Chapter 5

That summer became the beginning of both Eddie’s and Joe’s careers. It could have said to have been their senior year, when their talent lured Joanne to them. But the summer was like the start of consciousness of a child, where memory begins, while before that they had been infants and babies. Forming, but not quite whole yet.

Joe actually moved in with Joanne. Became surrogate father to her precocious, angelic kids. He would watch them while he typed. On a fancy IBM Selectric she bought for him. A new, full length play having to do with brothers and their love/hate relationship that stretched to the absurd, a catalyst for war being a brother luring the mate of the other brother to him. Was it inspired by Eddie’s relationship to Joe? Most definitely. He also began his first novel. At least the first he stuck with. About the incestuous, drug addled world of punk rock. Again about Eddie and him. Eddie the star. Joe the outsider.

Eddie essentially lived with his music. He lived at the recording studio for a week or so. He lived with the new bassist, a darkly handsome man, older than Eddie by three years, with long black hair, untouched by a brush to the point of forming dreadlocks, nearly Joe’s height. A drug addict.

But Eddie would visit. Spend the night with Joanne. Sometimes with Joe sharing the bed. Double penetration. More and more often not. But unlike Joe, Eddie always wore condoms. Unlike Joe, Joanne knew he fucked around. Joe remained exclusive, except when he visited his hometown or Freddy came into the city. Otherwise no one else. Until he went just south of Minnesota for a couple weeks.

Joe didn’t know why he didn’t tell Joanne about the girl he met at the Iowa Writers Workshop. The one in Grinnell, a place not unlike his hometown being in the middle of nowhere, actually between Des Moines and Dubuque, meaning the same thing. A place where Joe thought he would matriculate in the fall. A decent scholarship. Excellent for studying writing and literature. Not all that far from Minneapolis. And from Joanne. His friend. His lover. His agent. His confidante.

Meeting Moira seemed like destiny. Like Freddy, she had a male nickname, Moe, but Joe preferred her real name. And like Frederica, she seemed to like it when he called her that.

Destiny because circumstance insured they would meet one-on-one. His parents, probably his mother, though his father’s indiscretions tended to make him more tolerant of her opinion, decided to reward his graduation and top grades with a car. Belle being the only hardcore car person Joe knew accompanied him on visits to people advertising their cars or to used car lots. She seemed to find problems with every one of them. The cheap ones looked to be on their last legs, and the expensive ones were, well, expensive. Overpriced.

Joe’s mom actually laughed when he and Belle gave her their conclusion. “I thought you’d end up buying some modern version of the old jalopy. You can have my car if you can stand it. I’m due a new one.”

“Can you afford it?” he asked.

“Of course I can. Or at least your father can. The benefit of being a miser. I plan to loosen those purse strings. It’ll be cheaper for him than divorce with him fucking around.”

Belle nodded and smirked. Of course she knew about it. They had been intimate. Though less so with the end of school. And Belle finally being with Claire a lot more. Both would look for jobs in the cities, with plans to live together whenever they could afford it. Claire planned on attending the U of M, while Belle had no such plans. She could be their breadwinner.

“Sure,” Joe said. So he ended up with the most boring car in history: a green Dodge Dart. It had a lot of miles on it just from being five years old. But it had few problems.

“Your dad will just have to wait on his sports car for a few years,” Mom smirked.

“Dad wants to buy a sports car?” Joe asked.

“A 240z. Can you imagine in this town? Impressing the ladies I guess. His old Saab will have to do.”

When Joe arrived at Grinnell a little late, just at the end of checking in and getting his dorm room assigned, the young woman behind the desk smiled when he told her he drove. “Can you do me a huge favor?” she asked.

“What do you need?”

“We’re expecting an arrival at the Des Moines airport. The rest came in earlier so that we could gather them all in a bus. For a bunch of reasons, sending a bus back for one person wouldn’t work, and the staff’s pretty busy with last minute things. And you have a car.”

“Sure,” Joe said. “No problem. How will I recognize her?”

“We’ve got a sign.”

“Cool. Directions?”

“I’ll get them both,” she smiled. She was a pretty blonde. Obviously intelligent. But Joe had no interest in flirting. He had a woman he had left a few hours before who had taken his focus. She wasn’t his love but she was enough. Living with her had increased his fondness. Hers too for him.

Only an extraordinary woman could change that focus. Moe had it in spades.

