What Happened in Calabasas?

"So how've you been?"

He sighed. It was a heavy question. Where would he even start? His failing wine bar? His messy breakup? His recurrent migraines? His months-long involuntary celibacy? He had no clue. For a year now his life had been nothing short of a clusterfuck, something like flying glass shards everywhere ready to pierce him in the eyes or in the nads.

The current situation wasn't much help either. The inquirer and him were on the way to Calabasas for a wedding of two people he honestly hated, and the inquirer in question was a woman he'd been hopelessly attracted to for the better part of 4 years.

When he'd first met Layla in college, she was all he could think about for a while, the forefront of his fantasies: killer, burgundy-cased smile, large and glistening kohl-lined eyes, flawless black hair that cascaded down her shoulder to her breasts in angelic tresses.

And her breasts, oh man, were they every man's dream. Perky and plump, much too big for the rest of her relatively petite frame, they were often the first thing that captured his eyes. She often dressed to display them, too; drunkenly, she'd confessed to him that she loved her tits, and made sure everyone else did as well. The rest of her body wasn't a shame, either - a cute, bubble butt, toned thighs, thin, attention-grabbing waist. She was every man's wet dream, and she knew it.

"Hello?" his torturer asked, snapping her fingers. "Carlos? You kind of zoned out there."

He looked at her, snapped out of his stupor. True to character, his eyes found her tits first, only partially covered by her scoop neck tank. He brought his eyes up to hers quickly.

"It's... not been great, honestly." He confessed. They'd always been honest with each other, having been close ever since they met; for him at least, partially honest. That was part of what made it so torturous. He could tell her every little detail about his life, except his toe curling attraction to her, the way she creeps into his fantasies, the way he screams her name when he masturbates, the way he wishes the women he fucks were all her.

And the worst part, the cherry on top, the reason why his feelings have so beyond repressed that Freud would have loved him, was that she was engaged. To no one else but his very own brother.

His own blood and flesh, he thought sullenly. Betrayal.

She looked sympathetic, and placed a comforting hand atop his on the gearshift. "How are you coping up with the divorce?"

He snorted sardonically, trying not to dwell too much on how soft her hands were. "Awful. She wants the apartment. She wants the cat."

Layla winced. "The cat?"

Carlos shook his head sadly. "I knew when I married her she was possessive. I thought it was cute back then. My mistake, I guess."

It's not a lie. He'd always liked that his ex-wife was possessive, even if it got a bit extreme sometimes. It explained her hatred for Layla, possibly because she knew her then-husband's, er... soft spot, for her. It was fucked up, sure, but he liked that someone was willing to fight for him. Even if it was the wrong person.

"Hey, that wasn't something you could have foretold. Cut yourself some slack."

He shrugged, and from the corner of his eyes he could see Layla frown. She'd always hated when the mood was off, or things weren't right between them.

"Let's play a game," she suggested, just as he wondered how she'd take matters into her own hands. He grinned.

"Like what? Truth or dare?"

Layla huffed. "As if we're teenagers."

"Got a better idea?"

Silence, for a beat. And then a begrudging, "...No."

Carlos chuckled again. "Okay. I'll go first. Truth or dare?"

"Dare," she hadn't waited even a second. It was true to her character; she was a spitfire beauty, always ready for a challenge, an adventure, always chasing something exciting. Truths were too boring for her.

"I dare you..." his eyes wandered to her the ziploc of cherries from which they'd been snacking on in Layla's lap. "...to tie a cherry stem with your tongue."

"That's all?" Layla laughed. She popped a cherry into her mouth and wiggled her tongue around a bit. In a few moments, she opened her mouth to present her artwork. The neatly tied stem left Carlos impressed.

"Didn't think you could do that," he admitted, laughing.

Layla grinned. "Luis taught me."

Luis. Fuck. The mention of his brother -- her fiancé -- had him sitting straighter, the smile vanishing from his face so rapidly, it was comical. He'd nearly forgotten about Luis.

While Layla and Carlos had met in college, Carlos's older brother Luis and Layla only got acquainted at graduation. Some would call it a whirlwind romance, but Carlos knew it was a union motivated most definitely by lust. When either of them were drunk -- or on some fateful occasions, when both of them were drunk together -- they would regale Carlos with painfully detailed stories about sex with the other. It went beyond torture, into dangerous territory, something like dangling treats in front of a dog but yanking it away once he reached for it. It was a reminder for Carlos that his deepest desire would always, always remain just beyond arm's reach.

