Fake It For Me, page 14
I looked around the kitchen in Nick’s hotel room. It was pretty high end, to be fair, as it was the penthouse suite, the most expensive room in the hotel. I had no idea how big it was exactly, but it looked enormous, around fifty feet by fifty feet, possibly even more. In the kitchen, there were pale grey tiles behind the stove and all the main surfaces, which were the color of flecked marble.
The stark-white cupboards had silver handles, a few of which looked accidentally misplaced, the oven was white, and instead of chandeliers overhead, there was a long light bulb wired into the ceiling above my head. I couldn’t help but think to myself, this is not the way I’d have done it!
Chapter Eighteen
Nick
I had to hand it to Sandy, she was 100% serious about this couples’ competition thing. I had barely woken up and showered before she’d sent me a text about the next step of our “master plan,” as she kept calling it. Sandy had taken care of the online administration bit, but there was an unexpected screening process of some sort.
And so, she’d texted me, assuming I had some contacts who could ensure we got through. As it turned out, I did. Men in my position, we always have a guy. A guy who can get you anything you need. You always know “a guy.” And the guy is never named. He’s just “the guy” or “my guy.”
I’ve been “the guy” before. Mostly for funding purposes. You can be “a guy” and have “a guy” at the same time, that’s allowed, but you can’t be “a guy” for anything that someone you know is “a guy” for. That’s overlapping, which is highly frowned upon. It may be confusing, but these are the rules of the streets, and they must be observed!
So, I called my guy, and pretty soon, the deed was done, and according to Sandy, we were in. Not long after, just after I’d gotten out of the shower, I got another email from her, redirecting me to a digital form from the magazine that I apparently had to fill out. As I put a pot of coffee on, I flipped through the questions absent-mindedly.
Most of them were to do with interior design, so I made a mental note to get Sandy to fill those bits in for me later, considering I had no idea what I was doing when it came to decorating.
Eventually, however, I saw a question that piqued my interest.
How often do you and your spouse engage in sexual intercourse?
I was certainly surprised. Whatever I’d expected from a questionnaire, it hadn’t been this. I ‘hmmed’ to myself thoughtfully. Say what you want, but I don’t actually remember the last time I’d ever been in a monogamous relationship if I’d ever done so at all, and so I had no idea how many times couples had sex. Or how frequently they had sex. Anybody’s guess was as good as mine in this specific arena.
“Once a week?” I mused out loud to myself. “More? Less?”
No, that didn’t sound right. Once a week was four times a month. Which was pitiful! What kind of puritan, conservative-mad, uptight prudes only had sex four times a month? I definitely didn’t like the sound of that. I much preferred the sound of four, five times a day! Now, we were talking!
So definitely not once a week. Twice was better, but still not much. I decided to up my guess all the way to five times a week. Five times a week sounded right - once every night of the week, minus Monday and Sunday? A lot of people went to Church on Sundays and went to bed early in anticipation of the working week beginning again on Monday.
I decided to put five, it sounded like a safe bet. The next question, however, was even more risqué. Do you and your spouse ever engage in unprotected sex?
I immediately put no. True, the last two times that Sandy and I had had sex, I hadn’t used a condom. But she was on the pill. I think. But the risqué and intimate questions just kept coming.
Have you and your spouse ever engaged in anal sex?
Do you and your spouse regularly use toys or sexual aids in bed?
Do you regularly perform fellatio/cunnilingus with your spouse?
I’m a far cry from dumb, or unintelligent. I’d actually say that my intelligence is slightly above average, but then again, I thought the saying was “take it for granite” instead of “taking it for granted.” Which, in my opinion, is actually an honest mistake, given that they sound extremely similar. But even I had to look up some of the words that the questionnaire was throwing at me. I knew what fellatio was, I’d seen that word on the internet before, but cunnilingus? That’s where they lost me.
When I eventually looked it up, however, I realized, to my embarrassment, that it was the only word that could actively make me blush as soon as the subject was broached. To this day, I’ve never done that while in bed with a girl. Mostly because a lot of young women respond to how you treat them. If you treat a woman as an equal, a lot of them will lose interest in you quite quickly. And it just never happened.
There were so many of these questions that it took me the best part of the whole day to answer them. As per our agreement, Sandy had agreed to come back to the hotel after work, and when I heard her swipe the key card she’d taken with her in the door and push the door to the suite open, that’s when it hit me how long I’d been indoors.
“Hey,” Sandy said, sounding slightly drained. “You’re still here?”
I shrugged. “I haven’t got anywhere to be.”
Sandy laughed at this. “Must be nice. Have we got any wine?”
“We have bourbon,” I shrugged.
“That’ll do,” Sandy said. She found the decanter of golden liquid in one of the cupboards, poured herself a generous helping and sipped it before kicking off her shoes and perching herself on the island in the open-plan kitchen.
“Rough day?” I asked.
“You could say that,” Sandy shrugged. “Your Dad is really riding me hard on this project!”
I snickered at this, I couldn’t help it. Sandy gave me a look of disdain. “That’s gross, Nick, don’t even joke! Did you fill in that form, by the way?”
