CHERRY BLOSSOMS // Revisited // Bachelorette // 2.11

There was something about stroking a man’s cock when he was sitting down that drove her crazy. If the man was really hard and his glans swelled, ready to burst, it turned her on like nothing else. It proved his size. If she couldn’t stroke it, it was too short. Too short for her favorite position. Her favorite position in the whole world, the one that made her close her eyes and hum: straddling a sitting man. To control the action. To hug his neck and study his face while she used her hips to slide up and down his shaft. A man had to be big to do that. She had never done it with Geoff.

Sebastian had a big cock. A big rideable cock. She admired it in her hand, gleaming with her spit and his pre-come, reflecting white light from the restaurant’s sign along its plump raised edges. The horniness made her want to scream. She could get pleasure from belting out a high-pitched wail in here to release the frustration, vent a little pressure. But she wouldn’t. Just like she wouldn’t climb on Sebastian tonight and find out how good his long dick fucked in her favorite position. Using her hand was already too much. But she wouldn’t stop.

“I want you to come for me,” she whispered.

Sebastian groaned and his head fell back. She kissed his lower lip and then bit it. Her hand stroked and squeezed. Slow and deliberate, making him suffer the pleasure, drawing out the time to his fantastic release. The power was incredible. She pulled back and watched Sebastian’s face, watched what her hand made him do, how it affected him. He would come for her. His big dick was going to swell, and he was going to spurt his pleasure out into this car. She controlled him. She could stop and ruin his night, but she didn’t want to do that. She liked to know it was an option. Up and down, agonizingly slow. He humped it through her hand, but she resisted—when he thrust she moved with it, frustrating him, making his face look mean. But he was a little boy in the control of her hand. He would do what she wanted as long as he wanted to come. She squeezed his glans and ran her thumb through the crease and over his hole.

She closed her eyes and imagined what this thing spreading her tight grip would be like sliding up inside her. In and out as slowly as she stroked with her hand. It would be so good. She’d ride it all night, keeping him on the edge as she held his face in her hands. Like she would do with Dino.

“What a beautiful cock,” she whispered. He shuddered for a moment. She’d almost set him off. She said, “If I wasn’t married I would have this thing inside my pussy.”

“You are a bad fucking wife,” he laughed.

“It’s only my hand,” she said, a little defensive.

“It feels so fucking good.”

She made a ring with her thumb and forefinger, stroked him quickly over the flange of his cock head. He streamed more pre-come, making him slipperier, her movements faster. He gasped and laughed.

“Show me what you’ve got stripper.”

“I’m going to come.”

“Show me. You flaunted this thing in my face all night, swung it around, stirred my drink. Show me what you got, finish the show.”

“Ah,” he gasped. He was so close. She gripped him hard, all her fingers, stroked him eagerly.

“Show me what’s inside those big balls, you stud.”

“Fuck, ah,” he roared. His come shot out so hot and fast it made a noise. She jerked him faster and faster, crushing the tip of his glans with her thumb. He spewed hot semen in streams that she saw glinting and flashing in the light, then disappear all over the inside of her car. He kept cursing and hissing, thrusting his cock into her hand, and she pleasured him. Being gentle and good to the end of his cock as he rode it out. Her hand was steaming hot and wet from his discharge, all over the back of her hand and in her palm. She kept stroking, even though the pulses had stopped.

“Did you like the show?” he asked her.

She didn’t. She felt awful.

She held her hand up in the light that came in the windshield and saw his come in strings between her fingers. This dumb stripper’s come. Fluid from inside the testicles of a man who wasn’t her husband and who she didn’t love. It dripped in heavy blobs. Her panties sopped with wet, she almost came from jerking off a stranger. What the fuck was wrong with her? She was a mom. This is the car they drove their daughter around in. This was the spot for Odie’s car seat.

“You gotta go,” she said, trying not to let him hear the fear in her voice.

“What?”

“Please—”

“You okay?” he said, and he leaned to her. She recoiled.

“Please, please, please get the fuck out, right now!”

He put his hands up, said, “Okay, whatever.” He pushed his cock back into his fly, jostled in the seat, doing the zipper up. She sat and watched him, her eyes trembling, her sperm-soaked hand still held up and dripping.

“Hey—” he said, then thought better, shook his head in disbelief, stopped, said, “Go home to your husband, whore,” and slammed the door.

The tears came. Hot like his semen, spurting from inside her body, they streamed her cheeks. Her hands shook, and she fumbled with the lid of the console in front of her between the front seats, trying to open it. She got it, pulled out wads of McDonald’s napkins, heisted from drive-thru bags during the years and never needed until now. Now she desperately needed them.

***

She got out of her car, ashamed of what she’d done. She was on the verge of tears but wouldn’t cry because of his dumb stripper words. All she hated was that she did that dirty thing.

