The Tawdry Tangerine Farewell Pt. 04

Unfortunately, thewinedarksea had a computer meltdown. I'm now really irritated at Apple because I valued his advice. But this is self-edited. I hope I didn't miss too many misspellings and grammar defects. Btw, I'm submitting these on sequential days, as promised. However, there appears to have been a bottleneck on the site admin side and I noticed Part 3 didn't come out the day after Part 2.

Anyway, Rick's happily getting laid by Miss Blonde and Stacked. Maybe Molly isn't happily getting laid by Mr. Tall, Dark and Interesting ... but she's getting back on her feet after bottoming out a bit.

But Kate now ... Kate's spent a lot of years never really looking closely to see if reality matches her assumptions about it and...

-C

Kate

I wondered how many women found themselves rethinking their relationships while in the middle of a blowjob. I suppose you'd count the ones with a guy they no longer found attractive. And the ones fed up with partners who wouldn't reciprocate. And, of course, those who just plain couldn't stand a dick in their mouth, not to mention what happened at the end. I guess the answer was: probably a lot.

None of those fit the bill for me — it wasn't what I was doing or whom I was doing it to. I didn't mind a blowie. I didn't even mind that there was a pseudo-audience. But I found my mind wandering down paths I wasn't sure I really wanted to go down, no pun intended.

This is sexy, I assured myself. Even the mild kink is kinda, well, kinky. But was a good sex life my standard now? Even if you throw in dinners and concerts and trips around the country. What about something more? Back in February, it all seemed so—

"Earth to Kate. Where'd you go?" My train of thought was interrupted. I looked up and met Scott's questioning expression. There was a faint concern that contrasted with the flushed cheeks and heavy breathing of his excitement. "Is this too much for you?" he mouthed silently. I shook my head no, as much as I could. "You sure?" — still silently so no one could hear — "We can forget the bet if you want."

In response, I slid farther down on him and sucked as hard as I could while my hand stroked what my mouth didn't cover. I felt his muscles go limp as he sprawled back on the chair with a gasp.

I went to UCLA. Scott went to USC. When the two football rivals met on the field, it was inevitable that Scott and I would be sitting on the couch, talking trash with each other. It was also inevitable that:

"Bet?" he asked.

"You're on. Twenty bucks a point on the final spread?"

He leaned in and whispered in my ear. "Whoever's up at the half gets oral for the entire half-time. Whoever wins gets whatever they want in bed tonight."

I looked at him in surprise as a loud, "What's the bet?" came out of the iPad in front of us. Scott's college roommate, Brendan, who lived out in San Clemente, was on the other end of the Facetime conversation. It was, apparently, a tradition that these two always saw this particular game together: in person when schedules permitted, over video when they couldn't.

Brendan was loud but not obnoxious. I liked him, and he and I were giving each other as much shit as Scott and I were. Brendan's wife, Laurie, stayed out of the verbal sparring but cheered UCLA's successes on general bust-your-hubby's-balls principles.

I ignored Brendan. "Deal," I said to Scott.

"Hey, come on, what's the bet?"

"None of your business, Brendan," I said, hoping I didn't blush a little.

"Sex!" I saw Brendan turn to Laurie who was coming back into view with more beers. "That horndog is betting sex on this game, honey." She shook her head as the antics. "Hey, how about a little of that kind of bet here."

"I didn't go to UCLA," she said.

"No, but you went to San Diego, and they're both UC schools. How 'bout it?"

"In your dreams, buster." She looked at me on the screen. "Turn him down. If they win, they'll be insufferable anyway."

"Too late!" Scott crowed.

I got up to go get some drinks and munchies for us, and to get out of the smirking gaze of the two men. I came back with my hands full of chips and dip to find Scott typing on his phone. "Who are you texting?"

I heard the faint ding of a response coming in. He held it up so I could see:

◂◂ What's the bet?

▸ Nope. She'll kill me.

◂◂ I'm your oldest buddy. I'll take it to my grave.

▸ Bullshit!

◂◂ Laurie wants to know now too.

▸ Get used to disappointment.

◂◂ I'm invoking the bro code.

He gave me a look, then typed quickly for a second but I didn't hear the swoosh of it being sent. When he was done, he held it up so I could read:

▸ Halftime=oral, final=whatever

I looked at him in shock, shaking my head. He tilted his head inquiringly, "Why—" he started to mouth quietly. Then he held up a finger, muted the iPad and turned the camera away. "Why not?"

