The Ultimatum

"I don't want to hear about how the gardener you're hired is working out or anything else about the garden you're putting in down at Aquia Cove except in resale potential. I want to hear a date when you've moving up here to my apartment in Alexandria, Stacy."

Jason didn't couch it in terms of an ultimatum, but that essentially was what it was—what it had been for the past three months that I'd continued with the renovations on the cottage overlooking the Aquia Cove off the Potomac River north of Fredericksburg, Virginia. I had continued despite Jason's increasingly expressed distaste for the place and my continuing with my plans to renovate and keep the house. This part of Jason Jamison, who was an aide to a deputy secretary in some administration or other in Washington, D.C., was coming out more and more by day and was as irritating as it was distressing.

He was taking the same tack with my writing. I was a novelist—Romance novels. It paid the rent and I enjoyed it. But it was too low-brow for Jason, especially after he read one. He called it erotica, but I let him know that the Romance genre was more open now and that what I wrote certainly did rise to being erotica. But he'd said, "You'll have to change that after we're married. I can't tell people in government that my wife writes dirty novels."

"They aren't dirty novels," I said, gripping the cellphone hard, while I looked out toward the river view at three sides of my enclosed back porch study and watched Tonya, my new garden trimming a holly bush. He certainly didn't mind doing stuff in bed with me that was way more kinky than anything I had put in a novel—well, so far. I'd been tempted to do more.

"They're trash," Jason declared, and I clicked the phone off.

He'd become increasingly domineering and overbearing. I'm not sure it had been a good idea to allow him in my bed. Suddenly after that he took over and was telling me what I could and could not do in my life. I couldn't write my Romance novels. I couldn't renovate this bungalow I'd found on the river and loved, even to the point of keeping it as a retreat from Washington, D.C. I'd told him that I was able to write here, not in the hustle and bustle of the D.C. area, but he'd made no effort to understand that.

Neither had Ted before him. When I'd first brought Ted here, he couldn't see the potential in this place other than a place to fuck. If only he could see it now—restored. The only improvement left was the garden, and finding Tonya to work on that had been a godsend. She'd come as a parttime worker in a local nursery to advise on what to put in where, and I'd hired her to work parttime in putting it in. After it was in, I hoped to be able to keep her parttime to keep it alive and looking good.

I tried going back to my writing, but when I found that I was writing my protagonist as being more than a bit more risqué than was my usual form—and with a woman rather than a man, I came back in the real world. Perhaps part of my problem was that Tonya was weed whacking now right outside my study's bank of windows. What was now my study had once been a glass-enclosed back porch. I stood and went to the window and watched her for a while. She was such a beautiful young woman—ebony but statuesque, always moving with assurance. I rapped on the window and, by hand gestures, invited her to come in for a break to share a beer with me. I told myself that it was to end the racket she was making with the weed whacker so that maybe I could get back to work. But I think it was to put some stirrings to rest. If that had been the case, it didn't work. It didn't put the stirrings to rest; it gave substance to the stirrings.

We sat on Adirondack chairs on what was now the back porch, overlooking water on three side, swigging beers and chatting amicably. What I'd wanted to settle, though, got exacerbated.

"Here we are, two women alone this weekend," I said.

"Isn't Mr. Jamison coming down for the weekend?" she asked.

"No. He's bogged down in his job in Washington, D.C." I didn't want to reveal that he loathed this place and wanted me to sell, which would end Tonya's employment here.

"Suits me," she said. "I'm just as glad there are no men in the house here."

Honesty time. I wouldn't force her to pretend about Jason, especially when I wasn't all that sure about him right now myself. "Oh? I know you didn't take to Jason much. But are you down on all men?"

"I'm sorry. It's out of place for me to talk about Mr. Jamison."

"Oh, let's be honest about everything here. If you don't like Jason—or men in general—we should be open with each other about that."

"We should be entirely open with each other," she said, giving me a rather pointed look, which set me back a bit. But I recovered and she went on, "Down on most men, yes."

"You don't have much use for men?"