Apparently her flight had already arrived. Barring delays, it had been expected. She had missed her earlier flight, called to let the Workshop know the later one, Pan Am flying in from LaGuardia. Joe placed the sign the best he could in the rear seat window. But he knew it was her.

She sat with an ornate carpet bag beside her and a large black backpack in her lap, an oversize black blank book resting on it, which she looked to be inscribing with new thoughts before she saw his sign and smiled.

Joe parked and opened the trunk as she carried her obviously heavy luggage to it. “Nice chariot,” she smirked.

“Left my phaeton at home,” Joe returned, noticing the Greek myth themed stitching on her bag. Zeus bearing a thunderbolt in a cloud. Poseidon standing waist deep in the ocean carrying a triton. Aphrodite stepping from the ocean. And at center, what must have been Diana killing a stag.

“Good. I’m not much for sun,” she grinned as he lifted the incredibly heavy bag into the trunk. She added her backpack, keeping the blank book and opening the backpack and grabbing a weirdly furry black purse before zipping it up again. Her pale skin testified to her words. Though New York wouldn’t be the first place to go to gain a tan. Except the beaches. Joe couldn’t imagine her sitting around waiting for a tan in such places.

“Moira Johansson, I presume,” he said, closing the trunk.

“Moe,” she said.

“Like Moe Tucker?” he asked.

That made her smile. “I’m a drummer too.”

“Cool. I’d rather call you Moira, if you don’t mind,” he said, opening the passenger seat for her. He watched her long, lean form, skinny really, though obviously deceptively strong what with her hauling that heavy bag around, bend into the car. Her black dress, vintage looking with tiny tears and a couple loose strings at the hem which reached past her knees and looked dyed, like her long, thick, unkempt hair, revealed a nice round ass when she bent. A little larger than her lithe form might have presumed. She wore fishnet stockings on her long skinny legs, with some tears. Very punk. And the black theme? Definitely Goth.

Once Joe settled into his seat and pulled away from the sidewalk into the slow traffic, she replied, with surprising coquettishness to his request. “You can call me anything, as long as you call me.”

He laughed. And hardened.

She began writing in her book. It made him stop conversation. So he glanced. Noticed, like her fuller ass and her strength, the chest. It expanded her dress more than expected.

She caught him looking. And winked. She was hot. And lovely. Even with her nose piercing. Left nostril with a small gem. Ruby it looked like.

And her voice, a little deep, a little rough, her words spoken a little clipped, tough sounding, very Manhattan he would learn. He found out where the roughness came from. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked, opening her furry purse and pulling out a pack of Shermans. Black of course.

“I have something we could both smoke,” he offered, pulling the Altoids box from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. Curiously refreshing.

She opened it and smiled. “Cool,” she said, pulling out a joint. Eddie rolled them. A little on the fat side, but perfectly cylindrical. She grabbed a butane lighter from her purse and lit it, one handed, with a snap opening the lighter and closing. She sucked in the sweet smoke and coughed. “Fuck,” she muttered roughly.

“It’s strong,” he agreed, taking the joint from her.

“Where are you from getting shit like this,” she asked, waiting for his lungs to absorb the intoxicant. “Chicago?”

“Minneapolis,” he finally replied.

“No shit,” she said, sucking up more smoke, more carefully.

“I have a friend who has a brother,” Joe shrugged. “His stuff was shit, like all the stuff in my little town. Made you high, somewhat, then left you with a headache. Recently, maybe six months ago, this shit appeared.”

“Where’s it from?” she asked after releasing her smoke with only a small cough.

“Hawaii supposedly.”

“Maui Wowie,” she giggled.

“Something like that, but I think its seeds. Hydroponic or something.”

“Makes sense,” she agreed, writing in her book. She waved off the joint. “I’m a lightweight,” she explained.

“Could you tap it out?” Joe asked.

“Okay.” She did, placing the half smoked joint in the little metal box, handing it to him, and returned to her writing. “You can talk to me,” she said.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he explained.

“You won’t,” she said roughly. She put her hand in her purse and pulled out a half full green bottle. Perrier. Taking a swig, she offered it to him. “Want some?”

“Sure,” he smiled. Somehow touching her long lean fingers affected them when she passed him the bottle. Their fingers had touched when they passed the joint, but this seemed different. It happened again when he handed it back. A spark. Her grin seemed specifically chosen to show she’d shared the moment. He would have stared, but needed to drive.

