Honest-Honest Ch. 05

Meanwhile, Misha continued nursing herself.

I pulled the shirt back and slid my hand inside it, then I put my hand on her breast, feeling it through just one layer of fabric with my fingers extended. I applied only the slightest amount of pressure.

My cock flexed below me. I glanced down, seeing the head swell and relax, swell and relax. My balls felt palpably loaded.

Misha let her breast down and gasped for air. She pulled my hand away. "Thank you," she uttered.

"Is it good? The taste, I mean."

She nodded. "I like it enough." Then, she drew up the other tit and sucked on her nipple, swallowing every few seconds.

Even though she had sucked on my cock hundreds of times, this was the most intimate moment I had ever experienced with her—me sitting up, she just inches away from me, our chests bare. I could have wrapped my arms around her and held her.

My cock ached and throbbed for her.

She rose off her nipple and said, "Lay down, Michael."

I did.

She sat up and back down again, adjusting her position, and then she looked at my cock. "Oh, my. You're ready, aren't you?" Her voice did not betray any hint of sexual desire. It was more motherly, her tone.

I glanced between my penis and her mouth, waiting. Fuck, I was going to explode.

She leaned forward, and then stopped. "Let me...let me do this first." She grasped my cock and I grunted at the touch of her fingers. She took her right breast in her other hand and guided it down. She brought my penis and her tit close together, almost touching, and then Misha squeezed forward on her nipple, coating my cock in warm breastmilk to where it pooled around her grip on the shaft.

I gasped. Misha's head sank down, and then I felt her lips take me in.

"Oh, fuck, Misha. Fuck."

There. There was that intense suction. I felt the little vibrations of her lips as she sucked the milk from the tip and around her fist. I heard the slurp. She tugged the shaft twice and my body shook with pleasure.

When she rose, my cock looked engorged beyond anything I'd seen before. She brought her tit back and squeezed more milk. It coated the head and ran down along the shaft into her fist. Then my cock was inside her mouth again, pressed tightly between her lips, and she was sucking my cock and the milk, swallowing.

"Fuck yes, Misha. Please," I gasped.

She pulled back, expressed more breastmilk on my cock, and as she lowered herself, the sight of it all made me burst in her fist.

I grunted. My body flexed.

I watched cum spill out of the milk-covered tip. A second pulse leapt up into her mouth. A third splattered across Misha's cheek. A fourth coated her lips. The rest ran out the tip, down the shaft, and over her fingers in oozing rushes. I'm not sure I'd ever cum so hard or so much.

It was a combination of things—the time since we'd last been together was a big part of it. I'd jerked off a few times for relief, but not much. Seeing her breasts for the first time, and seeing them at their most massive, provoked me. Part of it, I also have to admit, was the strange sensuality of Misha involving her breastmilk in the act. Most of all, however, it had been that, for the first time, it seemed like Misha was enjoying herself. For once, it didn't seem like she was just trying to take care of me. She was into it. For a fleeting moment, I knew what it was like to be Misha's husband.

And I had just cum all over her face, in her mouth, and on her hands. A pool of semen and breastmilk lay at the base of my cock.

"That was awesome. Oh, fuck, that was awesome, Misha. Holy shit." I was panting.

She smiled at me, and then, as if awakening to some startling truth, she let my cock free from her grip and said, "I should clean up. Can you take care of yourself?"

I nodded, and she went off to the bathroom.

She joined me on the balcony a few minutes later, wearing one of her new shirts. She sat down, lit her cigarette, and sighed a puff of smoke.

"Is that your first one?"

She nodded. "It's been almost a year."

I let her smoke in silence. She was content, it seemed.

Before she left, I asked her, "Tomorrow?"

She hesitated, and then nodded.

But, Misha never let her guard down after that night, never gave a hint that I had any hold over her heart.

***

Our secret relationship went on for years, even after I graduated and even after I became her supervisor on the swing shift.

One night, in the new apartment my manager's salary could afford, after she finished me and while she smoked her cigarette, she said, "You have no idea how much I look forward to this part of my day."

"Really?"

She nodded. "Change is so much harder the older you get, and I know that at some point you're going to move on. I thought it was going to end when you became the shift boss."

"I didn't want it to end. I knew we could both be professional about it."

"That's very sweet of you, but it will end someday, and I hate to think of it."

"Why does it have to end?"

"Because you need to emerge from this rock you've been hiding under all these years, and you will."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on, Michael. You're a good-looking young man, a successful man, and you never date." When I gave her a doubtful look, she said, "I know you, Michael. If you're dating, then you're doing it in secret, and you're definitely not getting laid." I drew back from her, my eyebrows raised.

She explained, "You don't do what I have been doing with you, day in and day out, without learning a thing or two. I know how much you give me every night. Mondays and Tuesdays are heavy—after the weekend apart. Wednesdays, Thursday, and Fridays are about the same each night. You're body's like clockwork down there. It would change if you were having sex."

I took this information in, and my expression was all the confirmation she needed.

She continued, "But, back to my point: you have a family, but you never take real time off to go see them, and they don't come to see you. A young man like you? Your mother and father would have come to visit you, but it's never happened—at least, not since I've known you. You never take vacations, never for more than a day or two. You're running from something."

She had read me pretty well.

"And last," she finished, "is the fact that you're unhappy. You've been unhappy for years. Something happened."

I sighed and looked at her. She really was a beautiful, intelligent, and caring woman. Her husband was a lucky man.

So, I told her the story of Amy.