"Why are you trying to embarrass me in front of them?"

"Who says you'll be the one losing?"

"Umm, you and Brendan have been saying it for the last half-hour."

"And you've been saying you won't. No one knows what'll happen. I'm just putting a little thrill in it. You yourself said you've got a little exhibitionist in you."

"Exhib ... I am not doing it in front of them! No matter who loses."

"Of course not." He shook his head at the obvious. "C'mon, didn't you ever get a little thrill bringing a boyfriend home from school, and your parents knew what you were doing up in your room?"

I thought about it. I had. I took the phone from him. He let it go without resistance. "I forgot beers," I said.

He went and got two. "Can I have my phone back?"

I shook my head. Setting the beer down, I backspaced over what he had written and started typing:

▸ One condition.

◂◂ Name it

▸ No teasing her about it. Would cost me my balls.

◂◂ Np

▸ Seriously!! Would fuck things up no joke.

◂◂ My word as a Trojan

▸ Halftime=oral, final=whatever

I hit Send on the final line and handed the phone back. Flopping on the couch, I looked back at his delighted face just as a whoop came out of the iPad.

Brendan's word was good. His eyes met Scott's for a second when USC, up a field goal, managed to hold on to the half, but he said nothing. I got up with the empties and walked off camera, then beckoned to Scott and pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the room, out of view. His eyes widened. He reached for the iPad but I shook my head and pointed at the chair again.

Now I forced my mind to stop wandering, to keep my attention on what I was doing, intent on dragging this out for the full twenty minutes as promised. Knowing there was an open microphone right behind me, even if they couldn't see, put an edge on this.

Were they on the other side, listening? Or had they walked away to get food, thinking we were in the bedroom? The not-knowing made this sexier.

I let his excitement build until his breathing got faster and his legs gave an occasional tiny tremble — a sign he was a minute or so away — and then bent to suck one of his balls gently into my mouth. His scrotum tightened and he made a little sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. I kept the pleasure going that way while the urgency subsided.

Then I wrapped him inside my mouth again and went back to the slow, steady bob of my head. Periodically, I'd raise my eyes to meet his, knowing eye-contact made it more erotic. When he got close a second time, I sat back on my heels, ignoring his little gasp of frustration. I unbuttoned the flannel shirt I was wearing. His eyes tracked my fingers down each button. I wished I'd worn something other than a sports bra, but I knew it didn't really matter because, as I slid it off over my head, his eyes dropped to feast on the sight of my breasts. The room was warm enough for a flannel shirt and jeans but, bare-topped, my nipples sprang erect.

I raised back up off my heels and leaned in. By my second relationship in college, I'd learned the perfect angle to hold my body over a sitting boy so that, on the downward stroke of my head, my breast would press into his thigh, only to pull away on the upstroke. The cycle of contact, absence, contact kept him aware of it, not letting it fade into a background sensation. I used it, letting the soft feeling of my nipple flattening against his skin contrast with the firm strokes of my tongue up the underside of his cock. I worked him close a third time, letting him get further into the trembles this time before I backed off.

The edging was getting to him. His breathing was turning ragged and I wondered if it was loud enough that it could be heard. I pulled off him and, with a conspiratorial smile, put my finger to my lips. I waited while he fought his breath under control, raking my nails gently up and down his thighs.

Reaching to the side, I took his wrists in my hands, holding them as I took him back in my mouth, as deeply as I could without gagging. Ever-so-carefully, I let my teeth touch against him and then slowly dragged them up his length. His body stilled and I pressed down on his wrists, urging him to accept.

He sucked in a breath as I let my teeth catch against the glans, not enough to hurt but hard enough to trap him. I knew this situation triggered primal apprehension — but scary is erotic too. Raising my eyes reassuringly to his, I kept him pinned between my teeth as I let my tongue, as soft and yielding as I could make it, stroke over the head.

Again, I edged him deep into trembling territory before lifting my mouth suddenly. "Scott." I barely breathed the word. I had half an ear tuned to what the commentator on TV was saying and I knew play was about to recommence. When Scott's eyes finally regained their focus on me, I said in the quietest of whispers, almost mouthing the words. "When the fans roar on the kickoff, they'll never hear you moan."