"Your turn," he choked out, a pitiful attempt to dissuade his self-harming thoughts.

"Truth or dare?" Layla asked, looking up at him sweetly.

"Truth."

"You always pick truth. Too much of a pussy?"

Carlos shook his head. "More so a man of control. Pass me some water?"

Layla laughed, playfully rolling her eyes as she popped off the cap and passed him the bottle. He took a generous swig, making sure to focus on the road ahead.

"Whatever. Uh... when was the last time you jerked off?"

Carlos nearly spat out the water in his mouth, falling into a fit of coughs. The car lurched to the side as he attempted to save himself from choking. Layla instantly grabbed the bottle and stabilised the wheel, looking at him with wide eyes.

"What kind of question is that?" Carlos coughed.

"What?" Layla admonished, defensive. "We're adults. Plus, I couldn't think of anything else."

Carlos shook his head as he gripped the steering wheel. The last time he'd jerked off... was thirty minutes before they began their trip two hours ago. Pitiful, he knew. The thought of seeing Layla, being alone with her for five hours had got him a bit too worked up.

"About three hours ago," he admitted, feeling suddenly dim.

"What?" Layla was laughing. "Seriously?"

It was his turn to get defensive now. "I just... needed to blow off some steam."

She continued laughing, much to his dismay. "Whatever you say, Carlito. I know you were just excited to see me."

She meant it in jest -- she always did -- but she had no clue how right she was. Carlos gulped and changed the subject quickly.

"My turn now. Truth or dare?"

"Dare." Typical. A tough nut, this one.

"I dare you... to show me the second last picture in your camera roll."

"You're way too nice with these," she teased, opening up her camera roll. The moment she opened the Photos app, however, her eyes widened.

Carlos noticed this, tearing his eyes off the road to look at her for a bit. "What? Something happen?"

Layla blinked emptily, suddenly refusing to meet Carlos's eyes. "Nothing, just... I can't show you."

"What, too much of a pussy?" He teased, echoing her earlier words.

He expected her to add to the banter. Instead, she glared. "Not funny."

An odd silence descended upon them, which left Carlos confused. Was she not telling him something? What was going on?

"Lays, what's gotten into you? It's just a picture. Don't tell me you're chickening out now."

The two successive hits to her ego seemed to have dealt their blow. He could sense her hesitance waning in an attempt to prove herself, but she still looked unsure. "I'm not chickening out, it's just... it's, like, uh... intimate?"

Carlos furrowed his brows, ignoring how his heart jumped into his throat on hearing the word intimate leave her mouth. "What does that mean? Lays, it's me. You know I wouldn't do anything."

Layla was still frowning, though his words appeared to make her reconsider even further. She bit her lip, appearing to be mentally debating something. "I guess..."

Silence dawned upon them for a bit, and something was tingling at Carlos's fingers. He wasn't stupid -- he'd suspected what it was. Even though he'd've given anything to see it, be it a lung or kidney or his entire net worth, he had to respect her wishes.

He opened his mouth, about to say something along the lines of It's okay if you don't want to, I get that... before Layla interjected.

"Whatever. It's not that big of a deal. I'll show you."

He looked at her, wanting to make sure she was really okay with him seeing, but her phone was already in his face, and on the screen was more than he could've ever wished for in a lifetime.

He felt his jaw slacken and fall wide open. It was a nude, just as he'd expected, but the sight nearly tore him to pieces.

There she was, in front of a mirror with her phone in one hand. The other was buried between her toned legs, possibly in the midst of rubbing her clit. Layla's expression was one of pure eroticism; though her face was partially occluded by her phone, he could make out her closed eyes, furrowed eyebrows, puckered lips, as if she was frozen in ecstasy. Her large tits were on full display, nipples perched proudly and erect, almost careening. Her areolas were perfect, big enough to grab attention. Before the image could be burned forever in his head, before he could make sure that his next sex fantasies could include a peer-reviewed, accurate visual of what Layla's nude form was actually like rather than an approximation, Layla turned her screen away. He looked at her, speechless (and afraid that if he tried to say something, he'd get slapped in the face), but she averted her eyes quickly, cheeks red with embarrassment.

"Luis... asked for some pictures while he was away on his trip. So, you know..."

