Lisa walked out of her bedroom wearing only bikini briefs. Her breasts seemed too big on her small frame. Her nipples were large and dark. She watched my eyes, a nervous smile.
I sighed.
My relationship with Lisa's nudity had changed over time. In the normal world, the nudity of a cute girl like her was thrilling because it was so elusive, or because it marked a progression from clothed to naked to more naked to lips on lips and cock in pussy, heavy breathing, moans.
Not with Lisa. Not anymore. We'd done this dance so many times, my relationship to her nudity was different now. Static. More like a piece of art than a live, nude girl. Soft abs and milky thighs, but something to be admired in the abstract. The only energy was her nervous need for approval.
Her exhibitionism was on the downswing since school started, the summer of pretend sex slavery was essentially over. It had been a nipple here, or a streaking there, but rarely such full blown, casual nudity. Something had changed. Lisa had been acting differently since the night I fucked Jett in front of her. Was Lisa jealous?
"You girlfriend is kinda hot," Lisa said.
"I know."
"She made me lick her foot," she said.
"I remember," I said. "Lisa, what do you want?"
"I don't know. I was just thinking about Jett. And you. Together. It was kinda--" she said.
"I'm going to class," I said.
"--hot."
--
When people hear meteorology, they think weather man. But the major course of study isn't TV. It's math. Years of classes, Calculus 1, 2, and 3. ODE. Linear algebra. And there were more classes on the horizon, all just to build the foundation necessary to predict the weather, an ever growing and scaling complex model to describe a nearly infinite number of variables. If a butterfly flaps it's wings...
My Junior year, I was drowning in so much math that I took a writing class. It didn't even count towards my degree, I just had to try something different, to feel like a human instead of a computer. That's where I met Jett.
She was quiet, aloof even, with a kind of gaunt intensity, like a bird of prey. Jett liked my writing, which worked out pretty well, since I liked everything about her.
On our third date, she told me her dark secret. Her real name was Jennifer and her parents called her Jenny. A career in art was difficult, like reaching for the moon, the struggle to reach escape velocity almost impossible. Jett didn't know everything, but she was positive about one thing. A skinny girl from Indiana named Jenny wasn't going to cut it.
So Jett it was. Jett with two tees.
Her style was a collage of photography and paint. A sort of pseudo Tim Burton-inspired (don't tell her I said that) mix of chaos and nostalgia. She even took pictures of me, promising to use it in the future for something "pastoral." It felt like an insult, but I didn't really care, since at the time her hand was pressed against my cock.
--
Jett took a long pull on her iced coffee. When she leaned over, her blue shirt fell away from her body, revealing most of her small breasts. She caught me looking and smiled. We were sitting on her couch. She was wearing a blue button up shirt, tight black slacks, and thick white socks. It was just a matter of time before we were kissing... and more.
"What do you think is up with Lisa?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. This was mostly true. "I spent all summer trying to figure it out. I eventually just gave up."
"Does she bring men home?"
"Almost never," I said.
"I think she's in to you," Jett said.
It was possible, even likely. Why else would she invite herself in to my life, find excuses to get naked, opt in to "pretend" sex slavery. She thought of me as safe. I wasn't sure if that meant safe to tease or safe to fuck (eventually).
"I don't know," I said. "She had plenty of chances."
I felt stupid for saying it, just admitting I found Lisa attractive felt like dangerous territory. If Jett noticed, she didn't let on.
Did Lisa want me? There was a period that summer when she would greet me naked, on her knees at the door, tongue flicking on pink lips, clear brown eyes looking up at me, from my crotch to my eyes, her nervous smile filled with want. My cock would jump to full hard, ready to fill her, to see her mouth wrapped around it, wanting to come in her, overflow her with semen until it ran down her chin, on to those breasts.
The first time Lisa did it, I laughed it off, nervous. By the third time, I decided to give it a go. I undid my belt, reaching for the button on my pants, tired of wanting, ready to take a chance. But then she was asking me what I was doing, reminding me that she was just a pretend sex slave.
I didn't tell any of this to Jett.
"What's the craziest thing she ever did?" Jett asked.
"Can we talk about something else?"
"Are you kidding, this is the wildest shit I've ever heard of. You have to tell me," Jett said. Her tongue played with the straw, but her eyes were on me.
"Okay," I said. The wildest shit she ever did.
--
I came back from work, my summer job. Lisa was moping around, exaggerated sighs, intentionally clumsy, flopping from one side of the apartment to the other. She wore her typical baggy t-shirt and no pants. As she flopped around, I'd catch glimpses of her body.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"You never want to play anymore," she said. Lisa casually slid her shirt up her body, exposing her panties, then her stomach then a nipple. I got a glass of water.
"You see?" she said. "You're not in to this sex slavery thing at all."
"It's the pretend part that gets me," I said, and it was true. I was mostly just tired of this beautiful, often naked woman reminding me that I should fuck her only for her to say it was all just pretend.
I was hungry and tired of Lisa's games. It was time to cook a hotdog.
"What's the point of this?"
"It's fun," she said.
"Are you having fun?" I asked. "Because I'm not."
Lisa studied me, her brain was always firing, but usually whatever she was thinking immediately spilled out of her mouth. Not this time.
"I don't think we should have sex," Lisa said. It was as serious as she ever got.
"Me either," I said. I had made my peace with this weeks ago.
"Let's say this really isn't about you, that it's about me," she said.
"Okay..."
"There are things I... crave, and getting them from you just seems like the best option. The safest option," she said.
There was a sliver of vulnerability, of pain in her words. I went from annoyed to concerned. I knew so little about her. Maybe she was Cameron's (not pretend) sex slave.
"Lisa," I said, "You don't have to tease me to get what you want. You can just ask."
Those brown eyes stared up at me, more synapses firing, but she said nothing. Not for a minute. Then two.
I reached for the fridge, pretty sure there were hotdogs in there, even if we didn't have buns.
