| General Fiction posted August 21, 2020 |
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Request for first date.
Between Friends (Part-5 of 6)
by Ric Myworld
Previous chapter: Brad ended up at the Radisson bar, met Olivia, and they decided to leave together.
Olivia races out of the Radisson parking structure and turns smack-dab in front of a speeding vehicle on Vine Street. The oncoming car swerves as the driver leans on the horn and narrowly avoids a serious accident.
Olivia laughs hysterically, like a thrill-seeking teenager on an amusement park ride. Brad’s knees knock, teeth chatter, and he hangs onto the seat with both hands. Leaving little doubt his clenched butt squeezes the seat tighter than a suction cup.
Olivia then cuts across four-lanes of traffic to make a right-hand turn at the next intersection. Brad hides his eyes, afraid to look. Probably wishing the cops would pull them over long enough for him to escape the runaway Audi R8 GT in one piece. A $400,000 matchbox-sized sports car he’s squeezed into tighter than a canned Vienna sausage. The question we’ve all asked, where are all the police when you need them?
“Do you always drive so fast and reckless?” Brad, a bundle of nerves, tries to make conversation, and keep from puking in her floorboard.
“Oh, sweetheart, have I scared you? Poor baby . . . you must have lived such a sheltered life.” In the middle of downtown traffic, she whips out and passes two cars on a double-yellow line in a 25 mile-an-hour speed zone. Her speedometer climbs to a tick off 70 mph. Should either of the cars in front of them turn, the Sunday front-page headline will likely read “Mangled and Dead at the Scene.”
“So, what’s the big hurry . . . and, where are we heading anyway?” Brad asks, again only trying to get her attention and divert her aggressive driving.
“How about we just go to my place?” She gives him that dreamy look and flicks her tongue. “I have plenty of booze, luxurious bubbles for the hot-tub, bacon and eggs, and a bed in case you’re too wiped-out to drive home. Oh, I almost forgot . . . you don’t have a car.” She giggles and winks.
The thought of being stranded, along with her throaty, wicked-witch laugh sends chills all over his body. She hasn’t forgotten a thing and knows exactly what her intentions are. Which makes Brad begin to feel more like a shoulder roast lost in a lioness’s den. Her tongue swishes, he waits to see the drool.
They drive about fifteen-miles outside of town on a narrow, two-lane, curvy road until they turn sharply past Champion’s clubhouse and into the highfaluting subdivision of multi-million-dollar homes. Olivia pulls into the driveway of the biggest monstrosity of all and through the opening first of four double-wide garage doors.
Inside the house, the detailed woodworking and moldings are magnificent. The marble staircase sweeps up and around, exits on each side floor of four stories. Lifesize statues of famous people, a dimly-lit chandelier the size of a blimp, and dual over-sized fireplaces set in an arching wall of stone that sparkles with specks of what looks like diamonds under revolving lights, and a bar sixty-feet, if it’s an inch, across that lies against the back wall, next to an almost hidden glass-cubicle elevator in the corner.
“Help yourself to the bar while I get comfortable.” Olivia, grins and blows him a kiss as she turns to walk away. “Oh, and on the second floor, first room on the left, you’ll find a sitting room with a closet of terrycloth robes and packages of warm-disposable slippers in assorted sizes beside the lavatory should you want to shed those tight-clothes for a little freedom, if you get my drift”
Brad pokes a couple notes on the lower register of the grand piano en route to the bar, the tones echo throughout the room. Bottles of Blanton’s bourbon stacked four deep cause an eerie feeling, as if she’s been expecting his company.
Brad sits on a stool facing the three huge big-screens midway up the wall, the largest he has ever seen. Within minutes Olivia slips up behind him, wraps her arms over his shoulders, squeezes his pectorals and pinches his areola peaks to bullets as she slides her tongue up his neck, slow and steady. Her warm breath and kitten’s purr prelude moist, strawberry-scented kisses behind and on his ear. His whole right-side spasms, head draws to his shoulder, vellus hair raises, and goosebumps run the length of his spine.
He spins the stool around as she eases in, stands between his legs and rubs up against his growing pulsations, already impossible to hide. The original worries subside, he’s now simply elated to be there. She snatches his head with two hands full of hair and kisses him passionately. Then, takes his hand, as her smoking, firm body and all its naughty intentions lead him down the hall. To where . . . he doesn't have a care.
<><><>
Then, two-days and three-nights later, battered, beaten, and worn to a frazzle from the marathon-sex-fest of bonking bliss, Brad collapsed at home in his own bed on Monday morning.
He had never experienced anything so intense or physically demanding, yet so exhilarating. The Badwater Ultramarathon, 135 grueling miles, including a jaunt through Death Valley . . . in July, hyped and celebrated as “The world’s toughest race, couldn’t possibly compare to the feat he had just accomplished. No matter how hard he tried to drive her wild, Olivia could never get enough.
At first, he questioned his own performance, wondering if his own inadequacies failed to meet her needs. But soon he realized, only a freak of nature could summon the stamina to keep such frenetic pace, and for so long.
