It Started as a Joke (All the Presidents' Beds, #1) (3 page)

I slowly walked to him, my toes sliding across the soft, blue carpet.  He had taken off his suit coat and dress shirt and laid them neatly on the couch.  He still wore his pants and tank top, and I could trace the outline of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.  Always to the right of the zipper, some things never change—maybe I was wrong?  Guys don’t just get hard for no reason, right?  I sat down, carefully rubbing my bare ass on his bulge and crossing my legs.

“So, I call this exhibition ‘Freedom,’” he said.  “Here, click through the slideshow.”

He moves the mouse towards me.  As he lets it go, he places his rough right hand on my knee and slides it upwards.  He reaches the inside of my thigh and I jump, just a little.

“Tickles,” I say. 

“I really wanted to make a statement,” he says.  I feel his fingers brush my hair lightly.  “Slavery may have been abolished 150 years ago, but it’s still a part of our world.”

He slips his fingers up, nearly to my belly button then begins to plunge them downwards.

“Wage-slavery, the man who lives his whole life working for someone else.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, though I’m not quite listening.

His fingers scratch through my bush, pausing to spread me enough for access.

“He wants a family, so he puts in more hours, works harder than he should, to get to the point where he’s free to have a family.”

He grazes my clit once, twice.  The tips of his fingers used to be so soft, but the sculpting must have roughened them, given them new crags and valleys that are unexpected and exciting.  He pushes against my thighs with his thumb and pinky, trying to spread my legs apart, but I hold firm.

“Uh-huh, and it isn’t freedom?” I say, attempting to keep with his train of thought.  Looking at his sculptures, they are all men.  Gorgeous, naked men with cocks the size of midsummer cucumbers dangling between muscular thighs.  Oh Alessandro, you poor bastard.

“No, because he gets accustomed to that money, that new standard of living.  And along comes a wife, and along comes a child.  And he’s happy, because that’s what he wanted.  But he’s got to work even harder now.”

“Yes,” I say.  I’m not sure if I am agreeing with his words or his hands, but now I’ve given up the fight and spread my legs for him.

“And he thinks, when the kids are grown, everything will be easy.  I will be free.”

A light brush on my lips, then two fingers are inside me.  A moan.  A smile. 

“But,” I begin, but now he has taken his other hand and wrapped it around me.  The fingers on his left hand are not as rough as his right, but they still remember what to do.  Waves hit me, and my leg jerks, my foot stamping the floor.  He laughs.  I can still feel the outline of his cock under my ass.  I want to rip his pants off and feel him inside me, but I know I would just end up on all fours with him reaming me.  No passion, no touch, just brute force.

“There is no freedom except this,” he says.  Little explosions, firecrackers before the grand finale, shudder me.  His fingers inside move rhythmically, hitting that rough patch that makes all thought null and void and renders me incapable of speech.

“Mm-hmm,” I say.  I turn my head to search for his mouth, but he dodges and ducks and keeps himself in control.

“Working with your hands, working for yourself and no one else,” he says.  I can feel it, the firecrackers in a long chain, leading, leading...

Cool as ever, he finally lets me kiss him.  I shove my tongue into his mouth furiously, banging against his teeth as the chain of firecrackers lights the grand finale.  I awkwardly wrap my hand around his neck and pull him in while screaming silently into his mouth.  The muscles in my leg seize for a second, then release, but he’s not letting me fall.  My hips jerk upwards into his hands, my towel comes unhooked, and I’m bare for him to see.  The cold air kisses and bites and caresses my skin adding a sharper edge to everything.

And for those seconds where all reason ceases and life is only touch, I think that maybe I was wrong; maybe my gaydar was out of whack or I’ve been projecting things onto him that don’t really exist.  He slides his fingers out and gently massages my lips.  He takes his left hand off my clit and wipes it on my towel.  As I steady myself back on his lap, I realize that he’s still looking at the screen, not my naked breasts and pussy, and his once-hard bulge has gone soft.

“Happy birthday,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks,” I said.  “That was fantastic.”

“I remembered what you like.  You are very easy to please.”

“Speaking of pleasing, would you like to head to the bedroom for some pleasing of your own?” I asked.  It was only polite; he’d just given me a pretty fantastic orgasm.  He smiled then turned his face away.

“You know, I’m not sure if it was something I ate, but I am just not feeling up to it,” he said.  Of course.  When we were dating, there were always excuses.  Stomach ache.  Migraine.  Tuckered out after giving me oral.  For a while I ascribed it to a lack of chemistry or my own flaws as a lover.  Over time, however, it became clear that there were other issues.

“OK.  Well, do you want to stay and watch something?  I feel like you should get some sort of consolation prize if you aren’t getting the big O,” I joked. 

He held my shoulders sweetly then gradually extricated himself from the chair.  He picked up his neatly-laid-out clothes.

“You are a beautiful woman, Alice, and too kind.  I have some calls to make about my exhibition, so I must demur.  I will see you there, though, right?” he asked. 

“Yes, definitely.  I’m looking forward to it.  I’ll bring Sandra and The Mogul; I’ll bet they’d love to buy a piece,” I said.

“Perfect.  See you then,” he walked over and gave me a kiss on the top of my head.  I reached out and gave his cock a little pat.

In the ridiculous, deep voice I reserve for speaking to male body parts, I said, “See you next time, buddy.  Maybe he’ll let you come out and play.”

“Hilarious,” he said.  I followed him to the door, gave him a peck on the cheek, and then locked it behind him.