She returned to her writing.

“So...” he asked. “You in a band?”

“Fop,” she said.

“Sounds sort of New Romantic.”

“Yeah, and the singer and piano player dress the part. Pretty clothes and make-up. Me and the guitar player still wear the threads of our tribe.”

“Goth?”

“Yeah. It’s an acronym. ‘Fuck Off Poseurs.’ Ironic isn’t it? It’s kind of funny having the boys prettier than the girls.”

“The guitarist’s a girl?”

“Vick,” she giggled. “And our boyfriends are Shelly and Patty.”

“No shit.”

“No shit. Shelly’s short for Sheldon. Pat’s Irish.”

“Which one’s your boyfriend?” he asked, trying to hide his disappointment, but obviously failing.

“Don’t worry,” she giggled, touching his hand. Again the spark. “I think we’re kind of broken up.”

“Kind of?”

“Yeah. The reason I missed my plane. It’s surprising how much a guy in pretty clothes and make-up attracts girls.”

“What happened?”

“We had a gig last night. After our set, I saw him come out of the bathroom just behind a girl. The girl was fucking wiping her mouth. He denied it until I told him what I saw. Then he played the true love card. And got all whiny. I’ve gotten kind of tired of that. Or maybe just him. We’ve been together for a couple fucking years. I told him I didn’t care. Just stop with the fucking lying. And go ahead and fuck them, but wear a fucking condom. And I’d do the same with my groupies. Not that I had any, except maybe some dykes. The lead singer tends to attract them more than the drummer. And girls seem to like the whole groupie thing more than boys. I told him if he came home with a disease I’d fucking cut off his balls.

“That got him going. He’s jealous and possessive. Fucking hypocrite. I know he fucks around. He even went after Vick, my fucking best friend and writing partner. Yeah, I write the words he sings, and she writes the music. Our boyfriends are like our puppets. Probably why we ended up doing the whole New Romantic thing. I can’t help writing kind of flowery, but dark, you know? Twisted. ‘Spooky’ is my favorite song. You know it?”

“Sure. The Count V. One of my favorite garage tunes.”

“You heard Lydia Lunch sing it?”

“No.”

“It’s fucking cool as hell. Anyway, you can probably tell I’m into mythology. Greek mythology.”

“I noticed.”

“I like the dark parts. The whole gods fucking mortals thing. It’s rape really, but kind of fantasy rape, you know?”

“Leda and the swan,” he nodded.

“My favorite. Bestiality. The fucking Greeks were nuts,” she giggled. “So anyway, we had a huge argument. Things escalated to the absurd. At least he wasn’t whining. And then we had make-up sex. All fucking night as it turned out. The best I ever had, by far.”

“Thus missing your plane.”

“Exactly. But before we finally went to sleep, we kind of got real. I told him I wanted to move on. I reminded him of his indiscretions, including coming onto Vick. He finally saw what I saw. That he wanted strange. That I wasn’t really enough. Then he got really real. He told me he and Patty had been looking for a new drummer. Someone with an actual drum kit who actually knows how to drum. I basically stand and play a tom-tom and a snare and a high hat.”

“Like Moe Tucker,” Joe said.

“Yeah. She’s my hero. It hurt, but I understood. We negotiated. He sang my songs after all. I told him I had no reason to stop him singing them, but I’d get my co-writing money if we ever actually recorded. Then he gave me one final curve. He said he planned on writing his own. I laughed. He went home in a huff.”

“Sounds like it’s over.”

“Yeah,” she sighed.

“You said sort of.”

She giggled. “I can’t help it. I loved the make-up sex. Maybe I’ll piss him off for more.”

They laughed.

“Maybe I could match it,” he suggested, daringly.

“I wouldn’t mind if you tried,” she giggled, her hand reaching for his groin, where his cock grew underneath her caresses. She set aside her writing for it. Amazingly, she had kept writing throughout their conversation. “Being tall, I’ve had a thing for taller men. Shelly’s the same height as me. He’s got a pretty thick cock though, from what I’ve heard.”

“No other samples?” he asked her.

“No. Shelly’s my first and only. I guess I am a romantic.”

“You loved him.”

“I thought I did until I didn’t,” she said, bringing her other hand to unzip Joe. A hand snuck in and somehow managed to pull his cock from the opening in his underpants. “This get bigger?”

