The Head Nod Ch 01

ABBY.

1.

Abby wiped the steam from her mirror to better see her reflection. Britney Spears blared from her cell phone. Abby sang along into her hairbrush.

"I know I may come off quiet, I may come off shy. But I feel like talking, feel like dancing when I see this guy."

She bit her lip and shimmied her shoulders, whipping her wet hair from side to side.

"What's practical is logical. What the hell, who cares? All I know is I'm so hap-py when you're dancing there."

She gave herself a helpless, pouting look, twisting her hips to the floor and back.

"I'm a... Sla-a-a-a-ve. For you. I can-not hold it. I can-not control it. I'm a... Sl-a-a...

The phone rang, interrupting her first private concert in her new place.

Could it...?

she thought.

No. He wouldn't call this late. And anyway, he'd text, if anything.

She checked the caller ID, took a deep breath and answered. "Hey, Mom..."

She unwrapped her towel from around her chest and let it fall to the floor. She headed to her bedroom. Her furniture hadn't arrived yet, and so her empty apartment amplified every sound, from her mother's digitized voice, to her own wet footsteps thumping the hardwood.

"I'm fine, Mom... No, I didn't pause before I said 'fine,' Mom. I'm good... Because they mean the same thing, Mom..."

She found underwear from one of the various bags she was still living out of. She put the phone down as she slid on a pair of panties and rolled a pair of gym socks up to her knees. She rummaged through another bag and retrieved an old faded softball shirt.

"...Nothing, Mom, I'm getting dressed... Nowhere, Mom. I'm getting dressed for bed.... I know that it's late, Mom. That's why I'm getting ready for bed...."

She stopped by the sliding glass doors of her bedroom closet. She stood in front of them near-nude and posed, practicing her most flattering and trusted angles. She knew just how to tilt her head for maximum neck. She knew that her right side was her best for reasons she couldn't name. She smiled. She frowned. She puckered her lips. She stuck her tongue out. She took a deep breath and stood as straight as possible. She propped her boobs on her arm. They had a bounce, but Abby remembered when they didn't need help at all to stay up that high. She turned her back to the mirror to get a better look at the rear view. She definitely had hips. And a backside to match, round and full. Especially for a White girl. Especially for one now living in L.A.

"...No, Mom. I haven't found a gym here, yet..."

Abby exhaled. She ran her hand around her midsection and pinched herself. Hard. Just above her waistband. She pulled the softball shirt over her head and promptly turned away from herself.

2.

The apartment was dark, save for a streetlight just outside her open window. Between the heat and the creaking of a new place, Abby couldn't sleep. Plus she didn't much like sleeping on the floor. The bed was due tomorrow along with the rest of her furniture. So for now, Abby curled up in a sleeping bag with brand new pillows that she bought that day.

This must be that "dry heat" everyone's always talking about.

Not like back home. Not like summer on the lake. Not like that road trip to DisneyWorld she took with Brian. The day of the storm, after the air conditioner had gone out. It had been so hot and so humid. Abby remembered rolling down the highway with her skirt bunched around her waist, her bare legs propped up on the dashboard. Clouds had gathered all morning. When the rain finally broke, it had been such a relief that they pulled over at a rest stop, got out the car and just stood outside, the hot shower soaking through their clothes. Thunder had brought with it a blinding downpour, so they waited out the storm in Brian's car.

She thought about how sticky she'd felt that day, and how the rain had left her shirt crumpled and clinging to her body. How neither hers nor Brian's clothes had done anything to cover what was underneath. She remembered Brian's chest heaving with playful panic, reacting to the rain like kids do, with his arms opened wide and welcoming, ignoring any potential danger.

She slipped out of the sleeping bag and pulled off her panties, tossing them aside. She grabbed one of her brand new pillows and tucked it tightly between her legs. The good parts came back to her in flashes.

...Brian kissing her with the same eagerness as he'd taken in the storm, as though he were tasting both the rain and her lips for the very first time.

...Brian peeling her blouse off like wet paper.

...Brian greedily sucking on her breasts while she clutched his back, flexing underneath her touch.

She squeezed her thighs and rolled her hips, the pillow rubbing against her clit. Her moans echoed through her sparse apartment, as she recalled how hungry Brian had been in that moment. How much he'd wanted her and hadn't cared how much it showed.

She took her hand and pushed against her bedroom wall, writhing around on her bed sheets, repeating "yes" just as she had that day, squeezing her legs tighter with every plea.

"Yes... Yes... God yes..."

