Oopsie

OK, so like for what it's worth, I totally don't think he ever meant to hurt anybody. Ha! Look at me, thinking again. Used to be something I was good, hard as that is to imagine. (Imagining, btw, I'm actually pretty good at, but only for like cocks and dicks and sucking cock and taking dicks in my ass and getting cum on me and stuff.)

But seriously –

stop giggling, me!

– he didn't mean to. Mr. Garcia's gonna be fine, right? It's like they show on TV, medicine is super hard, but smart doctors people always fix 'em. Dumb-dumbs like me are only good for fucking everything up and fucking everyone, um, down? That doesn't make sense. I do like fucking though. I wish I'd fucked Mr. Garcia before everything went poopy. Poor guy.

What? My fault? No way! You can't expect someone like me to know any better! Or know much of anything, really, except for sucking and fucking and stuff like that. Do you want a blowjob? Oh, sorry. Yeah, you're right, should probably wait until after they finish mopping up all the blood and ick, otherwise my knees would get all blech.

What, not even after? I know these hospital clothes looks gross, but come on – they made me put it on! I wanted to stay naked, but Dr. Matthews said I could only fuck him later. He's such a nice man. I think he even wanted to pay which, which is so unnecessary but totes thoughtful, ya know?

OK, you're right, I'm probably not making much sense. Thinking with my cunt again, am I right? (Seriously, am I?) OK, so let me start at the beginning. Or at least, like, where I remember things beginning, though I guess it's worth saying that I basically don't remember much any more. I mean, hence all... that. Ew.

Poor, poor Mr. Garcia.

I'm sorry, your cock is super tenting out your pants, doctor. You're sure you don't want me to...?

Fine. OK. The story. (Then can I blow you, maybe?)

________________

Five Days Earlier...

"Damn, baby, dat ass!" hooted some random asshole as I strode past.

I suppose to make sense of that, and what followed, some manner of introduction is incumbent upon me. My name is Whitney Bishop. I'm thirty-two years old, and have only recently completed an inordinately time-consuming and extraordinarily expensive education. I'm the youngest of four children, the first in my family to even go to college, much less beyond. I've worked my ass – "dat ass" as it has recently been called – off to get where I am.

Like any such woman, I've come to value my mind over my body. Beyond mere window browsing, men have never interested me for their physicality, nor have I ever had the least bit of interest in men who prize me for mine. Yes, yes, I'm 5'10", symmetrical facial features, exercise regularly, take care of my hair and skin, and I like to think it shows. We live in a superficial world, after all, and while my body is the least part of what makes me who I am, I recognize that presentation often matters. Besides, the mind is a part of the body, after all, and, having only one of either, I aim to take care of them both.

Successful, fit, conventionally attractive... Needless to say, I get hit on all the time. Walking down the street, at the gym, shopping for groceries... hell, my creepy neighbor Barry is like clockwork, emerging with some excuse to be in his back yard to chat me up over the fence any time I'm in mine. Best thing about winter in New England, really, that it keeps me indoors and away from his leers. Not that I'm not used to it; I have an arsenal at my disposal with which to fend off unwanted advances, ranging from disregard to outright bitchery. Tending towards the latter, if I'm honest. I don't feel any obligation to be courteous to people who see nothing wrong in forcing their flirtations on me. To hell with them, frankly.

So, that said...

I grinned back at the random asshole before I even realized I was doing it.

That was weird. It probably wasn't the first weird feeling I'd had that day, but it was the first time I'd

noticed

feeling weird. All morning, I'd been in kind of... a mood. I mean, not to get all graphic, but even young, beautiful, successful, well-educated and happily single gals like myself sometimes feel the occasional carnal urge. Reflecting that I'd spent the past three days of my 10-day winter vacation cooped up in my house, I decided it might be fun to go out in the world, hit the mall, maybe do some people watching. Maybe be watched by some people.

Was that out of character for me? Sure. But we all have whims, don't we?

I'd even gotten dressed up. Nothing fancy, but usually I shop in something as black and formless and unapproachable as possible. Today, I hit the mall in makeup, lipstick, freshly shaved legs and freshly tweezed eyebrows, three-inch white heels, and a little black dress that I'd bought for going to clubs years back when I'd still imagined I might ever want to go to clubs. I looked good, and I knew it.