He laughed. “Do you know anything about the fragility of a man’s ego, especially in term of the size of his cock?”

“Boys,” she muttered and leaned over. Her tongue caressed his glans. He moaned. “There you are,” she giggled as he expanded. “Much better.” Her lips enclosed him. He moaned louder.

Joe had never had car sex. Maybe because he rarely drove, Freddy having her own car, shared by her twin sister. Or that they actually had places to fuck, like Eddie’s basement and Joe’s room when Joe’s dad wasn’t around. He definitely never drove while getting a blow job. He found it to be a major distraction. Focusing the best he could driving on the freeway, looking for the exit, actually seemed to create more pleasure. He thought it best to let things happen. To not hold back. His hand helped, caressing her face and moving lower. Finding her breasts. She actually guided him under her dress. He felt the bra encasing smooth flesh. She had some of the smoothest skin he ever felt. He found her nipples. Rubbing them. Encircling them. Gently twisting. Adding pressure. Her moans increased around his cock, helping the cause, so he squeezed more.

With a slurping sound, her mouth lifted off his cock. “Fuck that’s good,” she said before immediately returning to her task. Joe saw her hand move down to her skirt and lifted it out of the way. He saw garters and silky black panties. Her fingers slipped beneath them and rubbed.

“Gonna cum,” he warned her soon after.

“Can you wait?” she asked between slurps.

“I don’t know if I should,” he said.

“Okay,” she half giggled and half moaned, and went to town on his cock, rubbing it with her other hand while pressing lips against the edge of his glans as she went up and down over it, and last but definitely not least, her tongue snaked around its surface.

“Cumming,” he said.

She backed off. Watching his cock shoot, hitting her on her cheek before she took it back in and swallowed the rest.

Her mouth finally eased off, but her hand continued fisting him. It became too much. He told her.

Letting go, she asked, “Can I still touch it?”

“Gently,” he said. “Can I touch you?”

“I’m sore,” she admitted. Though she continued stroking herself and his hand remained at a nipple, gently tugging.

“I’d love to taste you,” he said.

“Are we almost there?”

“Pretty soon I think. I don’t think I passed the exit.”

She giggled. “Hope not,” she said. “You like cunnilingus?”

“Love it,” he said.

“Good,” she tugged a little harder.

“Ooh fuck,” he groaned.

She giggled.

“Keep going if you want,” he suggested.

“Like to watch?” she asked.

“Love it.”

Another giggle and she pulled off her panties. He saw the dirty blonde fringe. And a tad of redness at her vaginal lips. He could see the dampness and could smell her, even in the dimness of the car and the odor of his own cum. She then undid her bra somehow, taking a brief break from her caresses of hers and his genitalia. He made contact directly with her pinkish brown nipple, rolling it between finger and thumb tip. He caught the exit just in time.

“Almost there,” she moaned.

Obviously she meant something else. Or both getting to the place and getting to her place of ecstasy. Joe moved to the other nipple and rolled it vigorously. Her hands, both rubbing herself and him, hurried. She had made him hard again. She writhed with the pleasure. Moments later, on a small road leading to Grinnell, one unfortunately needed to be negotiated more than a straight away highway, she quietly exclaimed her success. “Fuck,” she moaned. And shivered. And relaxed. He caught too little of it, but noticed when she withdrew her fingers from her pussy. He gently took them and tasted her. Both sweet and pungent. He looked forward to taste quite a bit more.

Unfortunately he had to wait. He parked the car near the entrance to the dorm, the advantage of being one of the few people on campus.

They heard sounds when they entered. They found the source from a room to the left. A half dozen fellow writers. And the girl who Joe had met earlier sitting close to a smug looking dandy wearing a pinkish white linen jacket over what looked like a silk t-shirt.

“Good, you made it,” the young woman smiled. “There’s a couple tuna fish sandwiches in the fridge. And sodas. And go ahead and grab a couple bag of chips.”

Joe had his hands full with Moe’s luggage and backpack, so Moe opened the fridge. “What do you want for soda?” she asked.

“Something without caffeine.”

“Squirt and root beer.”

“Squirt.”

She grabbed a coke for herself.

“Let me show you to your room,” the blonde offered.

“I know where it is,” he smiled. “We’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” she smiled back.

