Adventures Unfinished Ch. 01

First: (1) All the characters in this story are 21 years of age or older. (2) This story is intended for adults only. (3) Unlike the real world where it's important to know who your sexual partner is and to practice safe sex, in all of my fictional tales, no one has any sexually transmitted diseases. (4) In the world of fantasy your proclivities are just that: yours. In the real world, mutual respect is essential.

About the story: If you're looking for a story loaded with masturbatory material (i.e., "stroke stories") this might not be your cup of tea. It has more story than sexual activity.

I've chosen to categorize this story and its ensuing parts in the Novels and Novellas section because of its length. If you're interested in reading about this main character there are three previous stories (in order): What I Did for Love and Over Cum Addiction. Lastly, as After the Crash ends this story begins.

Part 1

Just looking at it gave me a tingle. I got goose bumps, my heart aflutter, my loins pulsed. Just looking at it!

Whatever it cost - and I knew it had to be a fortune: a couple hundred thousand, maybe more - I couldn't imagine anyone who'd have that kind of money to burn.

But the moment I laid eyes on it... Well, if I were one to swoon, I would have swooned. Then the door raised and all I could think of was a supine man getting an erection (speeded up, of course, like an X-rated animation with a sound effects bubble that simply read "Doink!").

And in fact, were I a man, I know I would have gotten an erection.

As it was, I could feel myself getting wet. This thing was a hard-on on wheels.

I was having a difficult time realizing it was mine, a gift from my former lover, friend, confidante, responsibility (in a sense) and sex buddy. In that last category we had each exploited the other for our own needs. Exploitation yes, but those needs were stated up front on the day we met, agreed upon and benefitted us both. So maybe there had been no exploitation going on whatsoever.

At dinner with Maya I had purposely avoided any topic related to my intimate relationship with the man who'd given the car (the insanely macho and sexy car) - and so much more - to me. Except for a few AES 256-bit password encrypted files (in which I documented every day, every blowjob and pretty much every drop of semen he had produced for practically one full year), I had kept most of our relationship a secret from her and everyone else.

It was a personal and special relationship, one that involved a lot of sex, almost exclusively oral sex, but not, to my mind at least, in a sordid way. Although he was much older than I our mutually beneficial liaison was perfect for me, especially at the time.

After an initially loving and passionate, but ultimately devastating and sordid affair several years ago, I relocated to Seattle, was able to begin a new career and was in the process of moving on with my life.

Then I met Mace while on a rare business trip, to the south of France no less. That was a couple of years ago. Coincidentally, he too had had some awful events in his life, much graver than mine (Losing his outrageously high-paying job, his incredible fortune, his assets and for all practical purposes, his family: surely that qualified as graver than being exploited by a boyfriend.) and he too had relocated to Seattle. So when we returned from France we saw each other for a year.

But I hadn't heard from Mace for at least a year and I hadn't expected to ever again. Now he had given me more riches than I could have ever hoped for or even imagined.

Given, as in "It's all mine." No catch!

So Maya giggled as the restaurant's host helped her into the passenger seat. As I walked around the back of the car noticing the spoiler, my eyes roamed the whole car. It was shiny, curvy, sleek and absolutely stunning.

You know how you sometimes notice tiny things that are virtually useless and unimportant, but somehow they stay with you? Sometimes you'll kiss someone's neck (or possibly a more intimate location), see a tiny mole and every time afterwards you feel comfortable getting visual confirmation that it's there. Maybe it's just me.

But as I came around to the passenger side, running my hand lightly over that wing behind the engine, I noticed that the tire valve cap had the same raging bull logo on it. How cool was that! (They probably cost a hundred bucks a piece, but when you drive a six-figure car what's a few hundred more?) On further reflection, I guessed that they were made of some fancy super-lightweight material designed to reduce drag on the wheels when the thing really did what it was designed to do.

As I got in and began to get settled in my seat I was glad to be wearing jeans. I couldn't imagine any ladylike way to get in or out of this car wearing anything but pants. With all the buttons and the fancy dashboard and the lights, plus the way I was so low to the ground, it somehow had the feel of a spaceship. If you're a Star Wars fan, that's a T-65 X-wing Starfighter, not the Millennium Falcon.

