X-Ray Vision Ch. 06: Accepted

"What is 'extra virgin'?"

"You, lover, in the kitchen." She rolled her eyes.

"C'mon! I can cook!"

"If it requires heating in a pan. And if the directions are on the can. Let me do this, ok?"

I muttered under my breath, "I don't want to know what non-virgin olive oil has been up to."

She giggled despite herself, but still put the oil bottle in our basket.

I was just here to make sure the flour didn't have moths, there were no dead mice in the cereal boxes, no roaches under the deli counter, stuff like that. Far as I could see we were good. It was a Vietnamese grocery, a fastidious lot by and large.

In about five minutes I'd make my excuses and retreat to the parking lot. Seeing a bazillion boxes and jars, plus seeing everything in those boxes and jars, gave me a headache sometimes. It was like thousands of jigsaw puzzles all spread out in front of me, too much detail to process.

"Oooh! Oooh! That cereal has a whistle! Can I have it? Please?"

She gave me an indulgent look, added the box to our haul. We always got the best prizes.

After the third time I'd asked about something, the difference between double-cream brie and the regular stuff when they're both made only of cream, why half-and-half was just a few percent fat and not half, why cooking spray is labelled 'non-fat' but contains nothing but fat, she banished me.

Sitting on a bench outside I entertained myself with the content of people's car trunks. So much stuff! So little rhyme or reason.

The Mercedes has a grocery-sack of coupons, mostly expired. The VW bug has a six-pack of wine coolers, a jack but no jack handle, two bikini bottoms but no tops(!). Station wagon - no trunk, but the back filled with camping gear, coolers, hiking equipment. And no can opener.

The rusty surf-mobile with the board on top, a hatchback, had two randy teenagers in the back, grappling on a blanket. Figuring it out; neither was very expert. I trusted youthful determination and lust would win out in the end.

She came out, scanning the receipt. I don't know why, habit probably, we could likely buy this little grocery store for cash.

I took the bags from her, the real purpose of my inclusion in this operation now clear: pack mule. I didn't mind. I've spent a lifetime rambling this coastal resort town, carrying everything I need with me. No car; no job; just a million-dollar condo, bought with my beachcombing money.

And now a girlfriend! We're fated to be a couple, have a whole schoolyard of kids, she wouldn't use condoms. Raise them as combination dutiful-Vietnamese-progeny and super-heroes with x-ray vision.

That's my thing, seeing everything around me, all of it, inside and out. A thing that happened when I was a kid, I've been hiding it for decades but Jillian saw right through me, knew me maybe 20 minutes and had me cold. So now, of course, I loved her, wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, helping her, supporting her family.

We're both essentially orphans. She never knew her dad, her mom died in prison without ever meeting (or caring about) her daughter. Mine died horribly of cancer and alcoholism when I was new to this second-sight stuff, just watching helplessly as a kid, horrified and traumatized by what I could do nothing about.

Her family, and by the associative rule of boyfriend-girlfriend, my family, happened when my tailor Khang decided Jillian was her long-lost soul sister. Which gave me a sister-in-law (or out-law, we weren't married yet) Khang and an Ông Ngoại, a Maternal Grandfather, Phuong. I'd known them both as local business people, done trade with them for years, before introducing Jillian. Which triggered a chain of events that has made me the happiest I've ever been in my life.

So being family was new to us; exciting and electrifying and terrifying, all rolled into one. We were taking it one day at a time.

"I'm gonna be hungry as a horse, once we get home. Too hungry to wait for some gourmet meal; we'll need takeout."

"You're always hungry! You can wait."

"Not hungry like this! You sexed me up so thoroughly last night, then again! this morning. Used up every erg of energy I had stored. Drained me. Tank is empty; kaput. I think, Mexican?"

She sighed. "If it gets your motor running again, I guess we can do that, just this once."

She was being the frugal householder, manager of family finances and scrutinizer of purchases. Phuong had given her the Vietnamese-wifely-duty speech, and it hit home. I didn't mind. I'd grown up with very little, and it made me feel good too, being careful.

Except when something interesting came along - like my condo. I'd dropped a third of my wealth, inherited plus accumulated, to have a place to lay my head where nobody bothered me. I slept like a baby, no humans in three directions for a thousand miles, on a point of land on the seashore. Which I shared with a desperate young woman I'd found standing in the surf, ready to give up, betrayed and left with no hope, no money, no self-respect.