She stood up and straightened her dress, sniffed and threw the sopping napkins into the grass at the front of the car. She turned back, and she saw them.

Angie and Donna standing under the white back-lit sign of Giusseppe’s. She knew them by their black shapes and their hair and noses lit by the sign above. They held their sides like they were shivering. She froze. They stared at her.

Then Angie’s voice, shrill and corybantic, broke the night like a siren, rising at the end, fraught with wrath: “Are you fucking kidding me?”

A chill ran through her, ripping at her scalp and scribbling across her back, wriggling and zipping along her asshole. She clenched her pelvis, clutched at her bladder that wanted to give it all up and send all its contents streaming down her thighs. Her mouth fell open. She couldn’t speak.

“Nia!” Donna cursed, like she spat it.

They both stepped down off the curb and crossed the pavement to her, their shadows stretching out to get to her first, the black cutout shapes looking to claw at her and drag her down to their world, down to the core of the earth.

Their expressions grew clearer as they got close. She still couldn’t budge. They approached with venom, like they would not stop, just march right over top of her. As they got close Nia wanted to flinch. They seethed, and she could imagine being hit.

“Nia, you fuckin’ . . .” Donna threw her hands up, at a loss for words. She shook her head, her auburn hair swinging around her. She was incredulous.

But Angie was mad. She came right to her and it looked like she would put hands on her. Donna grabbed the back of her dress and stopped her, turned her to the side. Her momentum kept one leg going until it kicked up in the air and her shoe almost slipped off her foot.

“Stop it!” Donna cried, “stop it, please.”

Nia came to. She cried, “Nothing happened, n—”

“Bullshit, Nia,” Angie hissed, “we fucking saw you.”

She felt shrunken and useless, standing in front of her two friends she’d known since they were kids. She’d had pillow fights with these two, sleepovers, cried on each other’s shoulders over dumb boys. She’d held Donna and let her cry into her stomach for three hours the night her father died from a heart attack. The two of them in the antiseptic hall of York-Finch, her holding her seventeen-year-old friend, still in her pyjamas and slippers in the hospital, dragged out of bed in the middle of the night by her hysterical mother.

“Baby . . . Ang,” Nia struggled. She was guilty.

“You’re going to ruin my wedding with this. Everybody talking about what happened here.”

“They won’t. Donna, I didn’t do anything, please . . .”

“You did! We saw you kissing him.”

Angie said, “You’re a fucking slut.”

Donna stopped her, pushed her away. Angie moved but kept her eyes on Nia. “Don’t! This is what I mean. This will ruin my wedding!”

Angie said over Donna’s shoulder, “You’re fucking married.” Eyebrows raised high, she rolled her head around, locked on Nia, pointing with a long red fingernail.

“I didn’t do anything, please, believe me, how can I . . . it’s okay.” She turned on them, her head fell forward, she walked and she clasped her forehead, she fumbled with her keys, clicking all the way around the car.

“Don’t you dare leave, Nia,” Donna said.

She got into her car. No tears. She was dead. She started the car.

Angie banged on the window. She yelled, “You can’t drive, Nia!”

She put the car in gear while the girls tried the door handles, but she’d locked the doors. She backed out. Angie tried to block the way, but she chickened out.

“Nia!” Donna yelled.

They slapped at the windows, their rings sounding like they might break the glass. She chirped forward, able to make a turn out of the spot because the parking lot was empty. She had to get the fuck out of here. She drove off, watched her best friends in her mirror, throwing their hands up and pleading for her to come back. She turned out of the little industrial plaza the restaurant was in, her lights shining on the guardrail and the bullrushes, the hotel behind, where she should be kicking her feet up right now and enjoying one last glass of wine or two with her friends.

She turned right, her left signal on. She corrected it. A police stop right now and she would be done. License suspended. What would she tell Odie? She crawled up to the intersection. There were no cars coming along Highway 7 and she darted across four lanes of vacant highway and bumped over a curb she didn’t see, pulled into a Petro-Canada on the other side of the highway. She stumbled in to the store and she bought some Wet Wipes and a can of Coke. She went back in her car and that was when the tears finally came. She sat in the backseat of her Volvo with her fists clutched up to her face and sobbed into them. Sebastian’s semen had splashed on the back side of the passenger seat. Long wet streaks and then a seam of white globs that spread along the curled leather lip of the map pocket.

She’d jacked off a stripper after a bachelorette. One more time for the fucking cheap seats: she’d jacked off a stripper after a bachelorette! What a fucking piece of shit. And of course her friends caught her, caught her with the shame plastered right across her stupid face. Ruin her wedding? Ruin her wedding? How could she ruin it if they were the only two who knew, and they didn’t want it ruined? She kicked the back of the driver's seat. Why couldn’t they hug her and tell her they loved her? Why wouldn’t they want to tell her it was going to be okay? Why would they hate her? How could they be so cruel?