Breaing My Own Rules

I woke up in my bed; sore in a well-used, sated sort of way; naked; headachy; and alone. I slammed my hand down on the screeching alarm and wondered yet again why I couldn't stick to my simple rule of not going out on a weeknight. Barely awake, I showered, ate some Tylenol for breakfast and found myself at work only fifteen minutes late. I hadn't even gotten my purse put away before the three amigos descended on my cubicle.

Blondie was beside herself. "Ohmygod! Did you go home with him? She said you went home with him!"

Brunette gave me her don't-you-dare-deny-it look. "I saw you leave together."

"Would you guys please," I moaned. "I have a hangover."

"From too much drinking or too much sex?" Exotic wanted to know. Jesus, a late night out and she looked like she'd just returned from a month-long vacation. Life was so unfair.

"This is a cubicle farm, not a bar," I pointed out. I could hear the office cut-up cackling on the other side of the cloth wall. This would undoubtedly be his only topic of conversation until the next scandal hit.

"All right," Exotic conceded. "Lunch. Be on time." She shook a warning finger, with a perfectly manicured nail, of course, at me.

They started to return to their own cubicles. "Wait," I called. They were back in an instant. I lowered my voice and leaned toward them. "Did you happen to catch his name?" I whispered. I swear I'd never seen three such hysterical women. Blondie was even wiping tears from her eyes.

When they finally achieved some modicum of control, Brunette replied. "It was Tom."

"No," Exotic argued. "I'm sure it was Tim."

"There is no way that hunk of meat was a 'Tim,'" Blondie said with a shake of her head.

"I'm sure his mama didn't know he was going to grow into that drool-worthy hunk when she named him," Exotic explained as they melted away toward their own work stations.

I heard a noise and made the mistake of looking up. Office Cut-up was leaning on the cubicle wall gazing down at me. "Let me get this straight. You went home with some guy and you don't even know his name."

"Don't start on me," I warned. "I remember a certain interaction from a certain office party."

"One of my proudest moments," he exclaimed, squelching that threat. "So did you? Go home with him?"

"No, I did not." I tried to sound as stern as possible.

"Your place, then. Or wait, a hotel? Classy! Where's lunch?"

"No where near where you're going to be, which is walking the streets looking for a job if you don't get to work." He snickered, but when the boss's office door opened, he ducked down behind his cubicle wall and got blessedly quiet.

Lunch was every bit as painful as I had expected. I gave the girls the absolute minimum of details that would quiet them for at least a while, and tried to avoid any introspection of my own. Time enough for that later; that and probably more than a few recriminations. Lord, how many of my own rules had I broken in one night. And now, he knew where I lived. At least I had been cagey with my name, giving only a nickname - Sky. And really, what were the chances I'd ever see him again. He'd had his fun, said all the right things, and god, did he ever do the right things, but I was a realist. I had nothing going to bring him back to my door. By the time lunch was over, I was starting to feel better, both my hangover and about my brief interlude; time to get on with life.

I went home that night and curled up with a book. The next day at work was a Friday, one of the big wigs didn't show up and rumors were rampant, which totally took the heat off of me. I figured by Monday, everyone would have forgotten what little they knew about my escapade and everything would be back to normal. That was until I got home from work and checked my mailbox.

Usually, my mailbox was crammed with junk mail, and this was a political season, so it was even worse with the oversized postcards they were so fond of. The apartment building had thoughtfully provided a recycling bin right in front of the mail boxes and I was sorting most of the junk straight into the blue bin when I came to an envelope without a return address. Mildly curious, I tore it open. Inside, there was a note card and a gift card to a spa down the street. I figured it was just some promotion and was about to leave the gift card on the shelf under the mailboxes for someone more spa-oriented than I when I noticed there was a handwritten message inside the note card. My eyes grew wide, my gut clenched and a warmth spread through my nether regions.

It said, "Get a wax job before we meet again." Last time I looked, I hadn't started growing a mustache, my eyebrows were too skinny and sparse by far, so I had to assume it was referring to the bush down below. Sad to say, there aren't all that many that have seen that patch of hair. And damn it, why was I responding like a love-sick school girl. I slammed the gift card down on the shelf and slammed my mailbox shut. The note card floated down into the recycling bin. When it landed, I noticed there was writing on the back of it, too. I tried to turn away, but my damn feet weren't cooperating. Finally, after glancing up and down the hall to be sure the coast was clear, I leaned far over into the bin to retrieve the note card. Of course it had been recently emptied. If the card lay only a few inches from the top, it would have been much too easy.