We were working on stuff like that, her and me both. Each there for the other, no judgement, no demands. Just putting ourselves out there for the other, not counting the cost or keeping a tally. The only way to respect a partner, really.

"Ok, Cancun Mexican or Yucatan Mexican?"

"What's the difference? Aren't they both tacos and beans?"

"That's Tijuana Mexican, festival food. Cancun is seafood but touristy, resort food for vacationers, pretty awesome. Yucatan is seafood soups, exotic fruits, hot hot hot."

I knew which she'd choose; still a Midwestern Girl in her heat tolerance.

"Cancun, this time? Definitely Yucatan next time."

I felt a surge of affection. She knew I liked it hot, and was telling me she'd make an effort for me, learn to like some heat too. But one step at a time. Which was how we dealt with everything, together.

"So Casa Azul, this side of the strip, back of the surf shop."

We both knew our way around by now, me from half a lifetime living here. Her a more recent immigrant.

I ordered; she was still very much the Midwestern girl, grown up in foster homes eating bologna and wonder bread. She was excited, willing and able to learn all about the wide world of food, but limited experience so far.

Jill already knew more about Vietnamese dishes than me. Khang fed her regularly over at their digs, was a pretty good hot-pot cook, was teaching her. Jillian was to learn barbecue to please Khang, because sisters have to have things to share. It's a rule, apparently.

Back at the condo I put stuff away (where do you put sun-dried tomatoes? In the fridge?) she dished out the takeout. Always insisted on eating off of plates with proper tableware. As a bachelor, I'd eaten mainly over the sink. Didn't mind, this meant I did dishes but also I got to sit with her, chat about food and ingredients and flavors. See her lick her spoon, smack her lips, see her eyes widen when something showed some heat.

The camarones ranchero and deep-fried enchiladas dispatched, I stacked dishes and started hot water in the sink. She chose to sit next to me, watch me. In those too-big shorts, oversized t-shirt. Legs spread a little wider than they needed to be, bent forward almost enough for me to see up her arm-hole to that delicious young-woman breast.

She was talking laundry, something about work clothes. I was perving on her while washing forks. One of my favorite activities, perving on my girlfriend.

Once the last dish was racked and my hands rinsed and dried, she made her move. Scooting forward to balance precariously on the edge of the counter, one foot against the fridge, the other leg improbably folded and braced on the counter, she reached for me.

"C'mere Big Guy."

Her cooch was spectacularly visible through her shorts leg-hole, which was her intention. I went in for the embrace, smiling, nuzzling her on the nose, eyes squinting happily.

"This was a trap! Just getting me fueled up for more... wha!" She'd made a grab down my shorts for my dick, was reeling it out. Stroked me with one hand, the other still on my shoulder, her face a picture of concentration.

Putting my tip to her clit, she munged me around while I got hard. I slipped my shorts down my hips, relieving the tension on my stiffening member, slipped a hand under her shirt, mauled a perfect breast.

"I gotta be better prepared, you go zero-to-fucking in like three seconds."

"Shut up and get that thing wet."

I obliged, finding all the wet I needed a little lower. She was slippery and open! Had she been thinking of sex the whole time I was washing up?

As long as I was down there I joggled a bit, finding the angle that would best admit me to her warm hole without too much wear and tear.

She got impatient, lifted her butt a little off the counter, used a free hand on my hip to pull me in. With a struggle, her guiding hand and a little bending I found my cock forcing it's way into her cooch.

"Uuuuhhhhhh! That's in there!" Butt hovering in the air, she began rocking forward and back on her arms, air-fucking me. I reciprocated, matching her fuck for fuck.

After a dozen strokes, worried she might still be sore, I made an executive decision. Took her arms, put them around my neck, put my hands under her thighs near her butt, and lifted!

She is not exactly light; muscle and bone and hot sexy all weigh something. It didn't seem like any trouble. With my dick in her I was motivated I suppose.

She got behind the program, straightened her legs, followed my lead and started rocking her hips back and forth, like she was on a swing, was a swing. A triangle from hands around my neck, to hips, to legs stuck out in a V. I provided the momentum with my hands under her butt.

She'd smack! against me, pelvis to pelvis, our sex mated like a piston and a hydraulic cylinder. Swing out and Smack! back. Harder and harder, a wild look about her, like she'd gone mad, like she was angry!

