The List Pt. 03: Fun with Office Supplies

By the time you get to the Golden Gate Bridge, you're busy trying to convince yourself: He's doing the best he can. But is he? A small, nagging voice keeps interrupting your internal monolog - if he's that brilliant, shouldn't he able to figure something out? If he's the boss, why can't he make time?

You did.

The thought stays with you all the way down 19th Avenue, past all the strip malls of Burlingame. In fact, you're still thinking it as you park, even as you walk into the Hyatt though, the closer you get to him, the more it's becoming obscured by the warmth spreading through your groin.

This is how it happens. You feel the fog moving upwards. From your crotch to your stomach, where it releases the butterflies that begin to bounce all over inside your ribcage. Next it's in your throat - you swallow like a stroke victim, like you don't know how to. The fog's next stop is your brain; you have to be at the hotel room door before then. Before it begins to systematically shut down all unnecessary functions, self-preservation among them.

This fog is not named Carl. It's called Jordan and, in a few minutes, it will completely envelope your landscape, leaving you to grope around for some bearing. You will be adrift, following the sound of his voice, hoping it will lead you to safety, fearing that it might wreck you instead.

416

You knock on the door. A hand opens and pulls you in. You lurch forward into him. Your first thought is that he looks tired. There's a laptop open on the desk. Your second thought is...

You don't get a second thought because, before it's had time to constitute itself, he's pulling up your ugly, furry sweater and pushing your jeans down and kicking them to the side. There's a full length mirror on the wall to the side of bed and before you know it, he's pushed you up against it. It's cool on your breasts; you can see his breath condense on it right next to your face.

If he's honestly as tired as he looked a minute ago, he's doing a good job of hiding it.

"Milkshake," he murmurs, "you came."

"Not yet."

He chuckles. "I can fix that."

And he means it. Today he is not going to take his time.

I'll be at SFO for four hours

He's licking a path from the notch at the back of your neck to the divot at the base of your spine, all the while holding you in place against that stupid mirror. You want to turn and really look at him, kiss him, but that's not going to happen.

Because he's reaching up to untie your crazy panties before pulling them down and spreading your legs just a bit with his warm, capable hands.

It sounds a little like he saying "Milkshake," but - honestly - you don't know and you don't care. He could be reciting the pledge of allegiance, the In and Out Burger menu, the lyrics to Tom Sawyer. The rush is on

and all you can focus on (if you can call that bit of consciousness you still have 'focus') is the feeling of his tongue darting in and out between the cheeks of your ass, with an occasional, welcome foray into the territory of your sopping cunt.

Gentleman, step right up...

It's called 'rimming' but Boy Wonder doesn't do anything half-assed. Including asses. He's not one for rim shots; He's going for a slam dunk.

"Ah, ah, ah." It's his tongue and not his cock and still you can feel him fucking your ass insistently. His mouth pushes hard - as if he wants to lick the fingers you suddenly realize he's got up inside your cunt. It's an awkward angle for you, on your toes, straining up agains the mirror that's not cold anymore. You'd shift but you can't because he's griping your ass hard enough that you know you'll see fingerprints tomorrow - blue reminders of his eagerness. His need.

Need. The word is echoing in your brain as his thumb slips forward onto your clit.

"Oh god. Oh fuck. OH...!"

And in that moment, your soul leaves your body. Suddenly. As if you forgot to use the seatbelt and it shot through the windshield when you crashed into the pole that is him. Somehow your eyes snap open and you can see yourself in the mirror. It looks like terror but it feels like freedom from gravity.

The same gravity that's still pulling you down towards his mouth and that sly, questing hand.

Has it found the northwest passage up through your cunt to your asshole?

Please, please, please let him be Amundsen. Please let him be stranded for at least one season. You don't want him to leave that enchanted stretch of flesh between your orifices. It should be named 'The Straights of Jordan.' You want his crew to abandon him; you want him to wander there forever.

The maelstrom of your orgasm is a blizzard engulfing you both and, when he stands up, you're not surprised to see his beard is white with the memory of you.

He pulls you back slightly and you both see it at the same time.

"Boob prints!"

He's right. They're right there. The ghosts of your breasts on the mirror.

Suddenly, you bend to it and lick them off. Slowly. With a sideways glance at him.

"Fuck. Milkshake."

He sits down on the bed and holds out a hand to you. You take it and come towards him till you settle in between his legs. The red bow of your bra, smushed as it is, is face height. He takes a moment to bury his nose

in your cleavage before untying it.

He looks like a kid at Christmas.

While pulling his NASA t-shirt over his head, you can see a STAPLES bag on the bed. He notices that you notice.

Leaning back to let you pull off his pants (Holy Hell - those boxers have definitely seen better days!), he reaches back and grabs the bag.