I straightened my dress and read the back of the note card. "That is, if you enjoyed having me go down on you." God, did I actually just feel a gush of moisture between my legs? I continued reading. "P.S. Put a pass code on your cell phone." Wait, what? I glanced back into the bin. The envelope lay there, and neatly typed in large bold letters was my full first name – Skylar. I didn't need to look at my mailbox to know that it only had my initials and last name. I was always so careful. Except with my cell phone, apparently. I shuddered to think what else he might have seen on there. At least I wasn't in to sexting. "With who?" a niggling voice asked. "Whom," my schoolmarm voice corrected.

I threw the note card into the bin, but as I a turned toward the elevators, I reached out and retrieved the gift card. Maybe they had massages, I thought to myself.

****

A week later, the gift card was still laying forlornly on the table that served for eating, working and catching everything that didn't have a home anywhere else in the tiny apartment. I was trying to ignore it as I pondered what to do with my weekend. It was the end of the month, and as usual money was tight, which was to say non-existent. That had provided an easy excuse to dodge the girls whenever they wanted to go out to that bar again. But it had all the makings of a really boring weekend. I sighed and opened my laptop to see if I could figure out how much was on the card. Maybe I couldn't use it for a full spa day, but at least a massage or pedicure would give me something to do for a while. And hey, if he was dumb enough to send me a freebie, why shouldn't I?

Fifteen minutes later, my jaw was dragging on the floor. The spa was a five star (or four point eight five, if you want to get technical) and the card was for $500. (Honest. I checked, like, three times.) Then I checked the price of wax jobs. I hadn't realized there was such variety, but even the fanciest didn't come anywhere near $500. I picked my jaw up and shook myself. At least I had a way to spend some time on the weekend. I called to make an appointment, but when she asked me what I wanted to come in for, I hemmed and hawed and she finally just gave me a time to show up and said we'd "discuss it" when I got there.

The next afternoon, I slunk into the spa feeling out of place, but I soon gathered they dealt with a lot of newbies. They were also very good at their jobs. They had me talked into the wax job I hadn't wanted, as well as a massage – to relax me, they said – and a mani and pedi. I didn't even die of embarrassment though it felt like everyone on the street was staring at me knowingly when I emerged a few hours later. I went back to my apartment feeling like the weekend hadn't been a total loss. I may be alone on a Saturday night, but my fingernails looked great!

Come Monday and payday, I was breathing easier, but now I had to come up with a new excuse when the girls wanted to go out and celebrate payday. Somehow, they got me to agree to go out on Wednesday instead, which just went to show how lame my excuse was. Cat sitting for a neighbor only got you off the hook for so long. I figured I could at least redirect them to a different bar. My one night fling with a complete stranger was fun – okay, really, really fun – but I didn't think my heart could take that kind of intensity on a regular basis. Not to mention that, with the benefit of time and distance, I realized I really had no business giving up that much control over any aspect of my life. That was okay for romance novels, but this was real life and it came with real work and real bills and real biological clocks.

I stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant on the way home and picked up some dinner. When I stepped back out on the sidewalk, I was chewing on my fortune cookie and reading about my future. "You will meet someone who will change your life." I snorted and turned toward home, tucking the rest of the cookie and questionable fortune into the bag with the food. I took one step and ran smack into someone. I was praying that the lid was tight on the soy sauce as I looked up to apologize. It was him. Of course it was, because I was that close to moving on, growing up, getting real. If I had just gone out like my friends wanted, this wouldn't have happened, I scolded myself. My paranoid voice was saying, "Unless he was stalking you. Maybe he was just waiting and watching for you to use the gift card." Another voice was saying "Who cares!" Or maybe it was a chorus of voices; hard to tell sometimes.

I tried to back away, but his hand was on my arm, ostensibly to steady me. "I'm glad to see you again," he said, like we were business acquaintances. Did I mention he has the voice of a late night radio host? It goes in my ears and straight down to my belly where it echoes around and around and around, hitting all the hot spots repeatedly. "We should catch up. Would you like to stop in some place for a drink?"

