Honest-Honest

Author's Note: Many thanks to shygirlwhore for editing, asking great questions, and offering invaluable feedback.

*****

Like a paycheck, I sent an email to Amy at the end of every month, telling her what was going on in my life. I asked about what she was up to. I didn't talk about us or beg to get back together; I knew it was over between us, but I needed her to know that I cared.

The months ticked off. Amy never responded.

I met an intriguing and beautiful woman. I spent time with her almost every day, but she was not my girlfriend.

I didn't go to Big Rock the next summer. I asked Amy if she would like to meet somewhere that week, just to talk. She didn't respond.

Same thing for the summer after that.

Throughout, I continued to spend time almost every day with that caring and gorgeous woman. Her name was Tamisha Wells, but she liked to be called Misha.

In those years after Amy walked out of my apartment, I showed up at family events, but for as short an amount of time as decency would allow. I would arrive a few minutes before the event, shake some hands, sit in the back, and leave immediately afterwards, never attending receptions.

Family reached out, and I was polite, but always too busy for a visit. I sent notes and gifts on birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries. During those hard years, my brothers both got married. Nana passed away. Uncle Deke's younger son got married. Then, Big Pop died. Several great grandchildren were born. The only ones who weren't married, besides me, were Katy and Amy.

During the fall of my fourth year in college, I got a curt email from Katy: Amy was engaged.

I sent a short note of congratulations to Amy, and I wished her well.

I wrote another note that I didn't send. It explained the doubts I had felt about the two of us. It summarized my inability to move on, and how every day apart taught me more about what I felt for her. It memorialized the jealous envy I felt for her fiancee. It expressed the idea that I didn't really know what it meant to be in love with someone when I told Amy that I loved her. My unsent note told her that I didn't know that I loved her until I knew that had I truly lost her. Finally, I wished her all the happiness in the world.

That message remained in my "Drafts" folder. I quit writing her.

The next spring she was married. I heard that Amy and her new husband went to Big Rock later that summer.

I spent time with Misha after work. We'd hang out at my crummy apartment for a half hour or so. We never went anywhere else.

I worked my ass off. When I graduated, I quit waiting tables; the president at the factory hired me as a paid management intern. Having cleaned the place for five years, I knew everyone's job. Within a year, I was running the swing shift assembly line. Every one of the line workers loved me. I knew them all, knew about their families, knew their jobs, and respected them. We kicked ass, and I was making really good money for being 24 years-old.

The three shift bosses—me and these other two guys—were all vying for the soon to be vacant Plant Manager position. It was something of a sham, though. The job was mine. My shift was the most productive, most cost-efficient, had the highest quality-control rating and the fewest work-related accidents.

Tamisha Wells worked the swing shift. It's where we met.

***

Misha was married and had three daughters, a four, seven, and a nine year-old, when she joined the plant. It was the start of my second year there, cleaning the factory and doing odd jobs every now and then for the management office. I was nineteen, and Amy had walked out of my apartment only a few weeks before.

Misha was a black woman in her mid-30s. She had beautiful eyes and a perfect, radiant smile. She was big in the chest, but short and slight. I wondered how those narrow hips of hers squeezed out three babies. She liked to wear her short hair up and over—a little bit punk rocker-ish, I always thought. She had a picture of her family next to her work station, which was the electrical wiring shop.

In those days, I was bored as hell from cleaning the plant. So, when I had the chance, I spent time learning what each position on the line did. Every now and then, the shift boss would have me fill in at spots.

I first got to know Misha when she taught me how to install the electrical wiring on the industrial reels our company made. I think I impressed her—my respect, my interest, my attention to her, and my eagerness to learn. Afterwards, I felt her eyes following me whenever I passed her station.

I did my job with pride, but make no mistake, this was a time of my life when I couldn't have been more despondent. I had lost Amy for good. At times, I surely wore that heartache on my face and in every aspect of my bearing.

Misha had been working there about six months when, one night as I trudged to my car, she walked over to me. There was an aspect of secrecy to her bearing as she approached me.

I greeted her and asked about her kids and school, but she seemed preoccupied. It was like she was sizing me up, gauging me. Then she spoke. Her voice was airy and sensual, never squeaky as her diminutive size might have suggested. I'll never forget her words.

