of my bros are already dead from banging and dealing.

So you see that's why I did it, not that I don't want to fuck up some terrorist mother-fuckers, because I do, but you made me see that I could be someone better, how many guys from the hood know how to fix a sucking chest wound, or stitch a guy up good enough till the medevac comes, and when I get out I'm going to finish school and be somebody that puts people back together again instead of tearing them apart. You made me see me.

But it fucking hurts not have you in my arms right now, and kiss those pale, white girl lips of yours, and then feel those lips sucking your papi's dick, oh god, baby, you were such a good dick sucker, getting me ready to make sweet love to you, and there was nothing like slowly entering you, feeling your pussy squeeze my dick all the way down and then just staying still, living and breathing as one in fuck, damn, Molly, you see what you did to me?

So, like I know this is fucked up, that we are fucked as a together thing because I won't be home again for a long time and I know how hot you are and you have your life to live. I am trying to think all this shit through, because maybe I'm not smart enough or good enough to be loved by you.

I am crying like a little bitch here trying to write all this shit. I mean I wasn't raised like you, all Catholic and shit, but you made me see who I could become. I wish I would have been a white boy named Jason, or some other cracker name like that, taking classes in law, then your dad would have thought that I was cool, but maybe you wouldn't have wanted me, because I would have been the same boring shit, so either way I would have lost you, and it's better for me to take my medicine now and do the losing first.

Your Papi,

Rafael

———

He survived his first tour, but never returned to Chicago. He would send me an email every so often, but without the passion of the letters we once shared and I answered him with idle chatter that wasn't about anything more than weather, time, and place. He was killed in Fallujah, my sweet papi, no longer there for any altruistic thoughts of freedom, but to save his friends with whom he had formed an eternal bond, and for whom he so tragically died, and Rafael and I will never sweat with each other again. 

"Don't you want the key?" Caleb dangled the Jetta key in my face, waking me from a moment of lost love and lust.

"You're such a dear," I said, not knowing when I had acquired such a hackneyed phrase, dear, really? I gave him another kiss to the forehead, took the key from his hand, and gently pushed him out the door.

I went to bed, to sleep perchance to dream of someone hot and sexy, instead of dead and buried. I spread my legs and began to slowly massage my clit, sorting through memories for a little orgasmic trip, arriving at Waclaw, my first uncircumcised cock, and the salacious moment of its discovery.

I sometimes visit manufacturers to see the world of machining first hand. Our weblogs and magazines aren't financed by subscribers, but are promotional copy for distributors and manufacturers who pay EJE to tout their products. Greenly Tap and Die can't put a 3" NPT Titanium Coated Pipe Tap on the front of a cereal box, or buy a full page spread in Vogue, or run a thirty second spot on The Walking Dead. EJE and a couple of other publishing houses are the only advertising outlets that a dwindling core of tooling companies and distributors use to get the word out.

My fingers started to circle my clit.

Waclaw was, and, most likely still is, the floor supervisor for CMW Tools in Munroe Falls, Ohio. He had the look and body of a soccer player, and I wanted to play on his team. You might think that these places are dark, greasy sweat shops, like the Cicero factory where my grandfather forged cast iron boilers, but CMW had twenty CNC machines in a well-lit, super clean facility where you could literally eat off the floor. Each machine was one third the size of a brown line car, spraying a gallon of fluid  per minute behind Plexiglas windows as metal cut metal in rhythmic computer-guided precision.

My clit was becoming engorged.

The memory of all that energy, the sweet smell of cutting fluid, and Waclaw's sexy, Polish accent explaining speeds, feeds, and how one massive pump connected fluid to all the machines began to moisten me. I watched men making physical things that would cut and shape hundreds of thousands of other things and it gave me a bit of hope, that maybe we wouldn't be stuck  forever in the economic gloom that continued to hang over the country like polluted air, when Waclaw gently touched my shoulder and hope turned into this amazing lust.

My pussy now moist and ready.