He had already dumped his bags in his room before picking Moe up. Moe’s was right next door. No reason to segregate by sex, though the urinals in the shared bath presumed this was a male floor. It made him wonder about privacy. It ended up not being a problem. Her room had a private toilet and shower. Perks of the floor supervisor or something. It looked smaller, but had a larger bed, and only one. Another perk. No roommate. Joe didn’t either. No need. But obviously normally there would be.

“Fuck, I’m starved,” said Moe, unwrapping and biting into her sandwich, the plastic that contained it on her lap as a plate. She placed her coke on the bedside table. He placed his pop beside hers. The opened bags of potato chip shared the flimsy plastic on their laps. He sat away from the table beside her, reaching past her to grab his soda. They ate in silence. “Can you grab my backpack?” she asked, her mouth full with the last of her sandwich. She wrapped up her wrapping and tossed it into the nearby small garbage can. She used her lap to hold her backpack, finding a familiar folder in it. “10 am,” she said.

“At least we can sleep in a little,” he replied.

“Not for a vampire,” she sighed. “I’m not used to waking up before noon.”

“What about school?” he asked.

“Summer vacation,” she reminded him. “Besides, I usually try for the later classes.”

“College?” he asked.

“NYU. Sophomore. Well, junior now. You?”

“Uhm.”

“You’re not going to college?”

“Not yet. I’m actually going to go here.”

“You...”

“Just graduated high school.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“I actually thought you were older than me.”

“I get that. I think it’s my height.”

“It’s not,” she said, leaning over and kissing him.

“So, not a problem?”

“Not a problem,” she said, straddling his lap and kissing him deeper, breaking it for a question. “Unless you have a thing against older women?”

Joe laughed. Harder than the quip deserved.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, kissing her again. She had soft lips. Sensuous. Romantic. They encouraged passion. Tongue tips touched electrically. She broke the kiss.

“Shit,” she said. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

“I’ll go,” he offered.

“Don’t,” she said, kissing him lightly. She unhooked and rolled off her fishnets. She stood and turned her back to him. “Unzip me.”

He did, and she let the vintage dress drop to her feet, revealing lacy black underthings, and pale, soft skin otherwise. A lean torso that flared at her hips. A lovely round bottom with the lower, outer cheeks exposed. “Undo me,” she said.

Unlatching the hooks of her bra, he watched her pull the straps off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Turning to him, he saw her soft, full breasts, the size accentuated by her lean torso. Small pinkish tan areolas encircled slightly darker nipples that remained almost flush with her breasts which held their rounded shape much as her ass cheeks did. Her paleness showed threads of blue veins in its transparency.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

“What do you wear to sleep in?” she asked.

“A t-shirt and some boxers,” he told her.

“Me too,” she giggled and leaned over to unzip her luggage and searched through it to find her bedtime outfit. He was transfixed by her butt and her labia pressed against her panties.

“I should get them,” he offered.

“You never sleep nude?” she asked, her ass wiggling subtly but with profound sexiness.

“Sometimes.”

“Oh? When?” she asked, pulling her garments from the bag. He couldn’t help feeling disappointed when she put on an extra-large black t-shirt with the image of Siouxsie Sioux on it and removed her panties from beneath it.

“Uhm, after sex,” He told her.

After pulling on a pair of boxers, she stood before him and began unbuttoning his shirt. His legs went wide to allow her close.

“Is that often?” she asked, finishing the unbuttoning and pulling off his shirt.

“Lately, yes,” he admitted.

“So you have a girlfriend?”

“Sort of.”

She chuckled. “Like my sort of?” Her hands went lower, undoing his belt.

“No. She’s seeing someone else. My best friend actually.”

“Sounds fucked up,” she commented, undoing his pants and unzipping them.

He shrugged. “It kind of started out that way, my relationship with her.”

“Is she that older woman?” Moe asked, pulling on his pants. He lifted up so that she could pull them off, kneeling at the end.

“Yes,” he said, then moaned when Moe rubbed his half-hard cock covered by the thin layer of his tightie whities. It became instantly harder. “Early thirties, with a couple of amazing kids.”

“Up,” Moe requested, taking hold of the waistband of his underpants at his hips.

When he obeyed, she pulled them off, letting his cock bounce out and expand more. “I thought you were exhausted,” he reminded her.

“I am,” she said, grabbing his cock and rubbing it gently. “Kids, hunh?”

“I’ve been looking after them when she works.”

“You live with her?” she asked, leaning down and kissing his glans, making me fully erect.

