Eleven

Kissing. I love it...no...rather I'm in love with it!

And who doesn't love it? My girlfriends all do. I know. I asked them. Each said so!

Claudia likes him to explore - to force his tongue deeply into her mouth. She needs to feel it moving over her teeth - her back teeth! Her mouth is her most receptive zone - more so than her cunt. But then, Claudia is so oral.

Bridget, poor darling - she's so cute. When I raised the subject with her she got all flustered - but she's Irish and Irish girls, though they love talking sex - can't just come out and admit it! It wouldn't be proper, after all. Anyway, she allowed that she loves kissing.

And then there's Taryn, of course. Simple kissing makes her wet - so she is forever on the hunt for 'the' right Mr. Right to kiss her right! She's been kissed too - well, twice in any serious way - but she did it right, which matters...right?

Taryn's kissers used their kisses to get on with it - to warm her up; to get things moving; hardly the kisses a girl wants - or remembers. And good heavens, Taryn hardly needs warming! That girl is always...warming; her mind a sizzle of carnal fire.

Anyway, from the moment I saw him, I wanted it - to kiss. In kissing, there's surrender and though at first I wanted surrender on my terms, in the end I knew what I really wanted was to submit to his.

Even now, I am not sure why I did it; not exactly. Yes, his face is handsome, his character sturdy. Both qualities draw me - they would any girl. But there is more to this. I'm twenty-five - have met my share of handsomes, of sturdies too! This...this one is different.

For one thing, there is 'more' with him. He fits me. He is older, and yes, I have had my share of older too, but they were users - you know, wanting to get laid. Girls know about users. Girls can't resist giving in to them - sometimes. But how much a girl truly gives is limited - with them. No...for him there is an essential difference: for him there are no limits to my surrender.

In the beginning, I opened like a flower unfolding to the first rays of the morning sun! That first time, I let him - no, I insisted on taking his fist! I took him completely too - altogether - to the wrist! I mean to do it again, too - soon.

Thing is, he's frustrating. He has this 'doesn't give a shit' brand of nonchalance...some special male indifference.

So why bother, right? Why does a girl seek after guys who don't give a shit?

Not sure why, but we do it anyway - sometimes.

This day I am in New York; in a hotel room. In absolute silence, I sit here waiting - for him, and looking around I think about nutty scientists; their talk of 'absolute zero' - only this is absolute quiet.

I try remembering that he is not some stranger. I know him - a little, meaning we did it the one time - well twice.

But that's all! Yes, it was frantic. He tore at my clothes, clawed my body - and then, as suddenly as he started - it was done, when he got called away in the middle of the night! So annoying!

Weeks passed by before I heard back from him again. Weeks! And when I did hear, I didn't actually hear - that is he didn't go to the trouble himself to call - but rather sent a text - meaning I had to read! And look...look at the three words he sent: "Sheila - how many?"

"How many?" I said out loud, glaring at my device like it was the iPhone's fault. "How many?" I repeated - glaring more!

Thinking it was past time to get this man's attention, I bluntly texted back a bunch of question marks. "????????"

"Seriously?" He counter-texted straight off; his tone, one of surprise.

Exasperated, I counter-texted back in bold, for effect: "?????????? "

After that things fell silent, meaning he was either reconsidering the obvious frustration of my abrupt responses - or he was gone for good. At that moment I tried convincing myself none of it mattered.

But he is a man of extremes and I suddenly found myself antsy; thinking maybe a bunch of question marks showed too much attitude for a guy so controlling. Regret chilled my indignation but I still had my pride - so I waited.

An hour went by: Nothing - no call, no text - nothing! Of course I folded and throwing my cards face down on the great poker table of relationships, I touched my finger to his number. Naturally, he didn't pick up.

Shit, I thought, now what? Then I thought: I'll do another text - one more time, that's what! Maybe he's just a text kind of guy? Anyway, thinking I'd better warm to him, I tapped away, and sent the following, also in bold:??????????? xx!

