A Wager With Sadie: 002

The hot dog thing was pretty funny, though she could tell Graham got squirmy, worried she was unhappy. One thing that could turn her Teddy’s smile upside down was her displeasure. It was the biggest turn-on. You could search a long time and never find a man like Graham, one who doted—but not out of controlling, not out of jealousy. Graham cared about her for real. Excellent father material, and damn if back in college her lady-genes didn’t pick up on that and send her swooning into space for Teddy Graham, her bear, her perfect man.

She laughed now, looking down at the crazy thing she’d done with her hand. Boredom. Boredom mixed with general happiness. Also a mild low-key horniness. “Look what you did,” she said, scolding him, acting cute, presenting to him the cup of her hand, his mess scattered and seeping. He rolled his eyes, and it got her chuckling.

“What is going on with you?” he asked.

“Bored,” she told him, letting his dick go and sitting up.

“Are you bored?”

She pulled her sweatshirt up over her head, her hand tucked with the cuff pulled inward, her husband’s load protected inside. In the cotton, she said, “No, Teddy, bored in a good way . . .”

Sweatshirt tugged off, turned inside out, she balled it in her lap, pressed against her stomach, smiled over her shoulder for Graham. “Mischievous bored,” she said, then fake snarled at him, getting them both laughing.

Then she shivered as a wet chill settled on her warm bar skin. She cleaned her hand inside her sweatshirt, wiping her husband’s load off, then lay back, settled in the crook of his arm.

She said, “Did you see your jizz take off?”

“It went sideways.”

“I think that rock face might be pregnant now,” she said.

He chuckled and hugged her in his Papa Bear way and she cuddled into him. He said, “You know how good you are at that?”

“What . . .?”

“Your hand.”

“This little thing?” She presented her hand near his face, wiggling her fingers, getting close enough for him to turn his face away, squinting. They laughed.

“I mean it,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she said, tucked her hands under her shivering body, hugging herself, hiding against Teddy. “I take hand jobs very seriously.”

He chuckled, made an uncomfortable groan.

She laughed. “What—why are you groaning?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She peeked up at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing, it’s fine.”

She settled against him again, pondering what it was that concerned her husband now.

“You’re such a pervert,” he said, chuckling, stomach bouncing.

“Thank you,” she said, but when he didn’t follow up with a nicety, she said, “Hey, I am not.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re my kind of pervert.”

“I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or not,” she said, narrowing her studious eyes.

“I am, I totally am.”

“Because I’m good at hand jobs?”

“Because you would even think to do that, the two of us here in this hammock.”

“Fair enough,” she said, snuggling again. “Like I said, hand jobs are serious business.”

Teddy groaned again.

She lifted. “Why do you keep groaning?”

“You serious? Are you being serious?”

“What?

He groaned again, then chuckled. “So tell me about why you like hand jobs . . .”

***

Sadie said, “Complete control.”

Something about this got his stomach tightening. “That’s what you like—control?”

“Complete and total control. You’re like putty in my hand.”

“I’m not like putty . . .”

“No. Very hard putty.”

“And that turns you on?”

“It does,” she said.

“You’ve got skills,” he told her.

“Thank you.”

Now following the dark curiosity: “You get practice?”

She didn’t answer, her long, smooth leg shifting up and down his. But she was thinking, his words probably still stuck in her ear. She eased up a little, looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“How do you get so good at it?”

“Oh,” she said, that troubled look not passing from her, but at least more receptive. “I thought you meant I was cheating. I was about to cry.”

“No-no, I don’t mean that.” He stroked her shoulder.

“Did I get practice, you mean?”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant.” He was ready to drop it but she continued.

“I just like it.”

An uncomfortable feeling slithered through him, seeing her profile looking out to the sea, that pretty face turned toward the ocean, that dim light painting daubs of pale pastel on her shiny highlights, the curve of her cheek, the curve of her brow, the plump of her lip, and the tip of her nose. She was so beautiful. He smiled. She looked at him. She said, “What has gotten into you today?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “keep going. Tell me how you like control.”

“Keep going about control?”

“Tell me about your practice. You do two-a-days?”

“I’m telling you nothing,” she said and settled back down next to him.

“Come on, my little pervert—you like controlling men?” He growled, making his fun grizzly bear sound she liked so much, hooking an arm around her and hugging her. She giggled, squirmed in his clutch.

She cackled, said, “Get off me!”

“Tell me,” he said, “I’m serious.”

“What? I gave some hand jobs,” she said, shrugging her shoulders and giving a What can I say face.

“Were you a dirty girl?”

“I already told you all that.”

She had. They’d gone through their sexual histories. No big surprises there. Some loves lost, some hearts broken, a manageable number of sexual partners for both of them.

“So tell me.”

“I . . . liked . . . doing it,” she said slowly, reluctantly, scrunching her cute nose when the words were out.

“You did?”

“Yeah,” she said, “so what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think it’s kinda hot.” And it was weird he thought that. But it was true: the idea of his Sadie being kinky with another man from her past was arousing. Pulling some dude’s piece out and pleasuring him just for the joy she found in pleasing a dick, and seeing that dick show its gratitude . . .

“Good,” she said, “I hope you don’t think that it’s bad or that I’m, you know, one of those girls . . .”

“I know you’re not one of those girls.”

She said, “You know I didn’t lose my V card until I was older.”

“Don’t be defensive. I know. Not till second year . . .”

“Right,” she said, “so, using my hand kept me . . .”

“In the game?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, in the game. I kinda got . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Kinda got what?”

“I don’t know . . . it was weird,” she said, laughing, rolling to her back and looking up at the cover over the hammock. She traced hair back from her face. Quieter: “I kinda got obsessed with them.”

His heart thudded at the revelation. “You what?”