"I was just heading home to eat dinner," I explained with only a bit of a stammer, pointing unnecessarily at the bag. He pulled at the handle and glanced inside.

"That's a lot of food."

"I like leftovers. You know, for lunch and stuff."

"Do you like company for dinner, too?"

"Ummm," I replied in a brilliant rhetorical parry.

"Come on, we'll catch up over dinner," he said, his hand still on my arm as he turned toward my apartment. He wasn't exactly pulling me along. It was more like that irresistible force they talked about in Physics. I might have known what to do about it, if I hadn't daydreamed all the way through Physics. My brain was still trying to think my way out of what the rest of me desperately wanted to do, when I found myself in my own kitchen/living/dining room. He had shed his jacket and was putting the bag of food in the fridge.

"Don't want it to go bad while we're getting reacquainted," he explained.

"But, dinner..." He was bending me back against the kitchen bar, silencing my protest with a deep kiss, pressing against me as if we were long lost lovers with an insatiable hunger that knew no bounds. (Yes, I read romance novels. Why do you ask?)

I don't remember getting there, but suddenly I was on my back on the counter. My head was at the edge of one side. On the other side, my knees were draped over his shoulders, my dress pushed back, and I heard the unmistakable rip of my panties.

For a moment, there was no sound. Then, "Beautiful," he whispered. His fingertips were exploring the newly bared skin. The light tickling touch was torture. I was biting my lip to keep from begging for what I wanted and needed. His fingers drifted lower. I was trying to figure out how to bite my lip and gasp at the same time. Try it. Can't be done. Then the feathery touch was gone, as suddenly as it started, and I was left wondering if I was relieved or wanted still more torture.

His hands were guiding one of my knees toward my chest and he wrapped my own hand around my thigh to hold it in place. Satisfied, he repeated the position on my other side. I found that I was holding myself, thoroughly exposed, on my own kitchen bar counter. One voice in my head was demanding "Can you see yourself? Can you see what you look like!" But another voice, much louder, was shouting, "Please, please, please! Touch me, right now, everywhere." I bit my lip again, held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut.

After what seemed like forever, I felt the first soft touch. Oh, god, it was his tongue and it was following my slit, trailing all the way from front to back. When it started back up toward my clit, I held on for dear life. It paused and dipped into my pussy. The feeling was incredible, but what I really wanted was that miraculous tongue back on my clit. Still, I swore there would be no more spankings for me. I kept my mouth shut and waited, letting him draw out the torture. "So obedient," that damn voice whispered. I ignored it.

After a moment, he continued upward, circling my clit, then back down as if memorizing the route. I could feel my juices beginning to run and he lapped at them as he passed my pussy. He continued down through my ass crack, trailing moisture from my pussy and his tongue. I struggled to contain a groan, and tried to send an ESP message his way. "Clit, clit, clit," I screamed at him in my head. He wasn't listening.

"He's waiting for you to screw up," my annoying, nagging voice claimed. "He wants to punish you." "Not happening," I argued back. "I've got this." I clutched my thighs tighter. As his tongue tracked upward again, he dipped into my pussy, then pushed deeper. His lips formed a seal and he sucked, drawing my juices into his mouth. The combined sensation of the sucking and deep probing of his tongue felt like it was going to tear me apart. I trembled with the effort to remain quiet. Perhaps I passed some test, because a moment later, his tongue circled my clit several times then settled on it in earnest.

I don't know exactly what he was doing with his tongue, but the sensation was beyond intense, generating friction and a rocking motion at the same time. Within seconds, I was exploding. I clamped my teeth, but couldn't keep a strangled moan from escaping, even as my back arched like some bizarre yoga position. Like before, he grabbed my hips and bore down on my clit, extending the orgasm impossibly, almost unbearable long.

When I came back down to earth – seemed like a week later – I realized how very uncomfortable it was to lay on a kitchen counter. Somehow, I hadn't noticed before. He was gently unwinding my fingers from about my legs and easing me back onto my feet. As soon as I was there, his arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me tight. It was a good thing, because between the orgasm and the peculiar position I was pretty wobbly. His fingers laced through my hair and he tugged gently, tipping my head so he could plant a deep kiss. It seemed like that had been his way of rewarding me when I had obeyed the other night, and I dared hope that I wasn't to be punished for moving and moaning as I came. He hadn't, after all, specifically told me to 'hush' or 'be still.' This time, I'm sure the voice in my head was snickering, but I didn't care. I was feeling victorious.

