*** explicit ***
Bryson was a good family man. At
least, that’s how most people saw him. He was a hard worker, and he followed
all the rules: saving money for modest family vacations; paying off the 15-year
mortgage in just 10 years; sending his wife to the nicest spa in their
mid-sized town for Mother’s Day and giving her jewelry for their anniversary.
He always looked a little too focused, like he was living life on autopilot
while his thoughts were deeply anchored in the near-future. He practiced great
self-discipline in most areas of his life, almost reflexively. He didn’t have
much of a sense of humor, but enjoyed being around those that did. He was sharp
enough to detect when their jokes were aimed at or around him and was quick to
switch gears from passive to aggressive in his squelching of any attempt to make
a fool of him.
One spring, early on in that
marriage that he tended as carefully as his low-risk investments in cattle and
oil, he was sent down to American Fork, Utah to open a new branch of the farm
supply store he’d been managing in Billings since he was nineteen. He would
only be there a few months, they promised him, so he went alone, leaving his
then-fiancé and their one-year-old, Ruth behind. He rented a furnished studio,
and mostly ate take-out. The place looked like a college kid’s apartment, and
smelled like it too. And in truth, he wasn’t much older than a college kid
himself, but he’d built the life of a middle-aged man with his seriousness and
his lack of distractions. In Utah, he felt a little unmoored from his life; he was
too busy to do any grilling or to go fishing, and had only brought his
motorcycle for transportation. He had left the truck in Montana with the rest
of his possessions (the list of which included his girls).
On one especially hot day, after
dealing with an especially slow-learning cashier all afternoon, he didn’t turn left
at the top of the hill and ease down into the apartment complex’s parking lot;
instead, he straightened his Harley-Davidson soft tail and rode west, far and
fast. The wind whipped around his long, lean body and filled his chest with a
sense of freedom again. He was awake in a way he hadn’t been in years. With this
surge of adrenaline, he wanted to drink and fuck and smoke a pack of Marlboros.
He laughed out loud and opened the throttle wide.
Bryson had filled all his time with
work and sleep since April. It was now August and the summer’s heat was an
oven. When he saw a neon sign ahead he slowed the bike and the wind’s sandy
warm embrace choked him. He was lost, but with the flickering light’s promise
of Budweiser, he was found.
His mood improved after the third
cold glass of draft beer and he started chatting with the other cowboy-booted
and Wrangler-wrapped men nearby. A couple of thirty-ish women entered,
demanding attention with their laughter and their exposed skin – both in
obscene abundance. By then, Bryson was on his second shot of whiskey, so when
the taller, skinny one drew him into the tornado of sound he smiled and allowed
himself to be caught in the current.
She was, as most of her friends
would admit, somewhat obnoxious – a lot of fun to be around, but they also kind
of winced when they saw her through an outsider’s eyes. She was witty and
slutty and tough as nails. She was nearly covered in tattoos at a time and
place when that was still a rare sight. One of her party tricks was to guess
men’s height and shoe size.
After asking Bryson’s name she
said, “You’re six-four, aren’t you?”
Bryson glowed a little under this
flirtation, and simply nodded.
“Size….13?”
“You are goooood, ma’am.” He
grinned and shook his head, then bought the two women beers. The quieter one
had lovely curves and she smiled at him like she had a secret. Bryson felt like
he had somehow been cast as the male lead in a movie – the action all centered
on him, his reactions, his desires. He wasn’t used to this feeling, but he
liked it. A lot.
The two women giggled and guzzled
those beers, then bought another round for the three of them.
“Wait you’re from Montana?!” The
curvy one looked at his boots, then looked at her friend. “Tell him the joke!”
The skinny one lit up, then got serious.
“Ok, are you ready?” Bryson nodded
slowly, not sure he would be able to follow a joke, with his mind fuzzied by
alcohol and their presence.
“Ok, so there was this woman who
got dumped, right? And her girlfriends wanted to take her away to forget about
him, so they went on a trip to Montana because she loved cowboys. So
they go to the bar and meet some guys with big ole cowboy boots and hats and the
whole nine, right? And she says to the guy, ‘Wow, those are awfully big boots,’
and he says, ‘You know what they say about men with big boots…’ and the ladies
all laugh and whoop and encourage her to go home with the guy. When he wakes up
in the morning there’s a hundred-dollar bill and a note on the nightstand,
‘Thanks for last night. But please buy yourself some boots that fit.’”
The girls dissolved in laughter,
barely able to stand. Bryson smiled thinly and took another drink. They stood
closer and closer to him, touching his leg or shoulder as they talked, animated
with each other and pulling him into their frenetic, physical joy. He soon
forgot the tasteless joke and warmed under their attentiveness.
The skinny one stuck her finger
between the curvy one’s breasts and shouted, “Cleavage!” and they both laughed
again. His eyes followed her finger to the cleavage, but didn’t follow its
retreat. He was drunk enough to forget not to stare a little at the perfect
plumpness of the two sides and the deep crevice where they met. Their owner
reached out and tipped his chin up.