“Yeah. I did it once in high school, and then nothing. Then in first year at college, I don’t know . . .”

“Wait,” he said, getting up on an elbow, looming over her, smirking, a secret part of him thinking she was joking. “So wait a second, you got obsessed with giving hand jobs?”

“Yeah, I did. What?”

“What do you mean obsessed?”

“I liked doing it.”

“You gave a lot of them?”

She shrugged, looking a little worried now. He said, “It’s okay, I just— I didn’t know this about you.”

“Oh,” she said, features shrinking.

“No, it’s fun. So that was your thing?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded.

“You were good at giving out hand jobs?” Keeping it lighthearted: “Set up a stand like you’re selling lemonade?”

She snuffled. “Yeah, but I charge a lot more than a nickel.”

“Now you’re joking,” he said, snuggling so they both lay on their backs shoulder-to-shoulder looking up.

“I didn’t charge,” she laughed. “But yeah, I . . . yeah, I did a lot.”

“A lot,” he repeated, almost laughing. “Wait a second . . .”

“What?”

“Your sexual partners . . .”

“Yeah . . .?”

“You weren’t counting . . . those . . .”

“Hand jobs?”

“Yeah. You weren’t counting hand jobs . . . when you gave me your number . . .”

“Of partners? No. They weren’t partners. It wasn’t even . . . sexual. For me . . . not really . . .”

“Holy shit,” he said, “so how many?”

“Now you’re mad at me.”

“No, not mad at all. In fact, I think I’m tickled.”

“Tickled because of that?”

“Yup,” he said, scratching a hand through his hair, bewildered at the arousal this weird aspect of his wife provoked.

She said, “Blowing you away?” There was a measure of concern on her pretty face.

“Totally blowing me away.”

“You’re not mad at me or something, are you?”

“No. Zero-percent. Seriously. So tell me . . . How many are we talking about here?”

Her eyes flitted side to side.

“No. The real number, Sadie, honestly, I’d love to know.”

“I don’t know . . . A lot.”

“This is in first year?”

“Yes, just first year. The obsession ended.”

“You got bored.”

“I think I had my fill.”

“Jesus, Sadie, how many are we talking about?—for real . . .”

She crinkled her nose, squinted at him. “How many? Like . . .” She shrugged, winced. Maybe twenty, maybe . . . more . . .”

He stared at her stunned, mouth hanging open.

“Oh my God,” she said seeing his expression.

“Holy shit,” he said and fell back, their shoulders bumping again.

She jumped up, got on an elbow and loomed over him. “Hey, don’t do that to me,” she said, grabbing his cheeks and puckering his mouth.

“You’re my wife,” he said, laughing through puckered lips

“This was a long time ago, Teddy.”

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I think it’s, I don’t know, kind of funny . . .”

She said, “Now you’re being stupid.”

“No, I’m not,” he said. “But, I mean, it’s apparent for everyone involved here we all know now why you’re so good at it.”

“Don’t make me mad.”

“I think I like it, Sade,” he said, “I’m joking around here. No need to get mad.”

“That’s good,” she said. “A little weird, but good.”

“Wow,” he said, “that’s a lot.”

“In a school year, is that a lot?”

“You think it’s twenty?”

“No, not that much.”

“Do you remember them all?”

She stared up. He waited.

“Sadie, do you remember them all?”

“No. Some, yeah. But, I . . . used to keep notes,” she said, turning her nose up, disbelieving her own behavior.

“Oh, my God,” he said and clutched his stomach. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Like a diary. It wasn’t just that in there, there were other things, but yeah, I threw out that diary in second year. I just went through it one day, saw all those things I’d written about what I’d done and I just felt weird.”

“Now I feel weird.”

“Hey, don’t,” she said.

“No, it’s great actually,” he said. “Twenty guys. Maybe thirty.”

“Not thirty.”

“And you took notes?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of notes?”

She groaned, turning to pout. “Just leave me alone,” she said.

“Seriously, Sadie. What did you write down?”

She looked his way, studying to see if he was vexing her for fun, was serious and he wanted to know, or if he was being weird. “Just . . . how it happened, and what it was like.”

“I’m so fucking turned on right now.”

She chuckled, still surmising his true intent. “You’re a pervert. Call me a pervert, look at you.”

“My hot little lady,” he said and touched her cheek. She flinched and raised a shoulder but he got her smiling. In an imitation of her voice: “Dear diary, I finally jerked off Johnny today . . .”

She elbowed him. Hard. He forgot how strong she was.

“Ow,” he laughed, rubbing his stomach. “I’m trying to be nice to you.”

“Some nice guy. I will pull that sweatshirt over your head and uppercut you until the authorities come, Teddy Bear.”

“Like to see you try. Probably break into a hand job part way through, just can’t help yourself.”

Sadie’s brow snapped into a threatening furrow. “I swear to God, Teddy . . .”

“What?—I’m your biggest fan. Don’t be mad at me. I think it’s hot.”

“How can you think that’s hot?”

He shrugged, looked perplexed. Offered: “Because it was you.”

She groaned, rubbed her temples. “I can’t believe I told you all that now.”

“It’s cute,” he laughed, a little wide-eyed. “Imagine if I found your diary, going through some boxes when we were moving in.” He chuckled, then said in a high, feminine whisper, “Page seventy-two: Diary, I just gave my twenty-eighth handy today, and I—”

“Stop,” she moaned, elbowed him again, looking cross as she could.

He turned to her now, warmed her up with his softest expression. He cupped her neck, thumbed her cheek. “I love you,” he said.

“I love the hell of you, too,” she said. “Though a little less right now.”

They held locked gazes until they both smirked.

He said, “Do feel better?”

“What—that I told you that?”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head. Said plainly, “No.”

“You should.”