"Michael, would it be okay if I came over tonight and sucked on your penis?"

I was astonished by her forwardness, but her expression and tone were what fascinated me. There was sadness and respectfulness in her demeanor, like I was a victim. She reminded me of a nurse asking a patient if she could do this or that to help with the pain. Misha also asked in a way that told me if I had said, "No," she wouldn't have held it against me; it wouldn't have changed our collegial relationship at the plant.

I said, "Sure."

She followed me home in her minivan and came into my apartment. I led her to the bedroom. Before I made any move, she asked me to lay down. She put a pillow under my head. Without a word, she unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, tugged them down with my underwear, and took me into her mouth.

She sucked me slowly and tenderly, like I was some wounded thing. She didn't ever look at me. When I told her I was going to cum, nothing changed. She just continued to suck on me.

When she had drawn everything forth and gulped, she drew back. She sat on her knees and wiped her mouth with her arm, staring at my penis. She licked her lips, and she looked—I don't know—she looked like she was savoring the moment. At the time, I might have said she was thinking hard about the taste of my cock and cum. Then, she smiled to herself, pulled up and fastened my pants, and rose from the bed.

"Care if I have a smoke on your little balcony?" she asked, looking over to the sliding glass door on the opposite side of my closet.

"Of course not, Tamisha."

She smiled, "You can call me Misha."

"Okay, Misha."

She picked up her purse and walked over to the balcony. I fetched an empty pop can for her ashes. We went out together and sat on the two little chairs.

She smoked in silence. She appeared to be deep in thought—good thoughts, it seemed. I didn't want to interrupt her reverie, so I kept quiet and looked out at the other apartments and the street, listening to the sounds of the city at night.

"Thank you for letting me do that," she said, finally.

"No, yeah—thank you. That was really great."

"I'm glad you liked it. I haven't done that in a while."

She must have sensed the burning questions I had.

"You remind me of someone—someone from a long time ago—and I just needed to. That make any sense?"

"Sure," I said, but I wasn't at all sure.

"Can we do this again sometimes?"

"Sure." I was more confident in that one.

"But, Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"You mustn't tell anyone, okay?"

"No way. I wouldn't do that."

"And I don't want you to try anything else with me. I'm married, and I love my man, and my daughters are my world. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Is it okay, then?"

"Yes."

She put out the stub of her cigarette. "I need to get home."

I walked her to the door.

She asked, "Tomorrow, then?"

I nodded, and we said good night to each other.

Misha sucked on my penis after work most nights. Very early on in our relationship, I asked her if I could return the favor. She thanked me and said, "No. I like it just the way we have it." I hadn't seen her naked, hadn't fucked her, hadn't ever taken her big tits in my hands. I hadn't even so much as grabbed her ass or kissed her.

Afterwards, she always had a cigarette on my balcony. We sat together and enjoyed the night air—even in the winter. We grew accustomed to each other, and we often spoke and laughed—about life, work, the world, and the future. Neither of us talked about the past.

One time, I asked about her past; I asked her if she had ever done this with anyone else.

She smiled, "One other person a few times, but that was years ago, before I was married. Now it's just you and my husband."

"Why me, Misha?"

"I told you: you remind me of someone."

"Who?"

She was silent for a few moments. "I'm not ready to talk about that."

"Okay," I said. Then, I asked, "Do you ever feel guilty?"

"No," she responded. "Don't get me wrong. My man wouldn't like it that I was doing this with you, but this isn't cheating. For someone else, it might be. For me it's more like...it's something else."

It seemed to me that Misha knew exactly what it was "more like," that she had the words to finish that sentence, but decided not to say them. I didn't pursue it. I had another question.

"Do you like it?"

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't."

"No, I mean, do you really like it. Does it excite you?"

She hesitated before saying, "I look forward it, if that's what you mean."

It was not what I meant. I shifted in my chair a little, and opened my mouth to clarify.

"Stop, Michael," she said, sharply. "Stop this right now."

"What?"

"I know what you're doing, what you're trying to get me to say. We can't ever go there—no matter what either of us wants. We can't. I won't. It's what we have or it's nothing, understand?"