They had no other patrons arriving or leaving at the moment so it felt OK to sit there for a few moments, to adjust things and to get the feel of the vehicle. Then I had to figure out how to make it actually go. When we saw one in Nice Mace told me that he used to have one. He told me about paddles on the steering column so I figured one or maybe both of those things were what I needed to use.

Just looking out the windshield was an unbelievable experience. I took a deep breath, put the thing in gear and we left. I drove aimlessly as I attempted to get used to the impossibly substantial and outrageously powered vehicle. I tried to drive slowly, although I could immediately feel the car's desire to do almost anything other than to drive slowly.

Suddenly I had a strong desire to take it on the floating bridge, I-90, to Seattle and see what it could do. It was a straight stretch of road and if the traffic weren't too heavy...

Then I got a grip. How foolish I would have felt getting a speeding ticket the day I got a brand new mega-car. So instead we took a very long way back to my new Mercer Island home, also compliments of Mace, my former whatever-he-was. Driving the thing took a little getting used to, but not much. The car was ludicrously impractical for almost any kind of actual transportation, but the "wow! factor" was impossible to explain, let alone ignore.

I thought to myself that I really needed to find a racetrack in the area. What, I again wondered, could this thing do on an open stretch of road? Or, for that matter, on turns?

After quickly leafing through all the owner's materials, Maya did some online research as we drove and told me about the car I was driving.

"It's a Lamborghini Aventador, an LP 750-4 SuperVeloce: 12-cylinder, 48-value, 730 horsepower. I know you're a gearhead so here's some more: It can do 0 to 60 in under 3 seconds and a quarter mile in 10.4 seconds. Oh, and here's a great fact for Seattle freeway traffic as well as state laws: It can get up to 200 miles per hour in 33 and a half seconds. Apparently that's still below its top speed. I'm sure while doing that you'll be getting about a mile per gallon of gas, but fortunately in city driving it might get nine or ten miles per gallon," she said, continuing to scan through the information she had pulled up on her cell.

"Fortunately the tank is full so there's probably enough gas to get back," I kidded her, still riding on my new-car high. "It is, after all, eight or nine miles if we take the long way around."

In fact, I'd never had a new car. It was a pretty wonderful experience, especially if you don't have to shell out a cent for it. I tried to retain some sense of composure. But every so often I got a jolt of excitement that seemed to be coming from the seat, possibly my crotch. Stranger things have happened.

"Here's the best part. It looks like you're driving one of only five hundred in the world. And it costs, you're not going to believe this, five or six hundred thousand dollars, maybe more."

"At 200 miles an hour I could probably outrun a police helicopter!" I said feeling like my insides were giggling.

Then, thinking out loud I said, "Mace, you dirty dog, where did you get all of this money? When you left town last year I remember I drove you to SeaTac and I think I had to buy you a ticket for the flight."

"OK," Maya had put down her phone and let the manuals fall to the floor. "Now you need to tell me about this guy. Did you really give a guy with some sort of erectile dysfunction two blowjobs that first night you met him? And you made him come in your mouth both times?"

I was still trying to wrap my brain around all of it, trying to figure out how to contact him, what to say. It was so overwhelming I couldn't quite yet share the story with anyone.

"You know, there's really no place to put your purse," I said. "This is a ridiculously impractical vehicle."

"That's why it's impractical? No place for your purse?" she asked, sarcastically. "Now you're just goofing on me," she continued, obviously frustrated at my reluctance to talk. She momentarily became sidetracked checking out the interior. Then out of nowhere she said, "You know, you have to dress hot when you drive this."

"I don't have to dress hot to drive my new car, Maya."

"Patrice, look at you, you've got on floppy boots, some generic jeans, and a couple of tees with a sleeveless cotton sweater. Although that jacket looks nice on you. But even with your boobs, that's not hot. You can't wear a schmatte and drive a car like this."