Her blood was up, flushing red down her shoulders, front. I could 'see' it continue across her boobs, her stomach. Sweat beading, face screwed up, muscles tensing, feet starting to clench, I knew she was approaching fast.

I staggered out of the kitchen to give more scope to our sex, our athletic struggle, one of her feet sweeping the takeout boxes off the bar, bouncing off a stool, splatting on the tile. We took no notice.

Once clear we could put it into high gear, swinging her out, pulling her back, further, harder, my hips thrusting to meet her SMACK! SMACK! pounding into one another with shuddering impact.

She lost it, her vagina clenched on me, her heartbeat going 120, her feet clenched so tight surely they'd cramp. The glands along her urethra contracted, squirting her female juices onto my dick; her bladder contractions combined with our impact jetted urine to mix and eject.

In other words, she squirted. Hard. Her face screwed up, her body convulsed, like a landed fish, curling her torso, head down, legs twitching then bending and half-straightening, her fluid sheeting down my thighs.

Once she'd cum enough her grip loosened and released, totally trusting me to catch her! I pulled her up, let her legs drop, held her shoulders and butt, carried her to a chair, lowered her gently!

She let go, sprawled on the stuffed chair, eyes closed, just breathing away the adrenaline.

I looked down on my sex kamikaze, her shorts soggy, ruined. Mine left on the kitchen floor so I was naked below the waist, my wet cock still bobbing, still rigid. Legs dripping, pooling on the floor.

"Well, shit." She opened her eyes, looked at me wearily. "That didn't go like I thought it would!"

I smiled my most enormous smile, took my time surveying her top to bottom, my just-fucked flushed wet girlfriend. "Looks like it went just fine!" I was kind of proud; I'd got her off, seriously orgasming. A nice change from her sexing me up, getting me off in seconds.

One hand to help her up, I sent her to shower while I tidied up. Dump the spilled takeout boxes in the trash, mop up the counter, barstool, floor where they'd fallen.

Get a dishtowel to mop up my legs, her squirt puddle. It was pretty vast, drops splattered over half the floor, the chair. I missed nothing; the droplets stood out from the floor and furniture like little gems to my eyes.

I got in my shower just as I heard her get out of hers. Have to do something about the shower arrangements sometime. Lots of potential there.

Quick sex-slime scrub and hop out, dry off, into more identical t-shirt and shorts, found her on the porch with some kind of spritzer. Hadn't seen her buy those. Good idea! It's re-hydration and relaxation in a can.

I sat next to her, took the can, sipped and returned. Made a wry face.

"Kiwi?"

She nodded, took a long draw. "Maybe an acquired taste."

Putting the can down, she took my hand, slumped down on the couch. I rearranged to be beside her, cuddling her. Only way we both fit, laying down, spooning.

She took my free arm, wrapped it around herself, snugged my hand up between her neck and boobs, relaxed. In a few moments she was asleep.

I'd have to learn that trick from her - the insta-nap! Like a cat. A sexy, wiry athletic feral female cat.

...

I woke to a mouth on my dick. Laying beside me, head down now, facing me, I'm facing her crotch, she's lapping, tasting me. A shiver ran up my spine, the wet sensation setting off my nerves.

I reached up for her leg, the one on top, lifted it, lay it over so I could get my head under, my mouth on her. She cooperated, aware I'm awake now, propping her foot on the back of the couch, open to me.

No trouble finding what I wanted; those shorts were so loose they were just a token of modesty. Her slit is warm, a little red still. Gonna have to be gentle. No rubbing; just touching, sucking?

I tried that. Tongue pressed to clit, got a little sigh. Lips around it; suck, got a shiver. Wet the slit, work my tongue into it; she shifted her knee, opened a little more.

Probe her sensitive folds, gently! Sort the lips of her vulva out. Pretty mangled after all the fucking - thick, bent, swollen a bit. Just find a way in...

She slurped me up, woah! I'm a little sore too. Can't count the number of times in the last day I've been inside her, one end or the other? Not sure I'll cum, her tongue is rough like all tongues.

I froze; she relented, turned to little kisses, wet smooches around my tip. Better.

Try just sticking my tongue a little into her sore opening, just teasing, not thrusting. Alternate with kisses around. That's working; she's sighing again.

Back to the clit, touch, suck. Back to the vulva, kiss, tongue. Just taking my time; we have all afternoon, a lazy Saturday.

She was playing with the clear fluid my cock leaked, stretching it with her tongue, wetting her lips with it. Slurping when it got too much. Provoking as hell.