I had read somewhere, that in the midst of the worst bombing during WWII,  some London women became highly aroused and remained above ground in their vulnerable bedrooms with their lovers, sucking cock, and fucking as if there were no tomorrow. I stood there on the CMW floor with the whir of machinery and gurgle of fluid, grieving for Rafael, feeling the weight of a moribund economy, and the pressure of Waclaw's hand made me want to fuck, as if there would be no tomorrow.

The pressure of my fingers increasing.

I took Waclaw back to my motel room, a room being paid for by CMW,  pushed him down on my bed, stood, and slowly stripped off my dress to show him my body. He didn't move, and it didn't matter to me if he were married or not, condom or not, convention or not, because this was my fucking as if there were no tomorrow. I took off my bra, fondled my full breasts, turned and bent to stick out my ass, slowly removing my thong, so he could see my shaved pussy, glistening and pert. I strutted and moved like a stripper named Desire, fingering my pussy in front of his face and Waclaw laid there so calmly, Waclaw, my rock, my savior.

Fingering more voraciously now.

I took off his shoes, his socks, undid his belt, pulled down his pants and there was his flesh-covered cock head, as if it had been some sign from God, a covenant in reverse, a foreskin for me to suck, pulling back the curtain of skin to reveal my purple-headed prize. His cock tasted like baked salmon in lemon sauce and I sucked as he moaned with that accent of his, because sucking cock and fucking like there is no tomorrow is universal, and he rewarded me with his angry purple mushroom emerging, glistening with a drop of pre-come, like morning dew on a rosebud in bloom.

Massaging my clit so surely now.

This was hope, not sex, so I maneuvered my body until my hopeful pussy hovered over his expectant lips. Waclaw readily spread my thighs, drew my lips to his, and lapped and nibbled and sucked and tongued me so completely, my stud's cock exposed, the two of us shining our sex over a desultory world. At that moment I understood those women who remained above ground in their vulnerable bedrooms, seriously fucking as the bombs fell all around, grinding my pussy evermore against Waclaw's lips, sucking his salmon lemon cock, me coming into his mouth, but wanting more and he knew it. It was a wordless fuck of whispered moans as he spun me around to his standing, straight cock and fit my pussy so gently atop and pushed my hips down to slowly impale me. I clutched his breasts as he deftly clutched mine and we twisted each other's nipples as we fucked.  I rode and he bucked up and into me. We twisted each other's nipples because we needed a bit of pain in our exercise of hope. His cock stayed hard and filled me and, no, we never paused for a condom, insane I know, but not when you remember, for us there was no tomorrow, we saving the world with our fuck, it was a holy fuck, a desperate fuck, a fuck in the face of all the anxiety that stagnant salaries, upside down mortgages, dwindling 401ks, and grim, debt-ridden futures could hold. I fucked him and he fucked me. We both understood, this had nothing to do with the laws of attraction, or any law at all.

Oh my god, I am so ready to come.

It was a timeless fuck,  light when we began and curtained dark at the end, we never paused to switch anything on, but became luminescent in the shadows, me astride Waclaw until I felt his cock tense and I reached back to place my hand on his balls and pump. I swear I felt his sperm travelling through his shaft and the jolt of it deep inside of me and I came so hard into his come, as if a winter storm were whipping savage waves against Oak Street beach, water, surf, sand, and come from a lemon-salmon cock. Waclaw returning hope to me and I to him, reviving the entire population of Munroe Falls with our final come-shattering moan.

Yes, yes, oh god yes.

Every woman should have a Waclaw, that moment when sheer desperation can become something whole and good. That's what a pussy is for, and I came almost as hard again, reliving the moment in my Northside bed, the perfect way for an English major and Catholic girl to go to sleep, perchance to dream.

The next morning Caleb's Jetta started as soon as I turned the key, so much for
acting weird,
and I was off to a day of team building when I could have been sleeping in and then taking in a movie with Monica in the afternoon, because there is nothing like a film-filled afternoon, not some transparent modern, Hollywood thing, but a genuine use of the art form, like Metropolis, Manhattan, or My Night at Maud's. Instead I was going to be trapped inside, breathing stale hotel air tinged with a hint of burnt coffee, listening to clanking tableware being set behind pale room dividers, trying not to fall asleep.