Naturally, it had attracted attention, but I don't think it was until I waggled my eyebrows at the creep who openly cat-called me that I realized I'd really been enjoying it.

What the heck, I figured. May as well ride this feeling out, see where it takes me.

With the perv still leering after me, I started that heel-to-toe walk my mother had taught me, before she'd ever thought I might actually be able to use my brain to make a life for myself. I was more lean than padded these days, but still I could feel the extra jiggle in my toned caboose, the way my skirt was twitching side to side with every step. I took my time about it, strutting down the thoroughfare and drinking in the heads snapping to look after me as I passed.

So yeah, that went on for a couple hours.

I kept a mental log of it. Six cat calls, four wolf whistles, and three men who actually had the stones to actually approach me. One of them was actually pretty hot – I mean, if I'm letting myself be as superficial as he was. I gave him a fake number out of instinct, kicking myself afterward for not giving in. Surely he'd have been good for a one-night stand. I owed it to myself, didn't I? And where the heck do they sell underwear in this mall? Mine is freaking

soaked

. I'd been sort of... leaky, I suppose you could say, all day.

After a trip to the ladies room, during which I spent several minutes insisting to myself that masturbating in an unkempt public restroom is

not

OK, no matter how much I might want to, I simply discarded them in the bin.

(And yes, I played with myself, but only a very little. Ish.)

By that point, I wasn't trusting myself to be around people any more. I hopped in my car and went straight home, clenching the steering wheel to stop myself from teasing the skin of my thighs with my fingernails. Most of the time, anyway. I figured at a red light it wouldn't be so bad, and only once did it turn green while I was still titillating myself. If the burly gentleman in the jeep behind me could have seen what I was doing, no way he would've honked. No, he'd have gone straight home and beat off, thinking about the hot brunette with the thighs and the nails. I'd have been in that guy's spank bank for

years

, I bet.

Yeesh, why did

that

thought suddenly seem so arousing? Get your mind right, Whitney.

Before long, though, the city gave way to the suburbs, and I was cruising (a little too fast) through the streets of my neighborhood. Children had made snow forts out of piles of plowed snow, lobbing clumsy snowballs at one another across slushy streets. My mailwoman waved to me as I passed her. Barry was out shoveling his driveway next door, and hefted it in an awkward greeting. There was something kind of manly about seeing a guy doing outdoor work. Hot, kinda.

Holy shit, did I just think

Barry

was

hot

? Three hundred pound Barry with at least ten years on me, as hairy as the animal whose name he almost shared everywhere except atop his head...? Hot?

No. No, that was only a stray thought. I focused on other things. Practical things. How badly the Davenports needed to repaint their trellis. A consideration of calling the HOA for that shitbox van one of Stanley Goff's Christmas guests had left parked across my street for the past week. That I needed to use my cucumber in a salad or something before it went bad.

That I could use that cucumber somewhere else. Maybe

then

put it in a salad. That'd be so...

I sped into my driveway and flew into the house. The garage door was too slow so I simply parked in the driveway and sprinted up the front walk, nearly tripping in my heels due to my haste. They didn't make it off my feet before I was in my bed, fingers stabbing needfully in and out of my pussy, working my clit like I was apologizing to the poor thing for neglect. Only I never quite... got there. Every time I reached the brink, I held back. I was going to savor this one. The fires kept building and building to what would surely be the Mount Vesuvius of orgasms. I fueled the inferno, stoking it, teasing it, growing, bubbling, surging, preparing to erupt, and...

And

nothing

. Dammit! Maybe I shouldn't be surprised; after all, this wasn't the first time I'd had difficulties getting off. My college boyfriend – and my grad school boyfriend – and my... well, you get the point – had each had a difficult time getting me to climax. I've always had a shy vagina, I guess. But never with myself! What was wrong with me? I was as turned on as I'd ever been in my life, but I probably laid there for half an hour, pumping until my forearm was burning, nethers boiling, as I tried and failed to climax. Any moment now, surely, I told myself a dozen times. All I need is to...

Ding dong.

Dammit!

The first two times the doorbell rang, I ignored it. I wasn't expecting anyone, and I was in the middle of something – namely, my legs. By the third, it was majorly killing my buzz, and I was not having it. Whoever the hell this was, I was going to give them a piece of my mind. I stormed to the door – remembering at the last moment to squeeze my breast back into my dress – and threw the door open.