Does he shop for his own office supplies? Maybe there's something else in there?

"I was at Staples...". I can see that. "Got you something..."

Now you're the one who looks like a kid at Christmas. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a pencil case with a picture of cat eye glasses on it. It says "Spectacle".

Are you a spectacle? He's grinning as he hands to you. You're so touched you're close to tears. He thought of you. At Staples, of all places.

It still has the price tag on it. $3.99.

hey big spender

You smile and crawl across the bed to finally (FINALLY!) kiss him.

"That's not everything," he says, idly twirling the long satin ties of your bra. His mouth is curling into that smile that you know means he's thinking.

And he's very, very dangerous when he's thinking.

"I like this bra." He holds the strap up as if he's measuring it.

He is measuring it.

"I think I'd like to repurpose it." Well, isn't that just like him. Fucking engineer that he is.

You're about to ask, 'repurpose how?' when he sits you up and ties it around your eyes. It's a little slippery but you play along.

"Handy," you hear him say. And then the bed squeak as he gets up.

A minute later, you feel the sag as he returns.

He clicks his tongue. Tsk, Tsk. "Milkshake, you should know better by now..."

Know better? Know better than what?

"Did I ever tell you I once spent a whole semester working on knots..."

Knots?

"They're very interesting. Mathematically, that is."

You get the distinct impression - not just mathematically. The realization makes you shiver.

Boy Wonder is pushing you slightly up the bed and stretching your arms up in the direction of the headboard. You feel the satin around your wrist.

"Not too tight?"

You shake you head, your mouth suddenly dry in direct proportion to the wetness of your pussy. There's probably a mathematical rule for that but you can't recall it just right now.

There's more rustling from the bag.

"It's amazing - the stuff they've got at Staples..."

As he says that, you feel teeth close on your left nipple. Not hard. Just a nip and a short suck. The right one - miffed at being ignored - immediately stands at attention, like a little dog waiting for a bone.

Want me to do tricks?

You bet he does. But right now, he's got a few of his own up his sleeve. Or in the bag, as it seems.

There it is. A tiny pinch. Like an ant bite, almost, but it's not going away.

You want to reach up and find out what's causing it but you can't.

And he knows it.

You can feel him smiling.

"Ah... office supplies. And imagination."

You shiver again as you feel the next pinch. It's right next to your right nipple, the nipple he's pinching, tugging just a little.

"That's it. Like a cupcake." Like a cupcake?! You can't believe he said that out loud. You are so not a...

Pinch. He's applied the next one. They're getting lower.

"Oh milkshake, I'll never get tired of looking at your lips." You know he doesn't mean your mouth. His voice has a swoon-y sound to it and you cringe a little in spite of yourself. For all your feminist leanings, you're still vaguely embarrassed by anyone gushing over the look of your pussy.

The pussy he's just decided to adorn with something...

Pinch. You can feel your clit twitch. And him smiling as he surveys his handiwork.

You don't know exactly what's causing the clips you're feeling but you can guess. Those miniature clothespins...

You try to picture what your labia look like right now.

He pushes down on your hip. His hand is warm and firm and not going anywhere.

Tsk, tsk. There it is again. Is he shaking his head, do you think?

"I'm not done yet," he whispers up against your ear.

Tweak. There it is. You're a butterfly, pinned now in this bed he will make his very own cabinet of wonders.

Just as you're thinking that - zoning out (just slightly) as blood moves to all the places he's marked, your body feeling increasingly like a map where he's built a brand-new highway system complete with rest stops, the kind with lights so bright — his finger finds whatever's attached to your right nipple and flicks it.

Gently. Yet it still sets off a siren. Your blood races to the alarm.

But this is Northern California and, in a moment, you're burning all over. Especially in the canyon between your legs, where his finger is spreading your wetness up and down your slit, stopping just short of your clit.

I thought firemen were supposed to have poles...

Hello?! I'm burning!

"Please, please — "

"Please what?" His voice is creamy - you know he must look just like the cat that ate the canary. "You know... staples is full of things..."

Under the blindfold, your eyes widen. There's that rustling sound again.

You gasp as he slides it inside you.

WHAT THE FUCK?

Whatever it is, it's hitting that spot deep inside of you.

Not A. Not B. Not C. Not D. Not E. Not F.

Not even G.

"Oh God, Oh Jordan, Oh...". He's nuzzling your neck.

"I made it just for you, Milkshake." The voice is a purr. Or maybe more of a burr. How sweet! He's made a tool. A tool for dismantling you. You feel yourself rattling.

Soon you'll break apart.

Just when you think you're there - the place in the cartoon where all four wheels fall off simultaneously - you feel him quickly flick the clip off your clit and replace his unseen invention with his cock.

