Learning to Fly Pt. 01

(This is the soft, first part of a series on a woman's awakening... King was my first love. He was also my first Dom. I was 18. I've never looked back.)

I was a bitch in heat, except I didn't realize it.

I've always been small, taking after my grandmother. She barely grazed grandpa's armpits but she could make him shuffle with one look. I was grandma's namesake, though instead of Divine, the family called me Dove.

I was not dove-like. Growing up, I preferred books to dolls and climbing trees to playing house. At 16, I got my Wushu black belt. I was a nerd, with few friends. My martial arts scared the boys; the girls thought I was butch because tracksuits were my favorite outfit.

I had, still have, boyish hips. But my breasts were full and high up and tilting in a way that had the boys ogling since 6th grade. I did not like the leers and slouched to hide the offending protuberances.

Thirty-four C would be normal by Caucasian standards. But I was Asian with delicate bones. I once complained to grandma. She said I'd be grateful in a few years. She also said something strange, that some men would find my round, firm ass and boyish hips and tapered legs more interesting.

I was a late bloomer. After despising boys most of my teenaged years, in the last three months of high school I discovered men.

My first crush was a 21-year-old artist with the hair of a Botticelli icon, the build of a fawn and a sweet tenor that filled me with heat. He was the son of my dad's best friend; they lived four blocks from our home. For some reason, our fathers thought the Vasquez sons were my nursemaids.

I read up on flirting and tried my best. I was a flop. Roman alternately treated me like a kid sister or an acolyte of his Ananda Marga group. He taught me my first guitar licks but passed me on fast to King, his older brother.

King was 28. He told his brother to shove off. He'd just arrived from abroad, already a veteran entrepreneur. He was my idol but in an aspirational, not sexual, way.

He'd taught me to dive, from a platform and under water, to the chagrin of two sets of parents. He was the one who convinced Dad to allow Wushu lessons, pointing out that no amount of dancing talent would persuade me to follow a ballerina aunt's footsteps.

I grouched the first day King took over Roman's escort duties.

"He's too old, Dad!" I whined in King's hearing. "He'll scare my friends!"

King snorted. "Good!" he barked.

I glared at him. He shrugged and grinned at Dad.

"A few less brats to cope with," he quipped. He dodged my kick, laughing.

Actually, more friends trooped to our home that year. But all the oohing and aahing targeted at King disgusted me. I quickly got rid of the pests.

By the start of summer, I was convinced King was the better brother. He had muscles and a physical grace honed by years of martial arts and basketball. His skin was gold burnished by the setting sun. Unlike the ascetic Roman, he wore tight, faded denims and spoke in a deep baritone. King owned a landscaping business and built forest trails but his large hands, while calloused by hard work, were always clean.

I loved best those times when we took a break and he brought out his guitar. He preferred slow blues or slow rock and jazz. I'd close my eyes and stay quiet during the first few songs. I loved the frisson his voice traced across my skin. Then he would coax me to sing, solo or in a duet with him. I have a soft alto voice, husky, a bit sultry.

"You sing like a fallen angel," King teased a day after my 18th birthday. I'd partied till dawn and was sleepy, sprawled on our lawn, singing with head cradled by my arms.

I swiped at him. He chuckled as he caught my arm. I rolled over and rested head on his thigh. I felt the muscle flex and started to apologize but King began to stroke my hair.

I was innocent but also very sensual. I rubbed my cheek against his warm skin. He rubbed an earlobe. I craned my neck and wrinkled my nose at him. He smiled and cupped my jaw. I snuggled into his hand like a kitten searching for warmth.

That was the day King first draped an arm around my shoulder. He had delivered fertilizer to their farm and we'd been walking around, sassing each other and laughing and he mussed my hair and drew me near for a hug. It seemed natural to continue walking with that strange, new weight. A few minutes later, I put an arm around King's waist; he drew me closer.

We met old Thomas, their family retainer, and stopped for a chat. King sat on the ground, against a tree. I knelt down beside him but he snagged my waist and settled me between his splayed thighs. I leaned against his chest and his arm on my ribcage. My right hand lightly rubbed his thigh.