"I've never met one who didn't want to use me or anyone else for his own need. I'll have to say that even though I haven't had much of a look at him, I get that same idea from that man of yours, Mr. Jamison. I don't think he's half good enough for a handsome woman like you, with writing talent, and the gumption to restore a place like this. I think you should hang on to your independence."

She'd said I was handsome, which hit a tender spot. "You don't think I'm too . . . plump?" I asked. I'd had a lifetime battle with what some charitably had called curviness.

"I think you're just right. Curvy. I think it's called voluptuous. Women pay plastic surgeons to give them what you could rightly call your joy and glory."

I smiled at that and must have shifted in my seat and pushed my breasts out a bit, because she gave me a pointed look and said, "If you're asking me what I think you're asking me, no, I don't go with men. I go with women. I'm sorry if that surprises or angers or makes you uncomfortable. But that's the way it is. If you don't—"

"No, no, that's fine, Tonya. I wasn't prying for that." But wasn't I, I wondered. "It does surprise me, but that's all."

"And it doesn't make you uncomfortable—the two of us being here, alone?"

"No, not that either," I said. But it did disturb me in some way. This was the opposite of what I had thought I'd been establishing in this little chat. I had found I was writing a character like Tonya into my novel and that I was finding her very attractive—and not just in looks. I thought a chat with Tonya would dispel that character from my thoughts and the novel, but I could see now that it wouldn't. "No, it's just fine for it to be just us women at the bluff for now. I'm hoping that things settling down would help me get my current novel finished."

"Well, for that to get done, best we both get back to work then," she said, a bit gruffly.

"Yes, that's a good idea," I agreed, standing and taking her empty beer can from her.

For some time later, though, I stood at the window watching Tonya work in the garden rather than sitting back down at the computer. I'm sure she realized I was watching her. Then, still restless, I decided to take a long bubble bath and then dress and go into Fredericksburg for a drink and dinner for the first time in a long time. I was feeling restless and more than a bit rebellious after Jason's demanding telephone call and the evocative chat with Tonya.

Jason was always telling me that I should dress more feminine. He, like Tonya, had said my curvy figure and big breasts were an asset and I should show them off rather than my usual roomy blouse and baggy slacks look. I picked out a frilly shirt dress that buttoned all the way down the front and draped to just beyond the knees in a soft fall. Looking at myself in the mirror, I had to admit that I felt "girly."

* * * *

My favorite local restaurant in Fredericksburg was the Mason-Dixon Café on Princess Anne Street, nearly across the street from the Old Mill Park. When I drove there, though, I found that it was closed for renovations. It had, indeed, been a long time since I'd come into Fredericksburg for a drink and dinner. I parked anyway and walked down the side street running along the side of the café. I saw another place, with a Stan and Bob's sign out, claiming to be a restaurant bar and with an open sign, so I went in there.

That may have been a mistake. It was a small, intimate place and, at first glance, I liked the atmosphere of it. A menu posted above the bar said they served shrimp and clam baskets as well as drinks. But, in looking around, it appeared that the ways the couples were paired off here—men with men and the few women here not with men—I would be out of place. I'd come in alone. Maybe I should have taken the place's name—Stan and Bob's—as a sign. I didn't want anyone to think I'd come in to be picked up. Before I could turn and leave, though, a friendly waiter came to me, handed me a menu, asked if he could get me a drink, and showed that he wanted to usher me to a table. I asked for a Manhattan on the rocks and followed him.

Then, before I could decide this was a bad idea, a woman carrying a beer, pushed away from the bar and came over and asked me if I wasn't Stacy Stevens, the novelist, who she'd heard lived near Fredericksburg and had seen at a local book festival. When I acknowledged I was, she asked if I minded if she joined me. What could I say? She was someone who knew I wrote novels. She was a fan.