“I did,” I nodded. “Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. Did you fill in the same form?”
“Mhm,” Sandy nodded. “Where are you going with this?”
“Some of the questions are a bit…risqué,” I said shiftily.
Sandy gave me a surprised look. “Risqué? How old are you, eighty?”
I scowled. “People still say risqué!”
“Yeah, in old people’s homes,” Sandy giggled. “Oh, and the thesaurus, of course.”
I made a face. “Very funny. Anyway, you didn’t think those questions were…interesting?”
Sandy laughed. “Nicholas McConnery, don’t think that I don’t know exactly what you are up to.”
I blushed and felt my cheeks burning. And that doesn’t often happen, I can tell you. “Well!” I said defiantly. “I have a point! We can’t really very well answer all those questions, can we? Until we have, you know, a better understanding of what we’re being asked.”
Sandy laughed again. This was quite the power dynamic in our relationship. Me, unsure and bumbling, dangerously close to stuttering, and she, smug, smirking and in control. She drained her bourbon, set the tumbler down. She locked eyes with me. “Which one do you want to try first?”
“You know which one I want to try,” I said quickly, my heart beating faster.
“Oh, I bet you do,” Sandy winked at me. “I assume you already bought lube?”
“It’s in the bathroom,” I nodded.
Sandy beckoned me toward her. I couldn’t have resisted even if I’d wanted to. As soon as I was close enough, she cupped my face in her hands. “Okay, here’s the deal. I get to do whatever I want to do to you right now,” she half-whispered. “And afterward, I’ll let you do…that thing.”
“Say it,” I breathed. “Say what you’ll let me do.”
I wanted to hear her say it. I needed to hear her say it.
Sandy came even closer, so close that I could feel her hot breath on my face. “I’ll let you…fuck my ass.”
I could feel my pants tightening from just those words alone. I knew Sandy was deadly serious, just as I knew exactly what she wanted me to do right now, the one thing I’d never done to any girl.
I placed my palms on Sandy’s knees and spread her thighs apart. She reached down, gripped the crotch of her pantyhose and tugged. The material tore, somewhat easily, revealing pale pink panties with a huge, dark, very obvious wet spot on the crotch. Sandy curled her fingers in my hair and laid back flat on the countertop. It couldn’t have been the most comfortable thing to lie on, but she didn’t seem to care.
I planted gentle kisses along her thighs, inching ever closer to her pussy, and I felt her breathing become more ragged. I flicked the tip of my tongue against the very spot between her thigh and her crotch, and I felt her whole body jolt again. When I slipped my tongue inside her for the first time, I heard her sigh a great sigh of relief that quickly turned to a moan of pleasure.
The first thing I noticed was how wet my mouth suddenly was, but I wasn’t repulsed. Instead, I felt an overwhelming surge of relish. I curled my tongue inside her, dug it in deeper, worked it inside of her. Sandy’s moans got faster and faster, she began cursing and swearing in ways I’d never have thought of her.
Sandy gripped and clawed at my hair with both hands, attempting to push me deeper into her pussy. She was riding my face, as hard as she possibly could. Finally, she bucked as she came. I felt it flood my mouth, run down my chin, stain my t-shirt.
Sandy simply lay there, panting, apparently out of breath. Finally, she propped herself up on her elbows. “Fuck,” she breathed. “That was your first time?”
I nodded.
“You liar,” she shook her head. “No way.”
I decided to take that as a compliment. Sandy hopped down off of the counter, and I could immediately see she was walking differently. She crashed down onto the sofa on all fours, head pressed down against the cushions and butt up in the air like a cat stretching. The sight was so sexy I almost burst out my pants right there and then.
“You ready?” she whispered sultrily.
I was already fumbling with my belt. Smirking smugly, Sandy turned around and palmed my cock through my pants. I groaned involuntarily. With those tiny hands, she unzipped me, and slipped her hand in, fishing my throbbing cock out. It stood erectly to attention, covered in veins and throbbing purple.
Sandy wrapped her lips around it, swirling her tongue around the tip. I tipped my head back and groaned as loud as my throat would allow. Sandy was now bobbing back and forth on it, covering it in as much spit as she could. Finally, she pulled away and turned around. The hole she’d torn in her pantyhose was large, and I could see her puckered brown asshole.
“Let me get the lube,” I croaked.
“Forget it,” Sandy ordered. “No time, just hurry up and fuck me in the ass.”
Jesus Christ she’s going to make me come before I get anywhere near her.
I placed the tip of my cock against her asshole and gently pushed. She hissed as the tip went in. “Fuck!” we both exclaimed at exactly the same moment. Sandy bucked, seemingly involuntarily, as I slid my length inside her, puffing and panting as she did so. Finally, as my pelvis came to meet her rear end, she pushed back against me, taking the last of my cock inside her.
I groaned in pleasure as I bottomed out inside her.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Sandy gasped. “That feels so good! Fuck me, Nick, fuck me!”
I slid out slowly and shoved my cock back inside her. And then again. And again. And again, until we built up a rhythm. Pretty soon, we were fucking like animals, grunting as I slammed into her as vigorously as I was able.