"Yes," I said, sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Misha."

She reached over and squeezed my hand.

I wanted to fuck her. I didn't care about her husband. I wanted her to tell me that sucking my cock got her wet and horny.

***

When she first started coming over, I took what she was giving me and didn't think about anything else. I laid back, already hard in my jeans most nights, and watched her do her thing.

I had gotten some good blowjobs in my life—Amy's, when I stood at the foot of the bed, was easily the best. Amy had been full of slow, burning passion.

Misha was more clinical in her approach. She worked with paced deliberation; she was methodical. This was a process to her. She didn't waste energy on kissing it or licking it, or even messing around with my balls. She went straight for my cock, clasping it with her lips.

For some girls—most in my experience—sucking dick is really massaging a dick with your mouth, with very little actual sucking. For Misha, however, it really involved suction. How she gave head was more like how I imagined someone drawing snake venom from a bite. There was power in her tongue, lips, and throat. She drew me inside her mouth with force. Holding it in place and sucking with mounting energy, she would suddenly release. I felt the tension fall away and her lips would let my cock out all the way to the head. Then, she would take me back in.

I remember wondering if she thought that she could, truly, suck the cum out from inside me, if she thought of my cock as a big, meaty straw leading down to a pool of cum. But, the more she came over, the more I felt like she actually was doing it—sucking it out of me. She wasn't, of course—at least, I don't think it's physically possible, but, holy shit that suction. I could almost feel it, I swear, tugging inside my balls and deeper in my body, hauling that semen, little by little, out of me. I grew to love how it slowly built up to an almost aching force, and then released into soft wetness.

I came to feel like she was feeding off of me or that she needed my cum like medicine. She hungered for it, but never voraciously—always methodically.

One might think that, day in and day out and with how dispassionately she did it, I might have grown bored of it. No. In fact, as time passed, it took less time for her to finish me. I anticipated it even more. Fuck, I loved it.

On days when Misha seemed a little more tired, she let her chest sag down on my thighs, and while her lips clutched and drew on my cock, her fat, heavy tits squashed down on my legs.

I began to think of Amy less and Misha more. I grew jealous of her husband. I wanted her to be mine.

I scrutinized her body whenever I was free to. She was like Amy's opposite. Misha was short, maybe five feet tall. One hand was all that Amy's breasts could fill. Each of Misha's tits would have needed two hands to corral. She had short little legs, but shapely. And Misha's ass—so tiny—I could have held the entire thing in one hand.

My opportunities to inspect Misha's little booty were rare—stealthy glances at work, following her up the stairs into my apartment, and seeing it from the side sometimes when she gave me head.

I loved her body.

I also really liked hanging out with her on my balcony, talking. She was mature and confident. While she didn't talk about her past, her ideas and perspectives always seemed backed by the authority of powerful life experiences. It was easy to forget about Amy when I was with Misha.

But, this made the tension so much worse—to have this dark-eyed, bright smiling beauty spend time with me and perform this very intimate act on me, and yet to know that if I were to pull her to me and kiss her, just kiss her, I was crossing a line that might end our relationship. Such acts were forbidden. She was happily married.

***

It was about the time I heard about Amy's engagement when Misha did something uncharacteristic: she didn't have her cigarette afterwards.

I asked her about it.

Smiling, she turned to me and said, "Either I quit nicotine or the baby has to after it's born."

I didn't respond.

"That means I'm pregnant, Michael."

It took me a few seconds to find my conversational footing and congratulate her.

She thanked me and sighed, "I quit for the other three. I can quit for this one, too, but damn."

"Why not just quit altogether?"

"Someday I will, but I need something to look forward to after this one comes."

We sat in silence for a few moments. I had a question for her, but it was too selfish. I kept my mouth shut.

She must have sensed my thoughts. "We'll have to stop for a few months after I give birth, Michael. Don't think that I like it. These times are important for me. But, until then, I'd like to keep coming over, if you don't mind me getting a little bigger."

"I don't mind it."

"Good."

So, I continued to get blowjobs from Misha. Even though she was awfully tired some days, she still came over. As the months passed and her belly grew, she began taking me from the side, sitting beside me, leaning sideways, and pulling my cock toward her.