"Good evening!" said a man on the other side. I detected a trace of an English accent on his lips.

But I was already going. "Where do you get off, ringing and ringing my doorbell like that? I don't know who you are, or... wait. Wait, don't I know you?"

"You tell me, miss."

I squinted at him as I appraised the man before me. He was nothing especially remarkable. A little older than me, well-trimmed beard, clad in slacks and a polo shirt as if it weren't twenty-some degrees outside. I had definitely never met this man, but somehow, he looked bizarrely familiar. As if I'd

seen

him, but never actually

met

him.

Then it hit me. "You! You're that creep from the restaurant the other day!"

I'd meant it as an accusation, but he only smiled. "I'm flattered a pretty girl like you even remembered me."

I hadn't remembered him, not really, but I remembered the occasion if only because it had been so recently. A few nights ago, I'd been out to dinner with a couple friends from work, and there'd been this guy – literally,

this

guy – just staring at me through the whole meal. Not so overtly I could complain to the maitre d; every time I had made eye contact to convey my disgust and disinterest, he'd looked away. So I endured it and went home. He'd been more brazen than most, but beyond that it hadn't stuck with me in the least – until he knocked on my door.

"You have about five seconds to get off my property before I dial the police and go for my gun," I said, snarling. The nerve of this man! Even if he was rather good-looking, in an understated kind of way, and even if right now I could

really

use a... no! No, Whitney, be good.

Still, I didn't try to shut the door. He really was quite a specimen. I couldn't say why, exactly, but something about him really turned me on.

"Sure. I wouldn't want to be a bother. I only thought if there was anything I could help you with..."

"Help... are you insane?!"

"Perhaps I misread our limited interaction the other day."

"Damn right you did! How did you even know where I live? Did you follow me home? Huh? You some kind of stalker, pal?"

"I tell you what, I'll come back in an hour to see if you'd like any assistance." He ogled me as boldly as any man ever had. Damn, but his confidence was sexy. Even if he was a total creep, that is. But a sexy one.

"Don't count on it, jerk."

Finally I slammed the door on him.

________________

It was three hours later.

The man hadn't returned.

I was losing my mind.

It wasn't that I hadn't come yet. I had. Twice, I think. It's hard to say, because each time all my vag would give me was this pitiful trickle of pleasure that only served to frustrate me further. If an orgasm was a lightning bolt, these were dragging your socks on the carpet and touching a doorknob. Even that might be generous.

I needed something better. My fingers definitely weren't cutting it. (Yes, I tried the cucumber, but it was too much for me.) So here I was, ready to head out and find me a man. When I opened the door, I'd hoped to make it to the bars, but panting, ragged, desperate as I was, I was already thinking I might just have to suck it up and knock on Barry's door.

It was cold outside, I noted as the winter wind ripped across my bare breast. Whoops, forgot to tuck it back in this time. There we go. Whatever. I'd probably land a man faster if I left it out. I saw then that my car was still running; evidently when I'd gotten home I'd forgotten to turn off the engine. Huh. As I stumbled over to maybe get in, maybe shut it off and try my hirsute neighbor, I looked up at the sound of the door on that shitty van rolling open.

Inside the van was that man from the restaurant.

"Took you longer than I expected!" he called to me with a laugh as he hopped out and made his way across the street.

"Is... were you..." I was having a hard time making sense of it. Was that

his

van? I'd assumed it was the Goff's guest's, but... I didn't understand.

"My, but you are a sight, my dear. Having troubles?"

"I... yeah."

"Would you like to invite me in and take care of them?"

I frowned. Had he been camping outside my house the past few days? This was too weird. "No."

But then he said those magic words. "I have a penis."

I'd heard this cliché a hundred times, but I swear, in that moment, I actually got weak in the knees. He rushed over to stabilize me before I could slip in the snow, his hands initially grasping me under my arms but then settling on my hips. He didn't remove them.

"No," I mumbled. Mm, his hands.

"What was that? I'm sorry, I couldn't quite make that out."

"N... n..." I stopped myself. I

did

come out to find a man, didn't I? This guy, creepy thought he may be, was way more attractive to me than Barry, and a minute ago I'd been ready to jump his hairy bones. He was right here, and if he really had been camping out, stalking me, he was a sure thing. I could always kick his ass out when I was done with him.