“I’m gonna cum!” I growled.
“Cum for me, baby!” Sandy coaxed. “Shoot your cum inside my a-aaaahhhhh!”
I lost control and came deep inside of her ass, firing off at least four or five jets of semen. I collapsed on top of her, spent.
Sandy was laughing. “How was that?” she breathed.
Man, I thought. This girl is going to be the death of me.
“I hope you’re not exhausted,” Sandy smirked. “Because in like five minutes, we’re going again.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sandy
The competition was upon us before I could even blink. Just two short months later, two short months of…I want to say marital bliss? I can’t honestly say that back in high school, I never let myself cast my mind forward to a time in the future when I was married. I even imagined myself hitched to Nick a few times. It was impossible not to, especially given that pretty much everyone at school had Nick and I pegged as the “couple-to-be.”
And, looking back on it, we weren’t helping ourselves. Every minute, we were exchanging flirtatious glances across the tennis court, or accidentally-on-purpose brushing up against each other in the corridor or groping each other in lessons. At the time, it had all seemed exciting and thrilling - playful banter. Nothing more.
It had never occurred to me that Nick McConnery, the guy so smooth that he got every girl he wanted without even having to try, Nick McConnery, the serial womanizer, was trying to court me and had no idea how to go about it. Of course, now, it seemed all too obvious. The change in Nick was staggering, over a period of only two months. He was still himself of course, and yet he was nothing like it.
Nick was thoughtful, considerate, sweet, sensitive…in ways that I had never thought possible. There were quiet moments, and indeed whole days, where I sat and pondered that it was me who had caused this. It seemed impossible that one woman could trigger such an isotonic shift in a person, one woman who could tame a wild animal that had proved as yet untamable. I was by no means the first well-meaning woman who had attempted to make a “nice guy” of Nick McConnery. Not by a long shot.
Back in high school, it seemed all that girls wanted to do - make a nice guy of Nick. Turn him into the kind of guy who held the door open for you and supported the #MeToo movement. A Feminist, basically. If I remembered correctly when we discussed Feminism in our gender studies class, and Nick was asked by the professor if he supported gender equality, Nick’s response was It’s against my beliefs to support anyone doing anything.
To this day, I’ve no idea what he meant by that, but I’m sure I can guess. Back in those days, ‘not caring’ was pretty popular. It was the people who cared about stuff which used to get bullied and called “Try-Hards.” Which never made much sense to me, like how can you get bullied for trying hard at something? But then again, bullying isn’t logical, so.
I had to admit, I was slightly worried about the upcoming competition, however. There would almost certainly other young couples in attendance, and other young couples meant other young women. It wasn’t fair to Nick, but I couldn’t help wondering all the same. By the time the day of the competition came around, however, I had found that my worries and insecurities had significantly diminished.
The competition was to be held at a private facility in Brooklyn, and once I’d managed to convince Nick that being late was just late, not “fashionably late” as he so eloquently put it. When we turned up, however, there were several couples already waiting in the atrium, so I suppose we were fashionably late in one sense of the term. Most of the couples appeared to be newly-weds. I thought it far more likely than they’d gotten married extremely young, like sixteen.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that what if other couples had done what Nick and I had? The notion calmed me, as though there being other perpetrators made our crime less detrimental. Then again, I thought to myself, it wasn’t a crime, was it? Just a harmless white lie, and it was barely even that.
I interrupted my own existential train of thought as I noticed Nick on the other side of the atrium by the coffee table, talking to a young couple. Even from the other side of the room, I could see that the young girl was already being entranced by Nick’s charms, something her husband didn’t look too happy about. My eyes fell on a large plate of chocolate chip cookies that had been set out by the coffee maker, and I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire for chocolate chip cookies, and so I made a beeline for the table.
“Ah, there she is,” Nick said as I drew closer. “Sandy, come here, this is Bruce and Fiona, I just met them.”
Nick reached out his arm to place his arm around me, and I quickly ducked him and grabbed a handful of cookies from the plate. “Hey, you two!” I said pleasantly to Bruce and Fiona. “Nice to meet you!”
“And you,” Fiona replied. She was on the short side, with fiery ginger hair. “So, what do you guys think of this place? Pretty weird, huh?”
“I guess so,” Nick was saying. He thoughtfully ran his hand through his black hair the way he always did when he was thinking, and beside him, I noticed Fiona almost melt on the spot.
What a slut, I thought irritably.
“Nick, can I have a word, please?” I hissed in his ear.
Nick looked at me with an alarmed expression on his face as I led him away. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”
“Can you please stop flirting with anything in a skirt?” I asked him in a sarcastically, tolerant voice.
Nick looked shocked at the accusation. “I don’t do that!”
“So, what do you call that back there?” I asked. “She was practically drooling all over you!”
“I’m sorry, I can’t always help it!” Nick complained.
I sighed exasperatedly, but I knew he was right. Nick had worked so hard to become naturally charming, and he couldn’t just turn it off. And it didn’t help that he was smoking hot. I guess I was just going to have to deal with it.