I put my free arm around her waist, my hand on her butt, just holding her fondly, cupping her as I smooched her sex. And it happened before I really noticed.

She came. A sweet little orgasm starting at my tongue, moving up her vagina in ripples. Nothing showy; just satisfaction achieved, no big exertions or exclamations.

She sighed big, stopped licking me, just holding my tip in her mouth, warming me.

Sat up, slurping me out. "That was nice."

I sat as well, scooted over, put an arm around her, held her gently.

"It was nice. Afternoon delight!"

Stretching, "Laundry again? Another walk?"

I considered. "The way we're going, we should wait on laundry. Who knows how much more there will be?"

She smiled happily, nodded, reached down to put her shoes back on.

Hands on hips, thinking. Then she decided.

"I want to look at cars!"

Out of left field.

"New? or used?"

"Oh, used. I know! We could buy a new Ferrari. But I'm a new driver, haven't driven here before, I don't want to attract attention. And I don't feel right spending money like that."

"Used then. I can help! So many used cars have problems. I'm not a mechanic, but I can tell when stuff is busted inside."

So we went. A long walk; for some reason used-car dealers are way over on the edge of town. Even though their customers, presumably, don't have a car. Go figure.

On the way, "Anything prompting this car quest?"

"Oh, just thinking. Life could be more interesting if we could see the world more than a mile from the condo. Also, what if one of us breaks an ankle rambling down the coast? I can't carry you."

I thought, neither can a car get far on the beach but I left that unsaid. If it makes her feel better about things, well, that was what this was all about.

First place was a super-discount consignment lot. Just walked by; didn't even talk to anybody. Not a single car without severe issues. Never-changed-oil, bearings worn out, lot and lots of rust and Bondo.

Second lot - maybe more luck. A guy that advertised heavily on radio, familiar voice.

"This sweetie purrs like a kitten!"

I observed. "Bad head gasket."

A frown. Moving along to a subcompact, waxed to within an inch of it's life.

"Gently used, older lady owner, Sunday trips into the hills. Like new!"

"Transmission worn, tooth missing from first gear. Valves burned from racing shifts." Must have been a hot-rod granny.

Car salesman getting suspicious. "You been here before?"

I shook my head. "Had a... friend look around once."

Next car, SUV, I didn't let him even get started. "Cylinder ring broke. An overhaul costs about what the car costs."

Getting annoyed now, he took us around to the back. Better stuff here, but the prices seemed pretty high for used cars.

"This one will get you there, and in style!" A tricked-out quarter-ton pickup, springs worn, shocks needed replacing, all doable.

"Why the premium price? A new pickup isn't much more than that."

"All the extras! Interior trim, fog lights, box cover."

Those things were overpriced, and he was likely charging full price for old stock stuff.

"We want something a little more basic, for short trips, hauling stuff around."

He thought. "Nothing like that here. No margin in it. Maybe cruise the neighborhoods, look for a for-sale-by-owner?"

That was actually a good idea. Thanked him, headed west to the working-class streets.

She responded to my remark about hauling stuff.

"That's a good idea! You find something to return, it'd be good to have a vehicle to haul it."

It did make sense. And I didn't say it, but room for one more was in the back of my mind.

Residential area over the bridge had lots of cars parked streetside - most houses were cottages, no garage, maybe a carport.

First for-sale sign we saw Jill trotted ahead, all enthusiasm. A two-door coupe, with trunk and hard top. She liked the color.

"What do you see?" She waited for my expert estimate.

Tires were old but still some tread. Engine - well-kept, should have plugs replaced but that's cheap. Some filings on the transmission magnet but maybe expected for this many miles. There was really nothing wrong with the engine, considering.

What about the cabin? Seats were vinyl, some small tearing. Back seat would be hard to get in and out of, through the front door with the front seat flipped up. I mentioned all this.

"Oh! There's been a spill in the trunk, something nasty and organic, maybe food? Gonna be an issue in the summer, smell. Could replace the liner in there, but quite a bit of trouble."

She didn't think we needed to look further. Clean was important, that was a data point to remember.

Next two were wrong - a hatchback with rust, and an ancient station wagon with a ridiculously powerful engine but otherwise pretty shabby.

"Let's head back toward the river, look for one more before we call it a day." She was strong but this had been a couple miles already, in beach shoes. Have to get something sturdier for these walks.