"I'll dress however the hell I want. My boobs and my height attract enough attention as is. And this is a fitted jacket. Something I'm told deemphasizes the bust in women built— Well, you know. Anyway, wearing heels and showing a lot of leg or cleavage is not a requirement for driving a half-million-plus dollar car. In fact, it's overkill," I paused. "Although I can understand how someone might get that idea."

"But this car - its cost, looks, styling, the fact that it's a rarity, and did I mention its cost? - says 'Look at me.' You can't tell people to look at you and then get out of this car looking like you're simply arm candy for your rich boyfriend who's asked you to drive it home because he's had too much to drink. You need to own this!"

"Just let me drive so we can get home in one piece. Either my foot or this thing itself really wants to go a lot faster than we are."

After a few moments she returned to her prior line of questioning, asking about Mace again.

It had been a strange year and a strange relationship. I had always been confused and conflicted by it. In fact, I'd been that way about my sexuality in general since I got involved with Steven years ago. And, in truth, sexuality had always been a troubling part of my development.

Considering her offer to listen, as my closest friend, I relented. Maybe it would be good for me to try to talk about it.

"Maya, I'm sorry. Just give me a few moments. Let me collect my thoughts and my emotions. Then I'll try to explain. It might be therapeutic for me."

As we drove on silently, the car surprised me. I was expecting a really loud engine rumble, but it emitted a mezzopiano low undertone that only got close to a mezzoforte when I pressed the gas. I figured that once I took it into one of the drive modes made for serious driving, it would sound more like a racecar. (Duh.)

When I first saw the house earlier that day, I hadn't noticed how far away my new neighbors were. I hoped we wouldn't wake anyone when we got back.

After some more random internal dialogs and some very specific, erotic, funny, and poignant memories, I decided that it was time to try to tell the story.

I began by giving her an overview, thinking it might be best. Unfortunately it only turned out to raise more questions.

"Wait," Maya said. "So you did give him a blowjob every day?"

I thought to myself: OK, Maya, if you're not getting the answers to your questions, why not just be blunt about it?

So did I give him a blowjob every day?

As Hamlet said, "Ay, there's the rub."

By the time of that trip it had been months since I had last had a date, much less any sex. And by then, having gone through a dramatic alteration in what had been a pleasant-but-phlegmatic traditional penis-vagina approach to it, sex for me meant having incredible orgasms sucking on a dick, occasionally more than one. It meant climaxing when the thing came in my mouth (or often almost anywhere), just watching that whitish, gooey stuff come out of it. By the time I went on that trip I hadn't had even a whiff of cum - not to mention a taste - in a long time. Hence, I hadn't had an orgasm in what seemed like forever. Just thinking about that, I became horny as hell.

Jeez, those orgasms transported me!

But, after many months of therapy I thought I had my wanton desires under control. Wild-ass multi-cock cum-sucking sex was obviously not going to lead to marriage, settling down, having a family. I had to put all of that craziness to rest. I needed to find a man who was the one, the keeper, my soul mate.

Then another part of my brain said; What man would want to settle down with a woman who'd do such things? Yes, it was a rhetorical question.

And yet again I realized I was a slave to my desires and my functional, but oddly so, anatomy. When awakened they commanded my body to do things that no normal woman would or should do.

"Maya, what can I say? I've given a lot of blowjobs. I really have no idea how many cocks have come in my mouth. But before I met Mace I'd taken a hiatus from any sexual contact for quite a few months. When I met Mace though the floodgates reopened. I was almost literally insatiable. It felt like I needed to suck a cock all day, every day. In fact, on the trip home I..."

"Did you and Mace do it on the plane?"

"No, um. It's a little more complicated... No, it's not complicated. I just became unhinged. For several months, I'd be somewhere, anywhere, and I'd want to give a blowjob to every man there. As I said, I was out of control. It all began soon after I started seeing Steven again."

"Hold on, Patrice. Let's get back to the day after you met and spent the night with Mace. I just read in his note about the events of that evening. What happened the next day?"

Part 2

So after spending the night with Mace, you'd think I'd have been satiated, that I was good to extend my mostly self-imposed celibacy until I found that perfect man, the one who'd love me and whom I would love forever. This man would fulfill me so completely that I would never need or even want any others. I'd have thought so, at least.