How uncool is it that he heaves a clear sigh of relief? If your hands were free, you'd stroke his face.

"Cub," You say into his mouth. "Boy Wonder." Your tongue traces it onto his tongue.

But that's all you can say because he has shifted slightly and that shift takes you into overdrive. You can practically hear rev'ing in your cunt.

In that moment, you know you've overshot the exit - that you're airborne. If he hadn't buckled you in, you'd be flying right now.

You can't see him. You can't hold him. All you can do it feel him like gravity - everything that's grounding you and everything that's propelling you forwards. It's like perpetual momentum - this back and forth he's locked you into.

Was he saying something? There's a rumble in the background

"Milkshake I want —"

What does he want?

"I want, I —" And then your upward and his downward collide and sudden stasis results.

PRO PRO PRO PRO

It's the same rhythm as your breath. As his breath.

His full weight is on you - like a weighted blanket. Calming.

"Jordan?" You try to poke him with your hip. "Jordan?"

You're still tied up so you can't wiggle much but you do manage nudge him off you.

"Jordan?"

For a second you wonder if he's dead?

He can't be - he's 27 for fuck's sake!

He's not dead. You can feel his chest rising softly.

What the fuck —?

You try rubbing your head up and down to loosen the blindfold. Thankfully, it works. You can see him, next to you.

Fast asleep.

Oh god. And you're still tied up.

So much for post-coital bliss. You've got to free yourself.

Did I tell you I spent a semester working on knots...?

Master mathematician you may be, Boy Wonder, but eagle scout you are not. Thank god you've got small wrists.

Some quiet swearing and a welt or two later, your arms are loose. He's still sleeping, like a baby, really. A snoring baby, you think.

You wiggle down the bed so you're eye-level with him. His eyelids are naturally violet. In sleep, he looks both younger and older. Younger because you notice his beard is uneven. How long has he been shaving, you wonder. You brush an errant lock from his brow. He's got worry lines.

How many times has he held his forehead, calculating. Costs. Algorithms.

What goes on behind those furrows? It's a lot for a 27 year old, you think.

What were you doing at that age?

A wave of nostalgia grips your heart and you lean over to kiss him on the cheek. How can anyone be so tired orgasm literally knocks them out?

He stirs a little, then turns.

"Oh my god, CeCe...". He's never said your name before. "Did I ...?"

"Fall asleep? Yes, you did." You say it gently because you know he's horrified.

"How long did I...?"

"Just a few minutes." You put your hand over his lips. He doesn't need to apologize.

He pulls you into his arms. "I"m sor—" You put your hand back. "I'm just so tired..."

Now you can hold him. Hold him like he needs, with his nose nestled in-between your breasts.

Your foot hits something cold. Rubbery.

"What the hell —?"

He laughs a little and you realize it's whatever he 'made' to fuck you.

"It's a bendable ruler." He seems pleased with himself.

"Fuck, Cub...". You say it with a twinge of exasperation but, really, you're pleased too. My very own sexual Macgyver...

The little clothespins are strewn all over the bed as well. You'll never be able to go to Staples again without blushing.

You're petting him like a big dog - unconsciously. Just because it feels right. The muscles in his shoulders - in his neck - are still hard. Your hand drifts to his cock. One muscle that's fully relaxed.

You could fix that.

You want to fix that.

But, as you make your way down the bed, you see the cheap hotel alarm clock.

3:50 PM.

I'm at SFO for 4 hours on Monday.

What time did you get here?

What time does he have to go?

Involuntarily, you flash onto the 101. It'll take you hours to get home.

But there he is, his marvelous cock just waiting for your mouth. You know you could do it.

He knows it, too, apparently.

"Milkshake...". You're Milkshake again. A moment ago, you were CeCe.

"Milkshake, I can't... we can't."

Where is it now, you think.

Hong Kong.

Paris.

Johannesburg.

Atlanta.

Wherever it is, it's not here. It's not with you.

You could sigh. But you don't. What's the point? This is what he is. This is what you signed up for. Or not.

You'll have plenty of time to think about it on the drive home.

Which is he, you wonder as you look at the man on the bed. The sleepy boy who wants nothing more than to pop your tit in his mouth and drift off, or the clear-eyed executive who'll arrive at his destination discharged. It's a hard word but not inaccurate.

I'll be at SFO for four hours on Monday...

Just enough time to get IT out of his system. Suddenly, you feel like Jiffy-Lube.

Yes, Sir, we'll get you in and out of here in under an hour. No problem.

You look at the clock again. It's been over an hour. You know you're being unfair.

But which is it?

"Milkshake?"

You turn and kiss him one more time before you slide off the bed and begin to gather your clothes. Oh cub...

He takes that as permission and gets up, too. You both dress in silence.

When you leave, he's at his laptop.