Assuming I ever finished.

"OK," I said at last.

"OK? OK what, dear girl?"

"First off, I'm not a girl; I'm thirty-two years old. Second off, I said

OK

. Come inside." I started for the door, but as his hands left my hips, I realized he wasn't following. His feet were planted firmly in the ankle-deep snow. "What? What is it?" I snapped.

"I said you could invite me in, and invite me to take care of you. I can be persuaded, but you can't order me around."

"I... what? Don't you want to have sex with me?"

"Not as much as you want to have sex with me, my little sexpot. And as a creature as stunning as yourself is no doubt aware, whosoever desires the other the least controls the relationship."

I wasn't about to tell him, but I'd had that very thought many times, and much as it galled me to be on the other side of the inequality for once, he was right. "Fine. Will you come inside?"

"And...?"

I gritted my teeth, but the fire in my loins was unquenchable. It forced my mouth open again. "And have sex with me."

"What, no please? Hardly a courteous invitation."

I took a breath, then tottered over to him in my heels, wincing at the snow on my bare ankles, and took his hand in both of mine. "Will you please come inside and have sex with me?"

He looked down at my hands around his, at my heaving chest, all the while seeming... bored. "I'm not sure. I don't usually go for one night stands – not unless the girl in question seems truly eager to please."

Was he insane? I was literally pleading with him to use me for sex, and he was balking at it?! Still, I needed this. It was humiliating enough without having to risk finding another man and repeating it. With a willpower I'd almost forgotten I possessed, I made my tone syrupy sweet and painfully humble. "Sir? Will you

please

, pretty pretty please, come into my house and have sex with me? I'd be

so

grateful. I promise I'll make it worth your while. Just...

please

?"

His face softened, but didn't crumble. "Hmm..." The man stroked his bearded chin. "Try again, but this time on your knees."

I looked down at the three inches of snow coating the ground, then around at the dozens of windows that afforded a view of my front yard. The street in front of my house, where anyone could drive by and see. "What? Here?!"

"Suit yourself – have fun begging for strangers at the truck stop."

But as he turned to leave, I refused to release his hand. Wincing at the frigid, powdery snow as it stung at my lower legs, I knelt down on the walk and look up at him pleadingly. I didn't even have to fake it. I really did need it. This whole time, my nethers had not let me forget why I'd left the house in the first place. I'd never been this turned on in my whole life. I'd never even thought it was possible to be this turned on.

"Please. Please come inside. I'll be so good to you. I'll get you off as many times as you want, OK? I promise. Just

please

."

A smug grin crept onto his face. It looked very much like it was at home there. "Would you suck my dick?"

Ugh. I

hated

giving head. The taste, the smell, having your whole face full of some dude's belly, ignoring your own pleasure while he was up there thinking about baseball to drag things out.

Still, I needed this. "Sure. Yes."

"Before we consummate?"

I winced at the thought of the wait, but I could go another few minutes. It'd be faster before, anyway, and might help the sex last longer. "Yes. If that's what you want. Please? Come on, it's really freaking cold down here."

He chuckled, patting my head in the most condescending way I think anyone's ever dared try. "Tell you what. Get started on me, right here, right now, and I'll consent to your requests."

"Get started?" I blinked. "You mean...?"

"I mean." He undid his belt buckle and the fastenings on his pants as I tried to weigh this option. He wanted me to go down on him right here, in my front yard, in full view of anyone passing by, of my neighbors, in the snow? In exchange for the

privilege

of letting me have sex with him?

"No. No, I won't do it." I could barely hear my own voice, it was so small, and even though I wanted to feel proud of my resolve, all I could feel was horror that I might have to wait until another man presented himself. I was already sure that, whoever he would be, he couldn't hold a candle to this glorious specimen of manhood.

But he didn't walk away. Didn't scowl. Didn't even do up his pants. "So, she still has a boundary or two. Well then, let's just take care of that."

I had no idea what he meant, but by that point I didn't care. The stranger helped me to my feet with one hand, the other holding up his pants. He kept them there until the door closed behind us, at which point we – I, really – began tearing off clothes as fast as I could. He didn't even make me suck him off first – a prospect which, as I howled under a storm of my long-awaited lightning bolts, didn't actually sound so bad. Kind of exciting, really.