She listened with great sympathy, and the only moment when I grew concerned in my telling was when I got to the part where my relationship with Amy became sexual. Misha's eyes widened, and she seemed to struggle with that information. Yet, she appeared to control herself and listen sympathetically until I finished the tale.

"I am so sorry, Michael. You loved her didn't you?"

I nodded. "I did. I really did."

"How long has she been married?"

"Two years this coming spring."

"Any kids?"

"Not that I've heard about."

Misha stood up, and waved me to do the same, and then she hugged me. It was heartfelt. She swayed back and forth and rubbed my back. "I understand, Michael. I understand. I am so sorry."

The compassion pouring out of her, it...it moved me. I struggled to hold back tears.

When we sat back down, she said, "I like 'honest-honest.' I think that was very sweet of the both of you."

I nodded, wiping my eyes.

"Can I tell you something now?" she asked.

"Sure."

* * *

Misha described her older brother. His name was Tariq. He was a fun-loving, happy kid, and he loved performing. He wanted to be an actor, and he had a real gift. He did every show in high school, and then, from the time he was 18, he took acting classes and auditioned for parts.

When he was 21, living at home with his parents and his little sister in New Jersey, the breakthrough happened. He won a speaking role in a television pilot—a small part, but it was a start.

He was thrilled. He called Misha to tell her about it first, and then he drove home.

A head-on collision with a truck stopped his progress there; he planned to surprise his parents with the news.

Tariq broke his left leg, two ribs, and lost the lower half of his right forearm—it was sheared clean off. His seatbelt stopped his body, but not the steel tread plate that was sitting, for whatever reason, in the middle of the back seat. It launched into and through his arm, lodging itself four inches deep into the dashboard.

In the hospital a few days later, the casting agent called Tariq and told him the part was no longer his.

Devastated, Tariq told Misha that his acting career was probably over. "Amputees just don't get work in this business. You kind of need to be whole."

Misha, at home for the summer from nursing college, was responsible for caring for her brother during the days while both parents worked.

"He was a lost soul," she said. "So, so sad. Most days he didn't even talk."

Misha was losing her brother, her best friend. She was desperate to help him emerge from this dark place.

One afternoon, while Tariq was asleep and Misha was sitting at his bedside reading, she noticed her brother's penis, fully erect and projecting out of the hole in his boxers.

Weeks before the crash, one of Misha's best friends had described how happy her boyfriend was after she had finally decided to give him a blowjob. Misha was inexperienced in such things. Her shyness had made the boys in school think of her as ugly.

She remembered what her friend had said as she stared at her brother's jutting hardness. Misha told me, "It was strange, his chest rose and fell, but his penis didn't move. It just shot up from him like a fat exclamation point. I couldn't stop looking at it. It was like it was waiting for me."

Misha silently walked over to the bed, laid beside him, and began to suck on her brother's penis.

He woke up, of course, but he didn't stop her. She finished him, letting Tariq's semen fill, and then spill out of her mouth. When she looked up, he smiled for the first time since the accident.

"It wasn't about sex. Can you understand that, Michael?" she asked.

I nodded.

It was about healing, she said. She just felt like it was what he needed.

Every afternoon, she did this for her brother, and he began to find himself again. He talked, and he even laughed.

And then, she got caught in the act by her mother.

Misha's mother had left work early. What she had seen made her lose all reason. There was just no listening when Misha tried to explain.

The worst of it, though, was that Tariq got the blame. Both parents accused him of taking advantage, and Tariq, despite being utterly mortified, did not deny it. He wanted to protect his sister. Tariq's father even accused his son of rape.

And the next day, Misha found Tariq hanging from the chin-up bar in his room, dead. "One-handed, with two broken ribs and a broken leg," Misha uttered through tears, "he tied that knot and killed himself."

There was no note. Misha's parents, crushed and vengeful at the injustice of losing their firstborn, blamed her for the suicide.

The day after the funeral, Misha took everything she had and left.

* * *

I reached out and took Misha's hand, and I held it. She was crying; she squeezed my fingers.

"You remind me of him; you always have. You have his sadness. You have his smile, though you don't show it often enough."

"That is so terribly sad, Misha. I'm sorry."

"It's ancient history now."

We held hands and sat together in silence.

"Can I ask you something?"

She said, "Is this 'honest-honest?'"

"Yeah."

She nodded.

"So all of these times—us together after work, I mean—was it about healing me?"

She smiled. "No, Michael. It was about healing me."

I shook my head, confused.

She clarified, "I can't say that I wasn't hoping to help you. That wouldn't be true; I chose you for a reason. But, in my mind, it was more about helping me put the past away."

"How?"

"Well, for starters, I never once gave my husband a blowjob. Never once. Not until after you and I started meeting up. We've been like newlyweds again. We had the baby. If he knew about you, he might even thank you...after he killed you, that is." When she said this, she started laughing.

I shook my head, smiling.

She went on. "But, more importantly, I never forgave myself for Tariq. I began to believe what my parents said—that his death was my fault. I forgot that what I did for him was never about sex, but about healing. You and I together, it's been like therapy. You helped me prove to myself, again, that what I did with Tariq was right. It was what he needed. It was what I wanted to do for him."

She seemed earnest, and I nodded. "You're a pretty incredible person, Misha."

"I've made my mistakes, but enough about me. What about you? Can you move forward?"

"I don't know."

"You have to find a way to forgive yourself. That's where it began for me."

"I'll try, Misha."

She sighed. "Okay, Michael. But, I really need to be going."

She left, and I stood in my apartment wondering what might have happened if I had told Misha that she had helped me, that I had given up on Amy, that any sadness I showed was because, for the second time in my life, I had found someone I couldn't have.