Not an instant later, this is what came back: "Sheila - on the eleventh - be at the Marcel Gramercy on 24th - Room 111 - 11:11 A.M."

After waiting a couple - OK, it was more like half a minute, I tapped out a tepid, "Sounds OK," kind of response, thinking, what's with him?

After hitting send, everything stopped again - and I figured it was about time to check my schedule to see about the 11th at 11:11. My finger pounced a little too vigorously on the calendar icon

A moment later admitting to myself that my...my ordinarily busy itinerary just happened to be clear that morning, I thought, really? The 11th? Why, I asked myself - why the fucking delay? The eleventh is...it...it's not for eleven more days! For God's sake! Eleven days! Eleven! Days? "Hey," I thought out loud, "what is this?"

What 'this' was - was this: It was August 1st - that's what 'this' was! The 11th was...well, it was the eleventh - eleven dragged-out, awful days from now! At that moment, I half hated - but totally wanted him, too!

The days dragged by but right on time, the eleventh eventually happened by. In anticipation, I did everything I thought he wanted - meaning no, I did not shave my cunt - he hates that; says it makes women look pre-pubescent!

Yes, I violated some feminist commandment by shaving my legs - so close my pink skin pinkened - and burned; but I didn't care! Yes, I had my hair done - some highlights - that's all, but I kept it loose the way he likes. I wore black pumps, a skirt - black too; not too tight - and I plopped a stick of the deepest red lipstick ever into my purse - because he likes deep red.

At the hotel desk I asked for the key to Room 111 and without looking at me, the clerk handed it over! Think she even glanced at the I.D. I was holding out? No way! Think she'd been tipped I was coming? Honestly, the way this guy sees to details and I thought...shit!

Upstairs, I found a queen-sized bed. Everything around it felt untouched. Glancing at my phone, I saw it was 11:00 o'clock so I sat in the chair - waiting.

Exactly eleven minutes later I heard the key, for lack of a better word, since the hotel uses those awful plastic swipe cards, and I watched

impatiently as his tall, lean form passed through the open the door.

He didn't smile; well, maybe a little...a half smile - maybe, kind of a smirk - a half-smirk.

"I see you found the room all right." Sort of a growl, it's all he said.

"Sure," I responded, so daintily I almost slapped myself. "Nice room." He didn't answer, but he nodded, then strolled to the window, moved the sheer aside and glanced out like he was checking the high-rise across the street for snipers.

He was wearing a light brown sport jacket and saying, "Excuse me," he carefully took it off, then removed his shoulder harness holster, the one restraining whatever those big black guns are called.

"So...it's been kind of a long time, don't ya think?" I asked, a note of slight irritation creeping into my voice. He looked at me funny.

"What do you mean?" He asked, presenting the question like he was some bystander; innocent as the day he was born!

"Eleven days? Don't you think it's a bit much? Eleven days? I practically rip your clothes to shreds that first time and when you finally - well, you didn't call but in your text - you casually say the eleventh? Today? Really?" Pouting, I sat back hard against the chair.

Barely reacting, by then he had unzipped a kind of collapsible lunchbox container; a hand-held cooler he was carrying when he walked in. Without even looking my way he reminded defensively: "You said eleven, not me."

"Eleven? Eleven what?" I asked, more steamed by the minute. Blankly, I looked over at the window for solace. He didn't answer; instead, he slipped his hand into the cooler, moving around some ice cubes. Turning my eyes back to him I watched as he drew out one of those white mini-liqueur bottles - the kind people order on flights to Peru.

Anyway, it was hard to tell the exact brand, but by then who cared about the brand? All I could think was, who chills liqueurs?

Anyway, the whole thing was strange and if I wasn't already sopping wet just thinking about sex with him, I would have walked!

"Eleven loads," he calmly stated; clearer than I expected. "You got my text. I specifically asked you how many? Sheila, it meant how many loads. I thought you understood."

"Eleven loads? Understood? Eleven? Eleven loads of..?" My mouth stopped.