Her name was Samantha Taggert—Captain Sam, she said most knew her by. She was a Marine, which I didn't find all that surprising, because she certainly looked squared away and had both a military and a bit of a masculine bearing to her. She was quite strikingly good looking, perhaps in her mid-thirties. She was trim, with close-cropped black hair, little apparent makeup and not needing any to be striking, and she was wearing slacks, a white blouse, and a men's cut jacket, the combination of which had probably given me the masculine vibe. She said she was a training instructor at the Quantico Marine base not far north of here on the Potomac River. My cottage wasn't much south of there, so we compared some notes on local businesses and places of interest. I could find it easy to see her as a drill sergeant, because she spoke in clipped and precise tones and seemed fully in control with herself and everything surrounding her.

I found her interesting and informative to talk with. She certainly knew my novels well and was complimentary—and not only of my books. I'd put on a feminine dress for the first time in a long time, having stayed close to the cottage for the last few months where I could schlep around in shorts and a halter top, and she complimented me on that and on my looks as well. I nearly blushed at the attention I wasn't used to receiving. I, indeed, had been trimming down a bit, although I didn't seem about to trim some of my curviness. She complimented me on that as well, which came as a surprise from a female soldier. I was quickly gathering her up as a character to appear—favorably—in one of my novels.

The conversation was so comfortable that, three drinks later, it had gotten quite late. I was describing what we'd done in renovations to my riverside cottage, and she'd shown interest in that as, she said, her family was in construction and renovations, when she looked at her watch and said, "Oh, but look at the time. I'm on a two-day furlough. I was going to find someplace to stay here in Fredericksburg, but I don't have reservations. It might be—"

"You could come out to my cottage for the night," I said. "It isn't far, and it's on the way to Quantico. I have a couple of guest rooms, and we've been discussing the renovation out there. You could see them for yourself."

I'd had four drinks, I'd been having thoughts, and I was having such a good time—not having had such a good time for several months. Still, I expect I realized what I was offering.

She followed me to the cottage in her Jeep Wrangler. To her credit, we did do an extensive walk through of the house, and she seemed genuinely impressed with the renovations. She certainly knew her stuff concerning construction and carpentry.

We sat on the sofa, having another drink, talking about how late it was, when she leaned into me, and I leaned back. While we kissed, at first tentatively and then more deeply, with Sam taking command, she cupped the back of my head with one hand, holding me into the kissing and expertly unbuttoned and flared both my dress front and her blouse.

"What lovely, full breasts," she murmured as she put her hands on them, make a chill go down my spine as she brushed her thumbs against my now-swollen nipples.

Her breasts were pert in comparison to mine, which were frequently termed voluptuous, but hers and mine rubbed together electrically as she pressed into my body. Pulling out of the kiss, her lips went down to my nipples and sucked on them, as I lay back into the sofa and moaned. Her hand was on my knee, moving under the hem of my dress, and as she continued making love to my breasts, the hand move up my thigh, under the material of the dress—all the way up. I moaned and involuntarily rock against her hand as she ground the heel of her hand into my pussy through the wetting material of my panties.

She took her mouth away from my breasts long enough to whisper the question, "Yes?"

"Yes," I murmured back and gave a little lurch as she held my right nipple between her teeth and gave it attention.

I heard myself murmur, "Please, please," as she slipped my panties down and off my legs. I didn't know if I was pleading for her to stop or to hurry. It didn't matter which. The woman was in full command. Her hand was gliding up my thigh again, my legs went to jelly as she reached me again at the core. I lay back into the sofa panting lightly and moaning as Sam expertly owned me. Her fingers glided through the folds of my pussy, searching for and finding the nub, and rubbing there, causing me to writhe and cry out in ecstasy. While her mouth worked on my breasts, her thumb worked on my clit, and her fingers entered and worked me, I panted and moaned, sobbed and groaned, writhed under her, and, eventually exploded. And then when she didn't stop as both Jason and Ted would have done, but continued, I exploded again . . . and then again.

"We're not finished here. Let me carry you to your bedroom," she said in a low guttural voice afterward while she was completing the unbuttoning of my shirt dress, laying me fully exposed to her searching hands, and I was collapsed underneath her, completed for the moment, but being lifted ever higher by the continued stroking and dominating touch of her fingers.