“Yes,” he moaned when she licked him.

“Sounds like a girlfriend.”

“It’s ... mutually beneficial. She ... lets me write while I look ... after her kids ... and...”

“You fuck,” she said, between sucking his cock. Her lips had wrapped around it, squeezing across the ridge. Her tongue kept busy caressing his glans.

“Yeah. It’s complicated. My best friend. She ... prefers him.”

“Better fuck?” she asked.

“No,” he chuckled. More seriously, and with greater difficulty because her sucking had become earnest, he added, “He’s ... exciting.”

“Mmm?” she inquired, mouth full.

“Attraction of a rock star I guess.”

She pulled off with a slurp and sighed, then stood, pulled back the blanket and sheets and crawled into bed. Only then did she ask, “Your friends a rock star?”

“Not yet,” he said, hiding the disappointment the best he could. “But I’m pretty sure he will be.”

“You can finish yourself off if you want,” she murmured, her tiredness apparent.

“I could use some inspiration.”

Sighing, she pulled down the covers and pulled up her shirt. “Get something to catch it,” she said.

He knelt and found her panties, showing them to her.

“Fine,” she sighed.

He straddled her. Used the silky panties to rub himself. The other hand he used to explore her breasts. Her nipples erected about a quarter inch. Her eyelids looked heavy, but she watched him masturbate. When his body undulated from the powerful orgasm, she murmured, “Let me see.” He pulled the panties away, somehow managing to catch a couple spurts. It excited her, blushing. She nodded and he finished with his cock covered, making her panties sodden and sticky.

Soon after, her breath steadied. Her eyes had closed. After a kiss of each nipple, he carefully lowered her shirt the best he could and, slipping under the covers beside her, covered them both up.

He awoke about an hour before they needed to be somewhere. Since she needed to wake, he decided to wake her with a kiss. Not on her mouth but her mons. He pulled her loose bottoms aside to get to her tight blonde crested nether lips. His tongue speared inside her, tasting a slight tang of urine along with more subtle flavors, a musky sweetness. His lips enclosed her clit. He sucked. She sighed. “Keep going,” she murmured.

Once more she lifted her shirt. Her fingers took hold of a nipple. He brought his hand up for the other. He had plans for his other hand, waiting for his tongue and lips to generate her natural lubricant. He used his spit to add to the slipperiness of his pointing and middle finger when her pussy dampened. He found her g-spot easier than any other. And she responded to its caresses more.

He saw how hard she tugged at her nipple. He matched it, and became more aggressive with her clit. Too much as it turned out, so he eased off, playing around it rather than directly on it. It had slipped from its protective skin coat, bigger than any he had seen and also, obviously more sensitive. It worked, lifting her closer and closer to climax. When it arrived, she arched and writhed, to the extent he had to move quickly with it, like staying with a bucking bronco. It also seemed to have a purpose. She moved to get more direct pressure on that most sensitive place, and to rub harder against his mouth. She tightened, straining her hips upward. A guttural moan filled the room. Then his mouth filled and his cheeks and tongue got covered by her ejecting liquid. She spurted!

“Fuck, Joe,” she murmured a minute or so later, reaching down and pulling him over her. She tasted her spend, and discovered its quantity. “I did that?”

“Yes,” he grinned. “It was amazing.”

“It was,” she agreed, and kissed him softly with her own brand of sensuousness. Reaching down, she found his hard cock. “Take them off, Joe,” she murmured.

He understood. She lifted her ass so he could remove her sodden shorts. She pulled off her shirt and tossed it weakly aside. He returned to his place between her legs. “Got a condom?” she asked.

“No,” he told her.

“My purse.” But when he started moving away, she grabbed him, albeit weakly. “No. Just fuck me.”

“You sure?”

“Please.”

He probably should have covered his cock. But he knew how much better it would feel without it. So he pushed in. Felt resistance too slippery to hold him back. And flutters, the remainder of her orgasm. He entered slowly, cherishing the feeling.

“Fuck,” she approved.

He kept going.

“More?” she asked.

“Yes.”

He didn’t make it all the way in, as far as his cock. As far as her vagina he did. He encountered her cervix with maybe an inch more to go. Luckily the slowness kept the impact gentle. He couldn’t press against her like he liked to do. Both Freddy and Belle had a cervix he barely grazed when he pushed as deep as possible. He never reached Joanne’s.