She rolled over onto her stomach and grabbed onto the edge of her mattress with both hands. She rode the pillow, just as she'd ridden Brian the day of the storm. His chest and his arms, sculpted by his years as a college athlete.

"Yes... Oh God yes..."

Brian's hands had stretched around her waist, in control, directing her as she rocked back and forth. He'd always been good at that. Directing her. He knew what he wanted and was never shy about giving...

some thoughts

. When it came to Abby, he'd had

some thoughts

about so many "little things." From her shopping habits, to how she held a fork, to the way she said "nuclear." He had

some thoughts

about her wardrobe fairly often. How many outfits had she gotten rid of in their first year together? ("You have to take my word for it," he'd say. "I see you more than you see you."). He had not been a fan of the outfit she'd worn on the day of the storm. And as she thought about how quickly, how carelessly he had ripped it off her that day, she loosened her grip on the mattress.

Then there'd been the blow up at the Magic Kingdom, while they waited in line for Big Thunder Mountain. What had started as

some thoughts

about which ride to get on next, ended in Brian calling Abby "worthless," by then the both of them too deep in a sea of strangers for either to escape. He apologized immediately, but it had instantly stained the entire trip, a moment as sour as the storm had been sweet.

And with that, Abby gave her hips a rest, unable to recover Brian's hunger. Or her own. She tossed the not-so-brand-new pillow and climbed back into the bag. Restless.

3.

The next morning, Abby headed out for a quick caffeine fix before the movers showed up.

Waiting for her order, she pulled out her phone. No messages.

She checked her Facebook page, then took a peek at Brian's. No word from him there in two weeks, not since posting a photo of himself sailing with a group of his buddies, the caption reading: Just another Sunday. #sailing #thuglife. He wasn't one to visit Facebook often ("I'm a grown man, Abby," he was fond of saying), so there was really no telling what he'd been up to, or what (or whom) had been keeping him so preoccupied lately. She looked through her own photos of him, enlarging her favorites.

Halloween, last year: They'd dressed as Black Widow and the Hulk, her body squeezed into a tight spandex body suit, his body shirtless and painted green. They'd gotten tipsy at a party and ended up making out for a good part of the night through different parts of the house, leaving early, then making love when they got back home. It took two weeks to get the green completely out of her fingernails.

Her college graduation: The day Brian met her folks for the first time. He'd made such a good impression on them. So poised, so charming. Indeed, he'd taken much of the attention off of Abby. Which was fine with her, because she still had no clue what she'd planned to do with the rest of her life. She'd entertained the idea that Brian had been there to rescue her from a hard decision, that he'd been there to shine in her place ("He's just so handsome," her mother couldn't stop saying. Incredulously.). On that day, he'd been proof enough of her success. And to reward him, she'd given him a grateful blowjob that night, and swallowed so he could see.

"Medium iced vanilla latte to go for WILL!" the barista called out.

"Excuse me," a voice said from behind Abby.

"Hm?" Abby said dreamily.

"Excuse me," he repeated, this time with a slight laugh.

Abby turned to see the face of a man - a Black man - looking back at her. "I think I may need that," he said. He had a neat look and a beautiful smile.

"I'm sorry?" Abby asked.

He looked down and she followed his eyes. She and this stranger were holding hands.

"Omigosh!" she said, jumping back and snatching her hand away.

"WILL! Medium iced vanilla latte to-go for WILL!" the barista repeat, plopping the cup onto the counter.

Abby was struck speechless as this Will graciously walked past her and retrieved his drink from the counter. He and the barista - another Black guy - nodded to each other in seeming recognition.

"Alright then," Will said.

"Alright then," the barista said.

Will shot Abby one more glance as he backed out of the door.

What was that all about?

Abby wondered, tucking her hands underneath her arms.

The barista read from another cup. "Large

hot

black coffee for ABBY!"

4.

Abby returned home to find a huge truck parked in front of her place. The side of the truck read: GoWest Moving Co. A bald guy with a belly slid out of the truck cabin and headed toward Abby's front door, clipboard in hand.

"Hey!" Abby yelled from her car. "I'm over here!" She parked and ran up to meet him. "Hey, you're looking for me."

The man checked his clipboard. "I'm looking for... A. Scott."

"I'm certainly a Scott," Abby said, laughing. The mover simply looked at her. She cleared her throat. "I'm Abby Scott."

He checked his clipboard again. "And is your address... 1701..."