I felt heat rising from where both our hands lay. King bent his head and kissed my temple. I must have closed my eyes. The next thing I saw was Thomas' raised brow and smile as he bid goodbye.

We watched the old man hobble off. King's cupped my chin. And for the first time, I felt lips on mine, very gentle, barely there. But the air sizzled, sending currents right and left.

Unbidden, my mouth opened and his pressed harder. He captured my lower lip and I moaned and clutched at his thigh.

King broke the kiss, his chest heaving as fell back against the tree. I didn't know what to do or say. I bent my head, wondering if he didn't find me pleasing. His fingers started to massage my tense shoulders.

"Let's go home, Babe," he whispered. But his mouth found the skin just below the end of my pixie haircut. It pressed and rose, tracing an outline of fire.

My head bent lower. The wet warmth pierced through skin and spine, straight to my breasts. His tongue started laving and a hand palmed my left breast. I finally cried out when a fingertip touched the cloth round a nipple. King suddenly froze. For a long moment, we were like statues, except for our raspy breaths. Finally, his legs move. A hand stretched out for me to take.

I stood up. I felt weepy. I was a bit angry. I didn't know what was happening, only that I wanted more and he didn't seem to feel the same way. I also didn't know how to ask. I stalked to his pick up. He caught up and forced me to face him.

His face stunned me. It felt like a punch to the gut. But within seconds the look of shame and anger softened. His hands reached out and clasped my face.

"Let's take it slowly, Babe, okay?"

I stayed silent, searching his eyes. He did not flinch. I nodded and turned to clamber into the cab.

We drove home in silence. At our gate, King cleared his throat.

"Do you want me to come in? Or are you too tired?"

It was lunchtime and I invited him to eat. The pasta and salad revived our spirits and mocking the radio shock jocks allowed us to settle into our normal teasing ways.

King said he had some office papers to sign but would be back by four. It was a Saturday so I rolled my eyes. He swiped my butt and said he worked hard to afford the books I constantly wheedled from him. I pushed him away, grinning at the outrageous charge.

***

Re-organizing our family library, which had almost a thousand books, was hard work. King and I worked in brusque, comradely fashion, grunts, curses, and pointed fingers and pursed lips taking over our usual jiving. At least, air-conditioning meant we didn't stink like pigs.

We gave a yell of triumph as the last book slid in its assigned space. Cook sent up snacks and we gulped down ice drinks and devoured the ham sandwiches.

I pressed the remote button of the CD system. From all corners, Elvis Costello warbled his haunting, slightly dopey serenade. "She... may turn each day into a heaven or a hell..."

With no prodding, we both sang softly as we lazed back on the divan. I felt King's hand take mine. I pressed his. We continued the sing-a-long until the last note.

The playlist had gone to "You Are So Beautiful" when King loomed above me.

I opened my eyes. He cupped my face in one hand, speaking the lyrics in a murmur.

I'm a wuzz and, embarrassed, responded with a joke and a funny face. Such low standards, I half-mocked the man, pointing to my snub nose.

I also crossed my eyes, something that always drove King crazy.

"Do that again and..."he warned.

And of course I did.

King swooped in, trapping my lower lips, rubbing for a few seconds before releasing me. I dropped my eyes, swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. My hands twisted the pink gingham shift.

King waited a few moments. Then he raised my chin.

This time he kissed me properly, nibbling at my lips, laving them. He tugged my head back and then dipped his tongue inside my mouth. I kept my hands by my side but allowed King entry and whimpered as his tongue rasped against mine. I strained upwards to give him more access.

King drew back before things got out of hand. He kept my head tilted back. He forced me to meet his eyes as he traced my mouth with a thumb. I gulped as it pressed against my teeth.

"Open," he ordered.

I obeyed with a moan, suckling, making a guttural sound as his other hand trailed down to the deep V of my dress.

Then I panicked and broke apart. King saw my tears and gathered me close, rubbing my back, murmuring reassurances I couldn't understand.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured. "You have some growing up to do."

(To be continued)