Well, not really. I'd never truly had any expectations of "the" perfect man. My innate realism was such that there could be no such thing as perfection. It was possible, I thought, that life could come close to it though.

Anyway I began remembering our night together. About a half-hour after I fell asleep in his arms, Mace gently awakened me.

My eyes were still closed. I thought to myself that he might be feeling frisky. (Did I just say "feeling frisky"? That's like out of some 1970s sitcom. My apologies.) I thought to myself that maybe I could get him up for another blowjob and I might just be treated to another albeit smaller load of semen soon. Upon opening my eyes though, I saw that he was dressed.

"What's going on? Where are you going?" I said, worried that I looked like I just woke up.

"I have to get back to my hotel. I want to get cleaned up and put on some fresh clothes before I go to the doctor's office," Mace said.

"But we have the night. Come back to bed."

"We had the night, Patrice. It's morning."

He opened the shade a little. I looked at the clock and saw that it was early, but he was right. We'd spent a lot of the evening talking and the rest of it with his cock in my mouth.

"You return the Seattle tomorrow, right? Through London? I leave tomorrow too, but I fly through Munich or Frankfurt. Too bad we're not on the same flights. Anyway, I'll call you later after the doctor's office."

And with that he was gone.

I was already missing him. I'd had a fun time with him. Even though it was a challenge, I had enjoyed working with his cock and using not all, but many of the tricks in the book to get him off. And doing so, I'd had my expected, but never-the-less amazing climaxes too so I was a happy camper.

We hadn't made any plans other than to talk when we got back to the States.

Feeling like it was still nighttime I tried to get some more sleep. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. Either I was overly tired or my encounter with Mace's supposedly oftentimes dysfunctional - but reasonably well working with my capable attention - penis had left me wanting more cock.

After months of dormancy my libido had been harshly shaken awake.

Looking out the window it looked nice, a quiet time of the day to go for a run. It was not warm and bright as it had been yesterday morning. At the time I had thought I'd take advantage of the early morning to get a run in, too. With my figure I often received attention, almost always unwanted, when I ran. It was bad enough being tall, but in the warmer weather it was hard to find any kind of top that did not draw attention to my sports bra-confined chest.

On yesterday's morning run, before I had even met Mace, I ran a loop that took me past a soccer pitch. It appeared to be vacant and the gate was open so I decided to do some laps. Adding intervals always invigorated me; the empty field allowed me to be as unselfconscious as possible as I worked out.

I was finishing up, doing some cool-down laps, and much to my chagrin I noticed a handful of guys all wearing the same blue-aqua-green-turquoise colored jerseys by a field house at one end of the pitch. They had obviously noticed me and let me know it.

When I was a student I was fortunate to spend a year in Lyon and, though my French slang was a bit rusty, the messages were clear. They were all French equivalents of things like "Come here, baby. I got just what you need for a real workout." "I really know how to fuck those big boobs of yours." "Hey, sweetie, how about wrapping those long legs around me?" "My dick goes down to my knees and I know you want some of it."

I had been happily oblivious to their presence until my last lap as I was coming up on the structure and heard their crude remarks.

Normally I just ignore catcalls, but I was on vacation and I was angry that these French hooligans had disrupted my serenity. (In the vernacular of the time, they had harshed my mellow.) Looking over at them, I figured them all to be in their early twenties, all on the same soccer team. (I abhorred their comments, but those jerseys were so pretty.)

I yelled, "I'll bet you children wouldn't know what to do with a woman even if one would accept one of your crude offers." (I hoped it sounded much more "street" when I said it in French.)

They appeared to be somewhat nonplussed by my understanding of their language and my response temporarily silenced them. I heard them yell some things as I was leaving the field, but I couldn't make them out. Returning my focus to my run, I finished my workout and returned to the hotel.

The day seemed to pass like an autumn leaf floating on a languid brook. I spent it walking around the city, seeing some tourist sites, visiting a museum and reflecting about my life along the promenade by the beach. I eventually found myself walking quayside, looking at the billions of dollars in primo nautical engineering just sitting there.