"Yes, that's my address," Abby said. "I'm Abby Scott, this is my place, that's my stuff on the truck. Like I said, you are looking for me." Her charm was cracking in the heat.

"Sign here, Mrs. Scott," he said, handing over the clipboard.

"'Miss' actually," she said. "Or 'Ms.' Or you can just call me 'Abby.'"

"I can't wait for the opportunity," he said. Then louder, over Abby's shoulder. "Alright, let's do this!"

The door to the truck trailer rolled open and three men tumbled out, each of them wearing gloves and weight belts, and t-shirts with the company logo printed across the front.

5.

Because she'd been living at her parents' house, Abby required all new furniture upon moving to L.A. Nothing elaborate but definitely fresh out the packaging. So the movers had taken on the gallant tasks of both hauling and assembling Abby's new life. For her part, Abby did her best to stay out of the way, parking herself in the kitchen.

She was also stuck on her encounter at the coffee shop. Why had it shaken her so much? It wasn't as though he'd grabbed her butt. Just her hand, which was far more... well, just far more. But hadn't it been her who...?

"You cook?" a voice said, breaking in on her thoughts. Abby looked up to see one of the movers standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Who me? Do I cook?" Abby asked. "What do you mean?"

The mover nodded to the large box of utensils in the corner labelled "Chef Abby."

"I... yeah. Yeah, I like to cook," she said. "I don't know how good I am at it. I guess it depends who you ask. Whom!" She felt herself getting flushed. "H-how about yourself?"

He shrugged, "I can do a little somethin,'" he said. He was good-looking with high-cheekbones and a medium build. You could tell he worked out. Schlepping boxes and building furniture for the last few hours had left him soaking through his GoWest t-shirt. "I guess it depends on

whom

I'm cooking for."

Don't forget to breathe, Abby.

"I was wondering," he continued. "I hate to be a bother. But could I possibly trouble you for a glass of water?"

"Oh. Yes!" Abby said. "No trouble at all... um... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

He smiled. "You can call me Clay," he said.

"Clay," Abby said, almost to herself. She then realized that all her new dishes were still packed. She'd been using one mason jar as her only drinking glass in the meantime.

"Hey, I don't mind," Clay said. "My people from the South. I've had plenty drinks from a glass jar." His skin was sandy brown. His voice was sweet like cigar smoke.

Abby filled her only glass with water and handed it over to Clay, who tipped it in thanks. He took the water down slow, savoring it, tilting his head back, each audible gulp throbbing in his throat. A thin trail spilled out the corners of his mouth, ran down along the muscles in his neck and into his shirt. But he didn't wipe his mouth clean. He was too busy quenching his thirst.

"That sure was refreshing," he said.

You're telling me.

Another mover called out from another room in the apartment. "Ey man, where you at!"

Clay placed the jar on the counter. "I guess I better get back to work. It was nice talking with you..."

"Abby!" she said before he could ask. Then calmer. "Abby."

"Right," he said. Then he left to rejoin the others.

Once he was was gone, Abby walked over to the counter and picked up the mason jar. Then she took two fingers and rubbed them along the jar's round open mouth. Slowly at first. Then faster.

6.

Abby sat on her new couch, tying back her hair. She was enjoying a calm night at home. Just her, a glass of wine, and Alex Trebek.

"What is Myanmar," she said to the TV.

Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID and took a sip of wine. She answered.

"Hi, Mom... Nothing, just hanging out at home tonight... Nothing's wrong, I'm fine... Mom, if you thought I'd be out, why did you call...?"

Abby had busied herself earlier by unpacking her stuffed animals. It was always her first step when she moved. To her dorm. To Brian's. Back to her folks.'

"Who is Mozart... Not you, Mom... Of course I know who Mozart is, that's why I said it..."

Life had been such a mess not too long ago. No job. No partner. No home. Which wouldn't have been so bad had Abby not lost all three in such quick succession. Her parents had gladly taken her in; she was their baby girl, after all. But they had also picked up where they left off the day before she left for college. Constant check-ins (She was always "fine."). Family dinner every night -

at

the dinner table, lest she be interrogated about what she'd planned to eat instead; going on errands - sometimes with her mom, other times to escape her; church every week ("God rested on Sunday so that you don't have to," was a favorite DiDi-ism).

"No, Mom, I haven't heard from Brian... No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me..." Abby took the last sip of wine. "Is that right?... I'm not surprised, he's worked very hard. I'm sure he deserves it..."

She got off the couch and strolled around her apartment. She slid across the floor in her socks. The whole place smelled like wood and the spectre of plastic.