"Not

my

bedroom, please," I whispered. "Not that. One of the guestrooms." I wasn't saying no. But it had been Jason in my bedroom—and Ted before that. I wanted to try this—I'd now already experienced this and there was more to come—but there needed to be a separation.

Sam carried me into a guestroom and lowered me onto the bed. She'd brought her large purse with her, and my eyes went big when I saw her draw a thick-shafted strap-on phallus out of it. The shaft was covered with rubber nodules. I'd never seen a strap-on cock before, but I had no trouble discerning that this was one.

"No, you wouldn't," I said, with a gasp.

"Yes, we will," Sam declared.

And then she did.

I lay on my back on the bed, panting, and watching her in disbelief, fascination, and anticipation, as she strapped the phallus on and greased it up. And then, without ceremony, exercising her command as a Marine, she turned me over on my belly; positioned the head of the cock between my folds, as I trembled under her; leaned over me, grabbing my wrists and forcing my arms over my head. The thick phallus penetrated, stretching me and punishing my channel walls with its rubber nubs. In complete control, going for what she wanted from me, she went deep with a cock thicker than either Jason or Ted could boast; and fucked me silly.

She knew just what to do and when to do it—how to drive me crazy with the nodules on the phallus—when to slow down and when to speed up. In contrast to the men who'd had me, she knew the first orgasm didn't have to be the last, and she teased several out of me before I descended into molten gelatin, she'd had enough herself, and she rolled off to the side and granted us both rest and sleep.

The next morning—Sunday morning—I woke to being alone on the guestroom bed. The sheets were tussled, I was naked, and I woke languidly stretching, using my hands to experience the glory of my body for myself. I was glowing, exhilarated. I wasn't won completely over by any means, but, ever the writer, I was sure that this experience would add to my writer's understandings and writing world.

I rolled off the bed and padded around the cottage, not fully awake and feeling the four—or five—drinks I'd had the previous night—in addition to . . . that . . . other. I didn't expect to be alone. I went to the front windows. My car was there but the Jeep Wrangler was gone. She hadn't left any contact information. She knew where to find me, of course, but something told me she wouldn't be back. I took Sam to be a casual one-time girl. She'd gotten what she wanted from me. This wasn't the beginning of a relationship. It wasn't because the night hadn't been more than satisfactory for both of us, I firmly believed. It was just her soldier nature—fuck 'em and leave 'em. Sam had certainly been that—a soldier in command.

I went back into my bedroom. I heard her whistling in the garden. Not Sam. Tonya. I went over to the window and watched her work. I'm not sure I even fully realized I was naked. Tonya saw me and stood there for the longest couple of minutes, the two of us staring at each other. It didn't take more than a gesture from me—moving a hand down to my pussy and fingering my folds—and Tonya was at the door to the master bedroom. I walked over, took her hand, and led her to the guestroom with the bed with the tussled sheets.

Tonya—big, statuesque, black Tonya—was a dominator too, one to take control and to take me completely. I lay on my back on the guest bed, with Tonya crouched below me, gripping my wrists in her strong hands to hold me in thrall to her, pressing her face into my V, working me with her mouth as I bucked against her and cried out in ecstasy. I exploded and then again. Then she was moving up the bed over me, coming down on top of me, possessing my nipples with her mouth, grinding her pussy against mine, getting a hand between me and her, entering me, fucking me with her fingers. And then rising, hovering over me, staring down into my face, capturing and searching my eyes, as her hand worked my pussy. Fucking me with fat fingers and big knuckles while I writhed and panted and groaned and fired off . . . again and again and again. Fucking me, fucking me—taking me to a place where no man had, no man could.

Later, after Tonya had showered and gone back, whistling, newly in command, to the garden, I bathed, dressed and, feeling strangely content, with possibilities opening up rather than closing down, went back to my study and resumed work on my current novel. Several things were now certain: My world of sexual preferences had now opened up vastly, my novels would now justifiably be categorized as erotica, I was definitely keeping Tonya in my garden, and Jason could take his ultimatum and jam it up his ass.