I Can't Make You Love Me
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Light Bond, Slow, Caution,
Desc: Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A guy takes the perfect girlfriend and makes her into something closer to what he deserves.
Joe knew his friends thought he was out of his tree. They all wanted to fuck Corrie. More telling than that, they'd probably prefer to watch football with her than with him. He thought back to the time that she'd given him one of her expert blowjobs during halftime, washed his jizz down with a gulp of Blue Moon, and then curled back up on the couch to watch the rest of the game. He understood the specialness of that - especially after he told the guys, and their knowing grins gave him away and she'd only laughed. Okay, yeah, he understood why they'd prefer her as a sports buddy.
In so many ways she was the perfect girl - for someone. She loved sports, never worried about ruining her make-up, or picked at a salad while he ate steak. She knew all the dirtiest jokes, and never gave him crap for checking out another woman. She even hinted she would like to try it with another girl, if that was okay with him. She wasn't pressing for marriage. His friends were always welcome at their house. She made them clean up sometimes, but they did that happily - something they'd never do for their own wives or girlfriends.
She was beautiful, too, but that was the problem. All of his life he liked the curvy, ultra-girly, how-does-she-stand upright with those things sort of woman. The ones from the calendars at his uncle's garage. Instead, he was with a short little keg of dynamite. "A real firecracker," as his uncle would have called her.
When he bitched at this to his friends, they stared at him. "It's not like she's a bull-dyke, J. She's a female, a definite female," said Trav. The others nodded.
Joe got it. Corrie had a great body. Breasts like firm little softballs, legs that shaped perfectly and seemed longer than they could possibly be, and a nicely rounded ass. She went to the gym diligently to make up for the steaks and the beer, and it showed. He understood logically, that, for many guys, this was the perfect body type.
He met her because she was on his sister's softball team, and he liked her right away. Liked her as a friend and in general. You couldn't help but laugh at her spirit, and the way she would do a happy dance when her team scored a run. Or the in-your-face dance she would occasionally direct at the other side, but even they had to laugh. Corrie brought fun and good-humor wherever she went. At least until lately.
After a couple of months of him joining them at the local bar after games, she followed him into the parking lot. He'd had too much to drink and was stumbling to his truck. She followed him out and told him with no judgment that he couldn't drive. She actually tore his keys out of his hands and pitched them a good distance across the parking lot. When he went to retrieve them, she wrapped her arms around his neck - she had to stand on tip-toe - pulled his head down and kissed him with passion and enthusiasm. His body responded with equal passion and enthusiasm.
Even as he returned her kiss, he knew it was a mistake. Corrie was too sweet to mislead. Yet when she told him she would drive him home, he nodded. He didn't try to stop her coming in, either. Because he really did care about her, he couldn't allow her to be just a one night stand. The sex was actually good, too. Because she loved him, turns out she'd wanted him for a while, she told him breathlessly on the first night that she would do anything for him and with him. She was as good as her word - even though he kept a few of his wants a secret.
He understood that no one - not his friends, not his families, not the people he passed on the street - would understand why he didn't marry this girl who seemed to have everything. He knew he was just an average guy with a slightly receding hairline, and that Marilyn Monroe circa 1959 was not likely to be knocking on his door. Yet, he couldn't commit to Corrie.
The bastard thing about it was that his buddies had all, at one time or another, asked either directly or in roundabout ways if they could have a crack at her, when it all went to hell. He found Harve in the kitchen the other day, ogling her as she reached up to put bowls away and her little robe rode up. There was drool.
Last night, as they sat in bed together watching the game, without looking at him, Corrie said, "I can't make you love me if you don't. I know that." He looked over to see her still looking at the game, but there were tears glinting in her big blue eyes. "I would if I could, though."
Joe was still thinking about Corrie's words - and kicking himself for taking the coward's way out and pretending he hadn't heard her - while he waited on the bus the next morning. If he'd been a little less of a putz, he would have let her go, even if he had to invent an excuse. She deserved better than him. The only reason he hadn't done it already, was that he really didn't think he deserved better than her. She was the best he was going to get.
The bus hadn't even arrived, and he was already starting to wallow in depression. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a low appreciative whistle. Glancing up, he saw an old man sitting next to him. Following the old man's gaze he saw the girl of his dreams: her waist was thicker than Corrie's, but looked tinier because of her wider hips and huge breasts. She was a blonde-haired vision in pink and white, with a demure, feminine swish to her walk instead of Corrie's ground-eating athletic stride. And true to Joe's current mood, she didn't even glance Joe's way.
"It's the shoes that does it," the old man said confidently. "Those heels gives 'em that extra somethin' that them athletic girls running around in Nike's will never be able to match."
"I wouldn't know," Joe replied noncommittally.
"Well I do!" the old man crowed. "I'm a cobbler, and I'd bet anybody three hundred dollars I could make any girl look like that, if she only wore the shoes I made for her and swore off them damn factory-shoes." He even pulled three crumpled hundred dollar bills out of his pocket and started waving them around.
"Hey! Put those away before somebody sees you and you get mugged," Joe said, as he shoved the man's hand down and looked around to see if anybody else was watching.
The old man harrumphed as if he had nothing to fear, and put the money away. "See? That's what's wrong with the women today: their men. Back in my day, we knew how to keep women in their place."
"Don't make me take your money, old man," Joe said, then amended when the old man raised an eyebrow in a confident 'I'm a black-belt' kind of way, "you would lose that bet, old man."
The old man spat on his hand, held it out to Joe, and said, "Done."
"What's done?" Joe asked, as he stared with gross fascination at the phlegmmy spittle trailing down the old man's palm.
"Shake my hand to close the deal, give me a week to make the shoes, make her wear nothing but my shoes for two months, and either she gets the body you want her to have, or I owe you three hundred dollars ... but I warn you, I've had those bills for quite a few years."
Hoping he could find some sanitizer when he got to work, Joe shook the old man's hand.