Near the end of her term, I could feel difference in the mass and thickness of her breasts when they rested on my thighs.

Then, one day, the blowjobs stopped.

I heard at work that she had a son, her first boy. I sent her a card and a Yankees onesie for the kid—she didn't want me to ever call or text her.

Days elapsed, and I sat in my empty apartment after school and work, thinking about Misha and, sometimes, thinking about Amy—she had just gotten married around the time when Misha's child was born. I hoped Amy found a good guy, someone who never spoke an unkind word to her and cherished her always. I wondered when I'd learn that Amy was pregnant.

Those days were just empty. I went to class, read and studied, worked out, worked, and went to bed. I was like a robot, trudging through a dull life from one task to the next. Life without Misha was different.

With her, I had forgotten what it was like to feel that heaviness in the balls, that need to cum so badly. Without her, I felt it again, and it reminded me of my youth, when I was a little shit, hoping like hell to find a girl. That heaviness is a motivator; it gets guys moving and seeking.

But, I didn't seek. I waited.

Weeks became months, and Misha, finally, appeared at work again.

She followed me home, and I was hard the whole way.

I thought I was going to explode in her mouth at the first touch of her lips. It didn't happen. Before she took me in her mouth, I felt something and flinched.

"Wait. What is that?" I asked.

Misha sat up. "What's wrong, Michael?"

"Something...something on my leg," I said and sat up. "Here." I pointed to a spot of dampness on my jeans and realized, instantly, what it was. "Oh."

"Yep. Got milk?" she said, smiling.

"I'm sorry, Misha."

"I hope you don't mind."

Her shirt was soaked through on both sides. Fuck, her tits were enormous. "No, I don't. I just...I didn't know..."

"They just do that, especially after it's been a while."

"You're breastfeeding?"

She nodded. "Mm-hmm."

"Do you need to do something?"

She shook her head. "At this point, I'm making way more than the baby could ever take. I'll pump and dump this batch."

"Huh?"

"I was planning on having a cigarette when we're done here. The nicotine stays in my body for a while, so when I get home, I'll pump the milk and pour it down the sink. That way, the baby doesn't get any nicotine."

"Oh."

She saw my hesitation. "That gross you out?"

"No. I just...I'm not sure I ever quite understood how it...you know, how that all worked," I said, gesturing to her chest.

"Here, wait," she responded, and she reached behind her back, under her shirt. Then, she stopped. "Michael, you have to promise me you won't touch me."

"I won't. I do."

She continued. Soon, her bra was unhooked. She slid it off and I saw little white pads in the cups. Then, she lifted her shirt over her head. I saw Misha's breasts. They were massive. The nipples were almost the same color as her skin, fat and ovular. A small droplet of milk appeared on the tip of one. Misha wiped it with her shirt. "I bring extra shirts wherever I go. Kinda have to."

I stared at her breasts. They were big in an almost cartoonish way.

She took one into her hands. "Watch," she said. She drew her thumbs across each side toward the nipple, and, suddenly, a tiny stream of milk spurted out, landing on my tummy.

"Oh!" she cried.

She quickly wiped my tummy with her shirt.

"They're pretty full right now. Sorry."

I shook my head: forget about it.

"Let me...this could get messy, Michael. Do you mind if I take care of this first?"

"No. Do what you need to do."

She took the same breast in both hands again, and then, glancing at me, declared, "It's just easier this way. Wait." Then, she raised the nipple to her lips and began to suck.

I was speechless. I thought she was going to go to the bathroom or the sink or something.

I watched her cheeks compress and her lips pull at the nipple. She nursed on it four, five, six times, and then her throat rose and fell. I heard her swallow. She resumed.

Her other breast began to leak considerably. I got the impression that it dripped out at about the same rhythm that Misha sucked on the other one.

I took her shirt and leaned up to wipe it off. Misha paused. She glanced at the shirt in my hands, and then nodded, resuming her sucking.

I pressed the shirt against her heavy tit. Through the fabric, I could sense the silky skin and the burgeoning fullness underneath. Fuck, it was incredible. I needed to toss the shirt aside and feel it for real, skin on skin. I wanted my hand there.