Once again, the mention of his brother snapped him out of his stupor. Fucking Luis. Inwardly he'd always cursed himself for introducing the two of them, but now he was more regretful than ever.

"It's... not a big deal. Just nudes." He managed, but the part of his brain that judged whether that was the right thing to say had already been fried by lust by then. He prayed he was being at least a little respectful.

The car ride to Calabasas was painfully quiet after that, though not nearly as painful as the longstanding erection he'd had to deal with for the latter part of the ride. It didn't help that the image would come back to him every now and then, and his poor, relaxing penis would be cruelly called back to full force again and again.

When they reached and checked into the inn the wedding guests were arranged to stay at, he'd wordlessly helped her with her luggage and all but sprinted to his room. Once inside, he threw his bag and suit on the bed haphazardly, and before he knew it, his hands were unbuckling his belt and pulling his cock out of his underwear.

It was already hard, no surprise, and he began stroking it without any further delay. He needed release, so bad, just like he needed so so bad to grope Layla's tits, flick and pinch at her nipples, take them in his mouth and suck them, claim them. He needed so badly to feel his cock inside her moist, tight pussy, hands gripping and kneading her taut ass as he pound into her, recklessly, intensely. As he stroked his cock faster and faster, he imagined not for the first time what it would be like to fuck her hard and intense. He imagine the slapping of their skin together, her big tits bouncing up and down with every thrust.

He stroked and stroked, alternating between stimulating his sensitive head and jerking the rest of his length. After a bit, he could feel the pressure build up, greater and greater until he finally, finally released, and it felt like an avalanche. He cried out her name, over and over again, as large spurts of his cum marred the fresh, crisp sheets and the even cover of his suitcase.

Fuck. Two minutes since he checked into his room and he'd already cum all over the bed.

He was still breathing heavily. His orgasm had been unusually intense, perhaps motivated by pure tension than anything. If even a picture of Layla's nude body could do that, he feared what seeing it for his own eyes would do to his wellbeing.

Yeah. He should probably clean up.

*****

The wedding was later that evening. The bride and the groom, two college mates of his that he'd resented for their large mouths and dim wits, but loved to have around for their penchant for throwing lavish parties, had looked thoroughly disinterested in their own ceremony, but excitedly cheered at him when they spotted him. Miserable enough for each other, he surmised.

His main problem was that he hadn't seen Layla since check-in. It was the reception now, held at a nice outdoor venue complete with an open bar. He'd struck up conversation with multiple people, some he recognised, some he only pretended to, but at all times, his eyes scanned the dense crowd for his trip partner.

An hour into the reception, he gave up and headed towards the bar.

"A rum and coke, please," he told the bartender as he approached the counter, an attractive blonde who winked at him as she obliged. Within a few moments, he'd decided that he'd chat to her, maybe try his luck. If nothing else, he came to this wedding to get laid...

"All by yourself, handsome?"

His head whipped towards the voice, and there she was; his eyes widened. Layla looked stunning in a shimmery ocean-blue dress, one that hugged her soft yet pronounced curves, accentuated her small waist and displayed ample cleavage that left little to imagination. A deliciously high slit revealed a vast expanse of her long, luscious legs.

"You look gorgeous," Carlos said, a little breathless at the sight.

Layla grinned, eyes appearing out of focus. "You look veeeerrry handsome as well."

He'd put in a considerable amount of effort into his look that night, knowing Layla would be there, so hearing her acknowledge him made his chest widen with pride. He'd been told he was a handsome man by multiple people, men and women alike, but to hear it from Layla herself was music to his ears.

She moved toward him, but tripped over her heels; he instantly caught her by the arms and helped her up. She was still grinning widely, and her dazed eyes revealed to Carlos that she was definitely drunk.

"Sorry, started drinking..." she said as if she'd read his mind, her speech slurring slightly. Her hands shot out to grab and play with his tie. "I needed... courage, or whatever. To talk to you. Make things right."

Of course. Things were awkward between them, and Layla being Layla just had to make it right. Though this sentiment of hers was also what got them into this predicament in the first place.

"It's just nudes," she reasoned drunkenly, still playing with his tie. Despite the "courage" she alcohol had given her, she still couldn't meet his eyes. He tried, desperately but to no avail, to not be so starstruck by her. Had she done something to her hair? It looked even glossier than usual. "But. M'sorry. I shouldn't have... made you see."