8:30, next morning.  A text from Sandra.

Gay, huh?  See you in 10.

Out of bed and into a blue polka dot dress that hugged my curves, I hurried around the apartment trying to make it presentable.  The dishes in the sink had been sitting for days, a plasticized layer of takeout that would take too long to get unstuck; I turned on the faucet and squeezed some dish soap into the sink to make it seem like they were new.  I grabbed a wet rag and wiped the copious amount of crumbs off the counter, organized the shoes by the door and threw everything that didn’t have a permanent home in the living room into the hall closet. 

Sandra knocked precisely 10 minutes after she had texted. 

“GPS is the fucking tits.  It says 10 minutes, you get there in 10 minutes,” she said as a greeting.

“We were the ones who...” I trailed off.  Because of my high security clearance and the number of defense department projects my organization worked on, I could rarely talk about work matters.  In fact, today’s visit with Sandra would be the first time I told her about an actual project since I had been recently reprimanded for the doing the same a couple of years before.  To be as vague as possible: I told her to invest in something; she had The (at the time) Little Bump invest in it; in the last year, The Little Bump had become The Mogul because of that investment.  Since my company tracked the financials of all associates, they deduced my tip.  Official reprimand, but well worth it.

“You better keep that mouth closed.  I can’t risk you losing your job and coming to live in our guest house,” she said. 

“That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,” I said.

“Wait, not yet.  Tell me about
Alessssssandro,
” she said.

“Not much to tell.  Totally gay.  He has an exhibit opening in a couple of weeks that you’re going to go see and buy something,” I said.

“Alice Johnson, we’ve known each other for 10 years.  You don’t think I can tell when you’ve gotten some?  Look at this place: you knew I was coming over in the morning, yet you didn’t even finish the dishes last night.  You slept the sleep of a thundering orgasm,” she pinched me on the arm, hard.

“Shit, that hurts.  Fine, he may have been instrumental to my reaching climax, but little Alessandro didn’t even make an appearance.”

“Really little? Or...”

“No.  Um.  Let’s just say The Mogul and I both had a similar experience last night.”

“Gotcha.  Did he make you lick his fingers after?”

“No, gross.”

“Such a prude.  He gives you the O and then leaves?  He must be gay.  Making her come and then you go?  A 90 year old blind guy would’ve gotten blue balls from something like that,” she said.

Sandra had a lot of inertia.  Once she got moving in one direction it was like trying to turn around a train.  The only thing that could stop her from spending the next twenty minutes talking about my and Alessandro’s illicit night was to hit her with something that had even more momentum.

“Today, I’m going to go back and time and fuck all of the presidents,” I said.

“In order?” she asked, then, “Do you think you could turn him straight?  Like one of those camps?”

“I’m not joking,” I said.  “And, ew, that’s a shitty way to treat someone.”

“I’m just saying those camps have, like, a five percent success rate...”

“Sandra, you’re not listening.  My organization has developed a time machine, and I’m going to use it to go back in time and fuck the presidents.”

“Ok, hon.  Maybe you don’t need more sex, ‘cause you’re acting crazy,” she said.  “So did he use his mouth at all?”

Like I said: freight train.  Inertia.  Suddenly, I had an idea.

“I can go back in time.  I can prove it.  Look at what’s in your purse,” I said.  No, I pleaded.  It had gone beyond mere “saids,” because the Sandy Train had reached its top speed.

“Fine.  Lipstick.  Wallet.  Keys.  Vibrator—don’t ask, it’s a Mogul thing—and a phone,” she said as she dug through. 

“Are you sure that’s it?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s it.  What’s up with that Kyle guy?  He seemed nice.  He was really interested in The Mogul after you left,” she said. 

I went to the apartment door and opened it.  “Put it out there,” I commanded.

“Seriously?  No.  My phone’s in there.”

“It’ll only be out there for a minute.  30 seconds, even.  You can time it,” I scowled.

“Fine, but if...” she began.

“Wait, name something, any noun.  When we open the door....”

“White motherfucking tiger!” she screamed.  Goddamn tiger moms.

“No, something...something small,” I said.

“Alessandro’s dick!” she squealed.

“No, goddammit Sandra.  Be serious, something like a rock or a ball or a stick,” I pleaded.

“Stick and balls! Man, you need some cock,” she was doubled over, laughing.  “OK ok ok, let’s say a happy cat figurine from Chinatown.  Easy enough? I want one of those for Josie’s room anyway.”

“Put it outside the door and lock it, then come over here,” I commanded.

She began chanting to the tune of Mr. Sandman, “Oh time-traveler, bring me a kitty.  Make it the cutest, Josie’s ever seen.”  She closed and locked the door behind her then walked to me.  “Do I need to, like, count to 30?”

A knock at the door, then scuffling feet.  Sandra yelped.  There was good old “I” wanting to fuck things up for Old-Alice.  I held Sandra’s hand tightly as she strained against me.

“Someone just stole my phone, and I’m going to make YOU tell The Mogul,” she screeched.

“Go check your bag,” I said.

She shuffled her feet across the floor, unlocked the door, opened it.  As she lifted the purse, a single syllable:

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” then she took a breath, “nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”

She pulled the happy kitty figuring out of the purse, showing me the bottom.  It read “Josie.”

“I don’t want to do them in order or anything, but I think it’s only right to start with George Washington.  He is father of our country, and I do have daddy issues,” I said.  For once, Sandra was speechless.