“Eyes are up here, bucko.” She
smirked at him, then stepped in and drew his hand to her breast. She put her
lips almost on his ear and said softly, “You can touch, but you can’t look…”
She drew back from him slowly and smiled into his eyes for a beat, then dropped
his hand and stood back. He blinked, unsure if the alcohol had tricked him into
imagining that exchange or if the sensation of her gloriously firm and silky-smooth
breast was really still on his palm.
They talked a little more, then the
girls scampered off to the restroom. Bryson sat a moment, dazed. All he could
think of was how to spend more time with those breasts. He headed back to use
the restroom as well and when he stepped back out, he nearly collided with the
curvy one. She looked up at him and smiled, bracing against him with a hand to
his chest. He ducked down and kissed her quickly, to which she responded by
grabbing a fistful of his shirt and kissing back.
“I’m married…” she smiled at him
and shrugged apologetically as she headed back to their cluster of barstools.
He shook his head and skimmed across the fact that he wasn’t.
“Whose bike is that?” The girls had
an obsession with motorcycles; they hadn’t yet been shredded by the loss of a
mutual friend to one.
“Oh, that’s mine,” said Bryson.
They clamored for who would get the
first ride, but the skinny one picked up on his gravitation to her friend and
stepped aside.
The warm night had pockets of cool
air; slight changes in humidity were like gentle slaps of reality brushing
along their dream state. The moon was bright and the city lights glowed up from
the valley, blurring the foothills and illuminating the giant, jagged peaks
above. They leaned into corners with her face pressed between his shoulder
blades, and on straightaways she put her chin on his shoulder and let her hands
roam across his lean chest and torso.
He was growing hard
which made it hard
to focus on the road,
so he slowed,
rolling to a stop on a dusty,
darker than black,
back road.
He twisted around in his seat and
kissed her again and she said, “Can we go to your place?” His stomach clenched
and his heart raced. He took a steadying breath, then roared the bike back to
life and raced the wind back the way they’d come.
His thoughts were shouting at him
through the fuzziness of beer and lust, reminding him of his other life – it
seemed like a dream to him, so far removed. Or was this the dream? Either way,
the two images were separated by walls of stone and pine, peak after peak of
rockiness between this dream and that one. Her hands were on his chest,
clutching his shirt with one fist and absently rubbing the ridges of his
pectoral muscle with the other. She bit his ear and he shifted the bike into
the highest gear and decided that this dream was the one to focus on for now.
His apartment was dark and he only
turned on one small lamp as they tumbled to his couch. He couldn’t get her
shirt off fast enough, then spent a long, satisfied moment with his face buried
in her cleavage before working on the bra. She giggled indulgently, and reached
for his belt, tugging him closer to her, but also attempting to disengage it.
“I’ll get that,” he murmured.
Flashes of that joke her friend
told were slipping through the beer-and-lust haze, but he focused on the taste
of her skin and the wealth of desire she so clearly had for him. This feeling
was maybe the best feeling he’d had in years. He filled one hand with one
perfect breast and nuzzled the other, teasing the hard little nipple with his
tongue and slipping a hand down her pants to sample the wetness he marveled at
having created. She squirmed and mewled with need for him. For him! He grew
harder and more focused the more he dwelled on this feeling. He was the object
of her desire. He was the champion of her fairy tale. He didn’t even really know
her, but she was giving him her breasts, her pussy. He felt omnipotent. He was
so vast that the world couldn’t hold him.
His fingers found the wetness he
sought and he gasped with the shock of its velvety smoothness. He tore at her
pants and she smiled, shimmying out of them. He plunged his face into her
verdant crotch and licked almost too hard in his enthusiasm. She flinched
slightly, then relaxed into him, spreading wider to give him room to work. He
was like a kid in a candy store, so filled with excitement at the array of
choices before him. She had reached into his boxers and begun to stroke him as
he feasted on her and the joke she’d laughed so hard at earlier flickered
across his mind’s stage again. Her desire for him didn’t seem to lag, so he
stayed focused on his delicious task.
“I want you inside me…” she moaned.
He slid in with ease and she moved
against him, kissing her own juices off his lips and groping the wiry strength of his shoulders and back. He wondered if she was used to bigger men – maybe her
husband was fat and old or maybe his dick was uncomfortably big for her.
After a while he bent her over the
arm of the couch and went for doggy-style, but after just a few strokes he
pulled out and teased the head of his cock against her asshole. She pressed
against him, invitingly. He reached forward and cupped her breast while
speaking quietly into her ear.
“Are you ok with this…?” She nodded
and reached back to guide him. He eased in, carefully, and groaned with the
pleasure of the tight grip. He lost himself in this sensation, lost all sense of time and place. The world was a warm, dark night and he was an exploding star. At the last moment, he pulled back and plunged into her pussy, finishing in
the softer, wetter happy place he had begun.
This would be a night she
remembered as having caused her worst UTI ever and marked the beginnig of the long, slow ending of her marriage; he would remember it as often
as possible over the course of the next 50, blandly happy years without further
incident.