"I don't know why it didn't work out either, Mom... What is 'Homicide'... Not you, Mom. That would be

matricide

.... Kidding..."

In the kitchen, she poured herself a refill.

"I know murder isn't funny, Mo-..."

She heard a noise coming from outside.

"...."

She shot a look at the back door.

"Wait, Mom," she said. "Can you hold on a sec?" She put the phone down on the counter. She could hear DiDi still talking as she walked away. She stopped at the door and listened. For some reason, she tapped the knob before taking it, as though there were a fire on the other side.

The back door led to a common space, with a table and chairs, a gas grill, and a swimming pool. As Abby stepped outside and away from her doorway, she was struck by the quiet of the evening, as sudden and stark as the sound that had brought her out there. She moved only a few feet from her door, peering from side to side. Seeing nothing, she went back inside. DiDi was still talking when she picked the phone back up.

"You don't say," Abby said "...Uh huh... Uh huh... Of course I'm listening... I was just--"

Abby gasped at another, louder sound from outside. Only this time, it was more...like a splash?

She swung the door open and ran back outside, so fast that she didn't even put her phone down. Her eyes went immediately to the pool. She could make out a figure gliding through the water. A man.

When he reached the edge, he lifted himself out with a one swift, strong move. He stood before Abby with water dripping down his chest and stomach, and off his arms and his...

"Let me call you back, Mom," she said into the phone, hanging up mid-sentence.

He wasn't wearing his GoWest t-shirt this time. Or anything else for that matter.

7.

Underwater, Abby could hear her heartbeat. More. The thumping engulfed her, ran through her hair, swaddled her arms, and crept into spaces otherwise hidden. The water protected her and fondled her all at once, and she liked it.

When she emerged, Clay was sitting on the ledge of the pool, his feet in the water, just watching her with a knowing grin. She drifted toward him and docked between his legs. He was still erect. She lifted herself up so that her breasts nestled his cock. It was so long. She had no idea how it would feel, but she knew that she wanted it inside of her. All of it.

Abby gripped his cock and kissed the top of its head, sweetly, with just her lips. Twice. Then again. With each kiss, her tongue slipped further out of her mouth, until she was not only kissing, but tasting, more and more of it disappearing into her mouth. Her tongue ran along the edge of his head and danced along its tip. Then she opened her mouth wide and swallowed as much of the cock as possible. Which wasn't much, but enough to elicit a hungry grunt from Clay. She moaned, feeling him against the roof her mouth, traveling to the back of her throat, then retreating as she moved her head back up, wrapping her lips around his tip. Kiss. Repeat...

8.

Inside her apartment, Abby crawled onto her bed, soaking her sheets with pool water. She sat up, watching Clay, who'd followed her in. He was so sure with his movements, his walk so deliberate. He approached her at the end of the bed. He hadn't cum at the pool, so his dick was still thick and throbbing, and ready. But through it all, Abby noticed that he never took his eyes off of hers. He didn't just want to fuck. He wanted to fuck her.

But first, he dropped to the floor and gently opened Abby's legs. He held onto her thighs and Abby could feel his tongue - as long and strong as the rest of him - spreading apart the lips of her vagina, creeping inside, and rolling around. Abby covered her eyes with her hands. She wanted, at once, to both close her legs and open them wider for him to reach further in. She could feel her face growing hot in her hands. She wasn't used to men going down on her. It made her feel so vulnerable, so exposed. And anyway, it'd never worked for her before. Not with Brian. But Clay, this strange man she met only that day, he worked her pussy with the familiarity of a daily commute: he understood where to go

and

how long it should take to get there.

Abby grabbed fistfuls of Clay's hair, pulling his face deeper into her cunt. His tongue obliged, diving in all directions. She squirmed as his tongue ran clockwise from her clit to her taint, then back again. His tongue roamed down to her asshole, and he teased its entrance while Abby held her breath. She didn't know what to make of it at first and she resisted, pulling back (

What the heck? Wrong hole!

). But he held on, and ensured her that he knew very well what he was doing. This was definitely new territory for Abby, but she eventually relaxed. And and when she did, it felt so good, like a current running from his mouth though her lower half. Clay was so present. He clearly wanted all of her, and the thought of that turned her on. She took her fingers and circled her clit. She was so wet by then that her fingers easily slid inside. Deep. Her moaning filled the apartment as she quickly fucked herself to climax, Clay's tongue tightly tucked inside of her ass.