It’s possible I have issues with feeling like luck is not on my side.
“Fuck … fuck … fuck … fuck,” she whisper chants as she releases her skirt and grabs my hair again, jerking it in the direction she wants me to go like my head is an Xbox controller. “Do you know where my G-spot is at?” Her eyes open as she gives me a pointed look.
I slide two fingers inside her—nothing like being put on the spot, or having to find it. A real-life oral pop quiz. For ten extra credit points, find the G-spot.
“Mmm!” She bites her lips together and nods repeatedly as her eyes pinch shut. “Mmm hmm …” Her right hand tears at my hair until I coax an orgasm from her. Then she loses all control of her legs.
I pull my fingers out so I can grab her hips to keep her from collapsing while my mouth stays between her legs. Our gazes meet. Her eyelids are heavy, and her fingers stroke my hair, a silent thank-you.
I slowly climb to my feet.
“No!” Dorothy jerks her head to the side when I lean in to kiss her. “I don’t want to taste myself. Yuck … nope. No way.” She peeks open one eye.
“But you wanted me to do that to you.”
“Yes. But I don’t want to do it to myself.”
I step back, adjusting my cock before it pokes a small child in the eye. “Okay then.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. Painfully turned on? Yes. But that’s why God made cold showers and three-year-olds.”
“Okay. Well …” She shrugs. “Thanks.”
I shake my head on a small laugh while using the back of my hand to wipe Dorothy’s “yuck” from around my mouth. “Anytime.”
“We can hug.”
I laugh again. A hug—the ugly stepsister to the French kiss and the blowjob.
“Okay.” I try to wrap my arms around her, but it’s like we’re two people trying to get past each other instead of hugging. She can’t decide which way to move her head. If she were my height, we would bonk heads.
It’s an odd hug. I can’t explain it. Before, when I’d held her to me and kissed her passionately, she grabbed my arms or my shirt, sometimes even the back of my neck, and pulled me to her with such need and desire. We had doggy style sex earlier today. And I just went down on her for about four and a half minutes including a successful conquer of her G-spot.
But after all that, the one thing Dorothy Mayhem truly sucks at is hugging. So I hug her to me like I do to Roman when he doesn’t want to be hugged. And she gives my back a very awkward series of pats.
Pat pat. Pat-pat-pat-pat.
It doesn’t even feel like a hug, more like two strangers forced to move together in a tight space to let someone else by.
“We’d better go.”
“Yep.” She quickly releases me, not that she was really holding on to me. “I’ll get him off the Xbox while you wash your hands.”
For the record, I planned on slipping into the bathroom to wash my hands before getting Roman. I swear. But the fact that Dorothy insists on it before I have the chance to do it, only magnifies the huge difference in the women I’ve chosen to be in my life.
During the end of our marriage, when Julie was evidently experimenting with her new personality, the one she tested a few times with me (unbeknownst to me), she sat naked in bed, back against the headboard, legs spread wide, and she masturbated in front of me. Then she stuck her wet fingers into my mouth and told me to taste her. But never did she suggest either one of us go wash our hands.
“Great. Thanks.” I grin as Dorothy opens the door.
“Sure. No problem.”
I love this. It fills me to the brim with happiness—the way that Dorothy shifts from a vixen telling me to find her G-spot to a polite “no problem,” like I just spilled a few drips of coffee on my shirt and she’s going to watch Roman while I slip into the bathroom to pretreat the stains.
As much as I want to believe I know Dorothy Mayhem, I’ve only caught tiny glimpses of her. Each one so luminous, I know she’s too bright for anyone to ever truly see