"Lays," he began, putting his hands on her shoulders and stabilising her before she lost balance completely. Inwardly, he preened at the touch. "It's okay. It's really not a big deal. How much have you had to drink?"

Her eyes flit upward, as though recalling animatedly. After a moment, she shook her head. "Don't remember. Two guys kept buying drinks for me... lost count."

Carlos attempted to suppress the flare of jealousy that shot up from his stomach. Pricks. Definitely trying to get into her pants.

"Did they try anything on you?" he asked, having to convince himself that his reason for doing so was concern for her safety.

"Of course they did," she said, rolling her eyes petulantly. "They were normal when we were drinking, but then they tried to get me to go with them. But then I saw you. My saaaaviorrrr."

She grinned at him and reached up to pat his head, instead falling into him.

"It's been a while since I got trashed like this," she explained, although it felt like she was talking to herself rather than to him.

"Let's get you to your room," he said, putting Layla's arm around his shoulders for support.

"Can you take off my heels?" she asked, pouting as she leaned into him. "My feet hurt."

He smiled slightly. "Of course, Lays. Anything for you."

****

By the time they'd reached Layla's room, she'd spent most of her energy. She sang throughout the journey up the elevator, and now regaled Carlos with a tale from their college days.

"Do you remember Ashley?" she asked excitedly, as Carlos fished her room key from her purse and opened the door. He made a face.

"The one from Finance 203?"

Of course he remembered Ashley. She'd glued herself to Layla's side and made moves on him incessantly. He gave in eventually, and they'd been sleeping around for a while. Nice ass, and a decent lay, if he had to judge.

Layla nodded avidly. "That's the one. She told me you were more of a missionary kind of guy. Is that true?"

Carlos shook his head. He was way too sober for this conversation. The problem was that Layla had a hold over him, even when she was stupidly drunk; he could never not oblige her.

"I guess," he conceded. He plopped her on the bed, and sat down beside her. "Although that was years ago. Now I'm open to anything."

"Anything is so vague," Layla whined, grabbing and pressing herself into his arm. He tried not to think about her tits pressed into his bicep. "Be specific!"

Carlos sighed. "I don't know. Missionary, cowgirl, doggy, whatever. Anything."

"Cowgirl?" Her eyes lit up, like a kid hearing the word candy. "I love cowgirl! Luis and I do it all the time!"

"Mhmhmm," Carlos replied, trying not to wince.

He'd be lying if he said a part of him wasn't enjoying this conversation, the way the alcohol made Layla so horny and reckless. She was always a very sexual person, and liberal with they way she spoke about it, but being drunk had always amplified that part of her tenfold. He'd always loved this side of her, but right now, it was pushing his limits too much, toeing the line. He wondered if she'd remember all this tomorrow, how she'd react to her own brazenness. Layla was a good person. She'd never acted untoward to anyone after getting with Luis, not even playful flirting. Ever since she started dating his brother, there was always a clear boundary between them, despite his hopeless, intense, repressed attraction to her; a boundary that was reinforced by the respect he had for his brother. But he knew that if he stayed for too long, he would lose his morals entirely.

"I should go now," Carlos blurted, seemingly out of nowhere. Layla looked up at him, her big brown eyes filled with confusion. She had long, beautiful lashes, he noted dangerously, that fluttered when she blinked. Yeah. Best to leave before he transformed into a beast. He went to stand up, but Layla's hold on his arm tightened.

"Wait! Not now! I need help getting out of this," Layla crooned, pointing to her dress. She clawed at the zipper on the back of her dress, unable to reach.

Carlos gulped. Yup. He was fucked.

***

A few minutes later, they stood in front of the bed, Layla with her hair pushed to once side, showing Carlos her zipper. "Zips are sooooo hard," she crooned, sounding less like the whip-smart industry professional she really was and more like a bratty sorority girl. Jesus, Carlos wondered, just how much booze had she had?

He thought back to the guys who'd kept plying her with drinks. If she hadn't found Carlos, would she have been with those fools? What would they have done with her? Would they have led her back to their room, and taken their turns with her? Would Layla, in her horny, drunken stupor, beg them to fuck her needy pussy? Would they have played with her ample tits, gripped her ass, each wrapped an arm around her waist, take turns kissing and biting her lips as they filled up both her holes?