I'm twenty-five! I'm with this man - because I'm madly in love with him - and because he's smart, OK? But I'm twenty-five! It means I know some things - a little anyway - and in spite of the usual confidence that comes with knowing things my voice quit working; unwilling to come right out with exactly what the "L" word stood for.

By then he was reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, and producing a shot glass - clear, not frosted, he placed it in front of me on the marble coffee table, setting it there with a sharp tap.

Opening the little bottle, which even I could see had a broken seal, he carefully - without spilling a drop - poured out its thick whitish contents, filling the little glass to brimming.

With that accomplished, he stood up, seized my arms, pulled me to my feet, grabbed me by the hair, careened my head back - hard, plunged his tongue deep into my throat, pulled my hair again, drew his face away - and asked, "Where's the red lipstick, bitch?"

"It's in my purse," I lamented, thinking - Damn! I knew I forgot something! I glanced in the direction of my bag.

Letting go, he shoved me back into the chair where I sat - arms crossed - fuming that I had waited all this time and forget the fucking lipstick!

I was furious with myself! He grabbed my purse from off the bed, and tossed it at me like a shovel pass!

"Red lipstick," he ordered. "Put it on." Unable to resist shooting him a look, I glared, fished the slender stick out of the jumbled mess and with the help of my little compact - the gold one my Gramma gave me - I applied his cherished lipstick with just enough care not to fuck that up too.

By then he had settled a little too comfortably back in the chair opposite me, and he watched as the thoroughly feminine process unfolded, smiling interestedly as I finished up. I blotted once with a white tissue - hoping to God I didn't get any on my teeth. "Looks nice," he mentioned. "Why didn't you do it before? Do you not want me here?"

What was I supposed to say? I want you gone! I did all this? Shaved my legs raw? Sat here drenched like a teenager on her first date - and I don't want you here? I didn't say any of that, of course.

"Sorry," I said, regretfully. "I just...I just forgot." He looked doubtful but smiled that inviting smile of his; the one accompanied by the twinkle - the one that melts my heart - such as it is. That's when he stood, reached down for the shot glass - and straightaway handed it to me.

I didn't need to give it a snuffle to know what it was, since by then the fucking room teemed with the fragrance of cum.

Taking it from him I asked, "Now what?"

"That's up to you," he said. "You can start by telling me how you intend to handle this." He sat back down, put his feet up on the coffee table, and waited - tolerantly.

I could smell its sweetness and aroused, I instinctively closed my legs for relief, then moved the shooter closer to my lips, looked at him, and drawing a deep breath, fortified myself.

"So when I sent eleven question marks - this...this is what...that is, you expect me to swig down these...these eleven...?"

"Eleven what?" He interjected.

"Eleven..."

"Say it," he ordered.

In a huff, I turned my cheek to him - only a tiny bit, but enough to demonstrate some arrogance! Lifting my chin a bit, I announced, "LOADS!" Re-finishing his sentence a second time, I repeated, "Eleven...LOADS!"

My courageous repetition prompted him to raise an eyebrow - the second time today - and I had to ask the obvious: "So you expect me to swallow eleven - loads? Just like that?"

"I expect," he answered, his eyes burning holes in my brain; "I expect you to do the right thing, Sheila."

A long moment went by as I kept the fragrant if provocative prop situated just under my nose. All I could think about was my girlfriend, Taryn; about that time she blew the stranger in London - how his pre-cum had lingered with her ever after and how she hated it - because she hated him and even herself, a little - for doing him.

But I didn't hate this one. Instead, I was transfixed by him - smitten half out of my wits. And so, steadying myself, I raised the glass, to almost touching my lips.

"Don't," he abruptly dictated.

"Don't?" I asked, haltingly.

"Don't." He motioned for me to lower my hand, which I did - but halfheartedly, since I had already made the decision.

"Shouldn't you be asking something first?" He questioned, his brown eyes twinkling more now.

"Ask?" I asked. "Ask what?"

"Don't you want to know if what's in the shooter is even mine?"