When he finally broke off the kiss, his hands found my shoulders and pushed gently but insistently down. I fell to my knees in front of him, then began straightening the hem of my dress nervously. "I don't, I can't..." I slapped a hand over my mouth. Another rule broken. Speaking without being asked a question. I didn't dare look up at him as the silence dragged out.

"Speak," he finally commanded.

I sucked in a deep breath. "I can't do deep throat, anatomically, I mean, I just..." my voice trailed off. Would he even believe that my throat was too small, especially for his girth?

The silence stretched out even further. Finally he spoke. "Then you'd better be damn good with your tongue," he warned.

I swallowed hard, but instantly went to work on his belt and pants, eager to see the wondrous organ that had given me so much pleasure a few days ago. "I can do this," I told myself sternly. Like his cock was alive, it practically jumped into my hands as I freed it. Okay, I thought, he likes to give it out slow and torturous, let's see if he likes receiving it that way. With just the tip of my tongue, I reached out and teased the slit. Painstakingly, slowly, I circled ever closer to the ridge where all the nerve endings lay waiting for my attention. I spent a generous amount of time and attention on the ridge of his helmet, circling with the tip of my tongue and then the flat.

I dared look up at him. He was watching me with that intense, dark look, giving me no clue as to how I was doing. Turning my attention back to the cock in front of me, I ran my tongue down the underside first with the tip, then the flat. When I reached his balls, I teased with the tip of my tongue, then sucked them gently into my mouth, one at a time. I flicked at them with my tongue as I sucked. Did I hear his breath catch? I glanced up briefly, but he was only watching the same as before. I worked my way back up to the head of his cock sucking on the underside like a candy cane. When I reached the tip, I was rewarded with a generous drop of precum. I licked it onto the tip of my tongue and made a show of spreading it over my lips, then lapping it back up. Still no reaction. Shit. Hard case.

I pulled the head of his cock into my mouth and sucked, my tongue furiously working the underside. Slowly, I slid lower, my hands working what I couldn't fit in my mouth. I felt his fingers weave into my hair and had a momentary panic. Guys liked to do that when they meant to 'teach' me how to deep throat. I forced myself not to pull back, though I knew I was breathing fast and had basically stopped all motion. His fingers tangled deeper in my hair but pulled away from my head. I got a grip on myself. He wasn't going to try to face fuck me. I went back to work with renewed enthusiasm, determined to please him. When my jaw would begin to ache, I pulled back and concentrated on the head of his cock for a moment before once again plunging as far down the shaft as I could. He didn't seem to be reacting to my efforts at all until suddenly he leaned over me and braced himself on the edge of the counter. I felt his cock swell and his balls tighten, then his come was shooting against the back of my throat. I gagged slightly, but swallowed each stream as he shot it until he pulled free. I stayed very still on my knees. I could hear him catching his breath, still leaning against the counter. After a moment, he straightened and pulled me to my feet, devouring me with a passionate, long kiss. I took that as approval of a job well done. He didn't even seem to mind the taste of himself in my mouth.

When he finally broke off the kiss, he rested his chin on the top of my head. "You have trust issues," he said in that beautiful voice. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to talk, so I just shrugged. "We will have to work on that."

Whoa, that sounded vaguely... threatening. But then he was pulling me toward the bedroom and I was thinking with my nether regions – which I was beginning to consider insatiable – again. Let's just say I followed eagerly. Once in the bedroom, he ordered me to strip. I turned slightly away from him, embarrassed by my lack of anything that could be considered curvy, but he spun me back and shot me a stern warning look. I had to settle for containing my shyness by keeping my eyes at his chest level. He was unbuttoning his shirt and his sculpted body was emerging as I fumbled with the buttons on my dress. I finally had if off and undid my bra. My panties were somewhere in the other room in shreds. I kicked my sandals off and dared to raise my eyes. He had sat to remove his shoes, and as he stood he slid his pants down, stepped out of them, then neatly folded them into the chair. His eyes never left me the whole time.