Letting go of his wrists, I circled the base of his cock with one hand to hold it steady and, with my other hand, stroked his perineum, pressing hard enough to transmit pressure through into his prostate. My mouth closed around him and I started a faster movement, my cheeks hollowing from suction. I worked as much saliva as I could into my mouth, then concentrated on steady pressure and letting my tongue ride the ultra-sensitive skin of the frenulum.

I heard the roar from the TV that signaled the kicker was moving and increased to a frantic pace. Scott's pants turned almost verbal until, with a convulsive jerk of his hips upward, I felt him start to fill my mouth. Fighting off the gag that threatened, I swallowed as fast as I could, never stopping my motion, milking as much from him as possible.

When he finally stilled, I lifted up off him and met his smile with one of my own. Grabbing my beer, I took a swallow and swished it around in my mouth, bringing a little chuckle from him. Then I pulled my flannel shirt back on, not bothering with the bra.

We grabbed some more munchies and moved back to the couch. I did notice that Brendan met Scott's eyes again: a faint raised-brow question met with a slight tip of the head answer — nothing I'd have noticed if I didn't know Brendan knew the stakes — and slight grins. I was okay with that as long as I didn't have to deal with being teased and nonchalantly took a sip of beer with my attention on the game.

UCLA pulled it out at the end. I was relieved because my mood had shifted. I wasn't upset at Scott — actually, quite the contrary — but that earlier train of thought hadn't gone away.

"I'm taking a raincheck on collecting my prize. We can fool around if you want but I need some time to plan." I cut off his protest. "Nope. You've probably been figuring out how to suggest my ass for a long time — don't bullshit me, I know what 'anything' implies — so it's only fair I get to think." His sheepish expression told me I'd nailed it.

"I'm not mad," I reassured him. "I know you'd have let me out of it if I really didn't want to." I was glad I didn't have to disappoint him. Anal wasn't something I was anxious to do, but no one likes to welch, and I hadn't thought through the consequences until halfway through that blowjob.

Later, while he was in the shower, I picked up my phone. "Hey, Mom. Could I stop by to talk to you tomorrow?"

"Sweetie, we're in the Keys with the O'Connells. I told you we were going."

"Oh, I forgot."

"Can it wait until we're back?"

"Sure."

"Okay. We're home on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Come for dinner during the week. Is there something special you want to talk about?"

"Men. My life. But no criticizing or yelling. I want advice, not to be made to feel like crap."

Rick

His name was Gavin. I'd offered him coffee from my thermos to buy a few seconds to get over the feelings of intimidation from his size and attitude — something subliminal in the latter hinted that breaking things was a pastime he enjoyed. Then I told him what I wanted: to get some compromising stuff from someone who wouldn't want to give it up.

"Tell me 'bout him."

I did, ending with, "Spends a lot of time on his boat. Has a driver who lives on it. I think he might double as a bodyguard. He's kind of got that look, you know?" Gavin nodded.

"And what's the plan?"

"Get invited onto his boat under the guise of being a fellow asshole. Then, have you crash the party and get what I want from him."

"Why that way? Why not just jerk the fucker up when he's not expecting it?"

"He sends the driver guy away when he's having a 'party' or, at least, that's what I'm told."

Gavin asked me the same thing Bruce had, "You're big and it don't look like you're a weakling. Why not you?" I gave him a slightly more honest answer than I'd given Bruce.

"This guy's got a lot of money and could make real trouble. Not just for me. I've got friends and family here he could hurt, and I think he's capable of it."

That earned me a grunt. "It'll cost you $3,000, half before, half after, cash only."

I didn't say anything immediately and Gavin looked at me with amusement, misunderstanding my hesitation. "You thought you'd get something for cheap?"

"No, actually, I thought it might cost a little more."

"Not very good at this negotiation thing, are you?"

"Gavin, what I want from this guy is a video file. That means he can have a million copies of it and, just because he gives me one of them, I won't know if he has more. I'll pay you $5,000 to help me make sure that doesn't happen."

That earned me another grunt. "What if he don't send his guy away?"

"I'm already paying you almost twice what you asked."

It was hard to tell behind the beard, but it seemed like that brought a flicker of a smile, not one that reached his eyes, though. "Heh. Now you're Mr. Negotiator. Five K if it's just the dipshit, seven if his guy's on board."

"Deal."

"Gimme one now, retainer." Again, that half-seen flicker of a smile. "Another when you have a date. The rest when we're done." He saw my hesitation. "I got a pretty simple code. If I give my word, it's gold. If you fuck with me, I hurt you badly. That's it." He dug in a pocket and handed me a card from some bar with a number scrawled on the back. "Call me when you have a date."