My hand dropped like a rock! My mind raced to how I presumed he must have milked himself, eleven straight times, extracting his loads, freezing the goo, saving it for later - for now - for me - for this!

"Um...not yours? I just guess I...that is, I assumed...I assumed that you, that is...for the past eleven days, you...you...to fill this shot glass I'm holding - saving it...up...for..."

"Assumed?" He sharply continued. "Don't assume. Assuming gets women in trouble." My mind skidded to a stop, but not before she did her usual brisk and routine slide-show of past fuck-ups; assumptions this girl had made through her whole life - each jam leading her directly to the next one!

I leaned back in my chair and crossing my legs I questioned, "So what happens now?" I was proud of how cool I was.

"Here's what," he answered. "From this moment, you refuse to be stupid, that's what. From this moment, you get to ask things like: are the eleven loads of semen I'm prepared to gulp - yours? I fully intend to be let down if you don't show more nerve."

"Let down?" I kicked a shoe off, then kicked my foot nervously - twice; before stopping it dead. "So...is it? Is it yours? I'll gladly gulp if it is - I want to." I raised my chin - like last time, only a little - a control thing - a kind of statement that this girl wasn't afraid.

"No gulping," he ordered. "Sheila, listen to me: guys - not straight guys anyway - never, ever play with other mens' semen - not sure about homosexuals - maybe they do - so it leaves the girl with only one way to know if the sperm she's about to guzzle is her lover's...or some third, fourth - or eleventh party! She has a right to know, don't you agree?"

Nodding, I agreed. God yes, of course I agreed! But I didn't come right out and say it, thinking, he's reading my mind anyway, and he can just chill his jets and find out some answers for himself! My arrogance came from one little fact - I was the one holding the shot glass.

But I had to say something. "I know," I whispered, confidently. "Now if only I had brought along my handy do-it-yourself home DNA laboratory! Um...do I get to do a DNA test?" I ventured - stupidly. With that his smile broadened to a grin.

"Do you trust me?" He asked. "Truly, trust me, I mean?"

"Of course!" I answered too emphatically. After all, I reasoned, I had known him for...for weeks - several, so I smartly added, "Think I'd be here if I didn't trust you?"

"Good then," he commented, after a pregnant hesitation seeming to last several hours. "Go ahead. Drop it in your mouth. I put it to my lips. That's when he added, "But don't swallow!"

Puzzled, and not taking my eyes from his, I leaned my head back, swigged arrogantly - eleven in a gulp - all at once; then, wide-eyed I descended to utter panic; my cheeks burning with hurt, my throat tightening as it fought against swallowing the thick arctic sperm, my confident glare rapidly disappearing as I turned frantic!

"Now," he began, "You keep that gulp exactly where it is - and then I'll show you how a girl knows if the sperm sticking like glue to her tonsils - is truly her lover's!"

Had I been able talk, I would have admitted to that tonsillectomy from when I was thirteen, but in fact, the semen - Niagara Falls on steroids - needed to go - someplace - fast!

I nodded more, my chin bobbing up and down for dear life. Never...never had I ever - ever, had more than one load of ejaculate in my mouth at one time - never!

My cheeks ached and the heavy liquid pooling in my mouth felt like mercurial pearls ; like if I didn't eat them - and I didn't dare - and if I didn't spit them back into the glass - which I didn't dare do either - I would die, right then and there - right in front of this wicked, erotic-to-death man!

"I love that you're holding it in your mouth for me, sweetheart," he coached, more calmly than ever. "Take off your top - the bra too."

Pulling hard at the blouse, I popped two buttons and not bothering to unhook it, I yanked just as hard at the bra, wrenching it to my waist!

With that little exercise accomplished, he stood up again, seized both my arms again, pulled me to my feet again, grabbed the back of my hair again, tilted my head back - hard, again, plunged his tongue deep into my throat, again, pulled my hair, drew his face away - and said, "New rule: the girl decides how long the kiss lasts."

End