"What the hell is this?"

I was sitting in the stern lounge area when Connor hailed me from the dock. I grinned at him. "Overblue 54. Semi-custom houseboat out of Italy."

"It looks like, I dunno, like a shoebox."

"Catamaran hull. Sun deck up top's the same size as lower deck. The square bow," I waved in that direction, "is an enclosed porch off the master stateroom. So, yeah, pretty much shaped like a shoebox," I laughed. "Probably not far off the space on your 70, though."

"It's the weirdest thing I've ever seen."

I shrugged. "I guess. I'm used to it and wouldn't trade it. It's no good for open ocean but can easily handle the Gulf coast. It's done all six thousand miles of the Great Loop twice: my dad and I when I was a twelve, and then me, two buddies, and a bunch of girls one summer in college."

That last claim wasn't a lie, but the next certainly was. My girlfriend at the time would have cut my balls off and used them for bait.

"Nominally sleeps eight but a few more works if you're sleeping three to a bed." I winked so he'd be absolutely certain what I was suggesting. After the nibble, you need to set the hook hard. "Beer?"

Two beers later, he was looking at the pictures around the main cabin. He stopped on one that showed four women grinning for the camera. "Hey!"

I looked over and made a mental note: I hadn't gotten around to de-Katie-ing the boat yet beyond handing her a bag of clothes I'd dumped out of the lockers. Connor was looking at a picture from an informal get-together with some of Katie's friends from work and their spouses.

"You know Sophie Lane?" he asked in surprise.

"Yeah, why?"

"I always thought she was smokin'."

I handed him a third cool one. "You're not kidding." This hadn't been part of the plan, but that's no reason to look gift horses in the mouth. "That evening ended up in the hot tub up there and, yeah, smokin' is an understatement." I nodded to myself as if in fond memory, failing to mention that, while I agreed that one could describe Sophie as smokin', the only two people naked in the hot tub were Kate and I after everyone else left.

"I think those Hollywood types all like to play, most of 'em. I mean, the stories you hear. Jesus! They run around like rabbits. I'd like to meet her."

"She's making a movie now. When she gets back, I'm sure we can have another party here. Speaking of meeting people, Molly Trevisani."

"She's away right now, too, doing some portrait in California. Hell, maybe it's Sophie. When she gets back next week, the four of us can go out. You and Leah, and me and Molly. Have ourselves some fun."

"She'll do it?"

"I guarantee it. Leah?"

I smiled what I hoped was my most lecherous smile and pulled out my phone. "After that party at Tori's?" He nodded. "Ever had a blowjob from a topless girl while riding the elevator of your building?" His eyes widened at the sight of Leah, in just the heels and panties she'd been wearing outside my apartment that night, kneeling in the elevator, staring up at the camera, breasts on full display.

Some very specific negotiation with Leah had produced a picture that I swore on my life would be deleted the instant after its intended purpose was over. "I'm used to being nude on film but this is a little too porno for me. I trust you, Rick. I really do. Don't make me and everyone else think you're a shithead."

There hadn't been a blowjob in the elevator. There'd been Leah waiting behind my partially closed door in a long coat until I had the elevator on our floor and the door held open, then a dash, a coat dropped, a click, and a dash back to safety.

"Fuck, that's a nice rack!"

"They're better in person."

Kate

I spent the week thinking about what I wanted to say to my mother. It would be a dicey conversation because I knew she was extremely disapproving about what I'd done and would find it hard not to judge and, well, tempers.

Part of the problem was that I finally admitted something to myself that I hadn't wanted to admit: the reason I tried to fight the divorce hadn't just been ego. Yeah, that was a lot of it, maybe even seventy-five percent. But there was that other part, the part that didn't want to burn bridges I wasn't sure I was done with.

The thing is, if I sat down and made a list of qualities I wanted in a husband, Rick rang the bell on almost all of them, including ringing it in the bedroom. Considerate, attentive, faithful, good-looking. His social discomfort was mildly frustrating at first but I eventually learned to regard it as sort of an endearing flaw. Moody at times but never spitefully so, just quiet. And as a father they didn't come too much better. Yeah, there was the occasional, "You take her! I've had it up to here," when Sammie was two and three but, by and large, he had that nailed.