She kept him to task nonstop; besides, pee breaks and a few quick-snack energy boosts throughout the whole three-day adventure. His incompetence of little to no factor in keeping the bionic libido of the pretty belle primed.
Then, after quick rejuvenation breaks, her relentless hunger would resume, him the perpetual-puppet plaything at her mercy, her the scorching-hot, attention-starved, animalistic nymphet with a definite agenda.
Brad slept from Monday morning through midday on Tuesday. Then, he roused every raging-sore muscle to slowly hobble for the lavatory, dreading the sight or touch of damaged goods. He almost screams at first glance in the mirror and realizes his body or mind may never be the same.
Too embarrassed to call, he hasn’t talked with Leslie since their tiff. What would be the reason to call? How could he ever explain the unexplainable? And, who would want anything to do with such a filthy, disgusting weakling with the morals of an alley cat? A lot of questions without answers.
Never the one-nighter type, much-less the one-nighter turns into three-nights type, his moments of weakness for Olivia had surely destroyed any chance with Leslie and would haunt him for a long-time to come.
<><><>
Tuesday evening, Brad calls Leslie. She answers politely; although, somewhat expectedly, she doesn’t seem overly excited to get his call. Brad and Aaron are supposed to meet at Malone’s for dinner the next day and he needs a date to take along, so Aaron won’t tease him for eternity. Plus, a prime, aged steak and a bottle of wine might loosen Leslie up enough to put last week's fiasco behind them.
“Leslie, would you be free for dinner tomorrow night? I apologize for such late request, but the way we left things the other night, it’s taken me a while to get up my nerve to call.”
“I don’t know, Brad. Maybe we should just keep our distance and move on.” Silence for the longest time, Leslie continues. “I mean, you waited all this time. So apparently, I wasn’t on your priority list.”
Mind boggled, and at a loss for words, Brad finally says, “You were and are important to me, but I must have confused lopsided-interest for mutual attraction.”
“Bradley, I’ve never been more interested in anyone so early on, until the other night. But, I’m not the jealous type, and I refuse to deal with jealousy or fuss and argue.”
“Well, good, then we agree on a few things at least.” Brad waits for Leslie’s reaction, but when none comes, he continues with a bold move. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow night and I won’t be late. We are meeting my friend Aaron and his fiancé at Malone’s.”
“Brad, wouldn’t you rather us have our first real date alone?”
“Sure, I would, Les. But it’s you I want to have dinner with and the only person I would like to show off to my friend.”
Leslie laughs. “You really are crazy. And I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this on such late notice; especially, after the way you acted. But I’ll be ready.”
“Thanks for making me happy, Leslie. I can hardly wait for tomorrow evening. Until tomorrow.” He blows her a kiss through the phone.
Previous chapter: Brad ended up at the Radisson bar, met Olivia, and they decided to leave together.
Olivia races out of the Radisson parking structure and turns smack-dab in front of a speeding vehicle on Vine Street. The oncoming car swerves as the driver leans on the horn and narrowly avoids a serious accident.
Olivia laughs hysterically, like a thrill-seeking teenager on an amusement park ride. Brad’s knees knock, teeth chatter, and he hangs onto the seat with both hands. Leaving little doubt his clenched butt squeezes the seat tighter than a suction cup.
Olivia then cuts across four-lanes of traffic to make a right-hand turn at the next intersection. Brad hides his eyes, afraid to look. Probably wishing the cops would pull them over long enough for him to escape the runaway Audi R8 GT in one piece. A $400,000 matchbox-sized sports car he’s squeezed into tighter than a canned Vienna sausage. The question we’ve all asked, where are all the police when you need them?
“Do you always drive so fast and reckless?” Brad, a bundle of nerves, tries to make conversation, and keep from puking in her floorboard.
“Oh, sweetheart, have I scared you? Poor baby . . . you must have lived such a sheltered life.” In the middle of downtown traffic, she whips out and passes two cars on a double-yellow line in a 25 mile-an-hour speed zone. Her speedometer climbs to a tick off 70 mph. Should either of the cars in front of them turn, the Sunday front-page headline will likely read “Mangled and Dead at the Scene.”
“So, what’s the big hurry . . . and, where are we heading anyway?” Brad asks, again only trying to get her attention and divert her aggressive driving.
“How about we just go to my place?” She gives him that dreamy look and flicks her tongue. “I have plenty of booze, luxurious bubbles for the hot-tub, bacon and eggs, and a bed in case you’re too wiped-out to drive home. Oh, I almost forgot . . . you don’t have a car.” She giggles and winks.
The thought of being stranded, along with her throaty, wicked-witch laugh sends chills all over his body. She hasn’t forgotten a thing and knows exactly what her intentions are. Which makes Brad begin to feel more like a shoulder roast lost in a lioness’s den. Her tongue swishes, he waits to see the drool.
They drive about fifteen-miles outside of town on a narrow, two-lane, curvy road until they turn sharply past Champion’s clubhouse and into the highfaluting subdivision of multi-million-dollar homes. Olivia pulls into the driveway of the biggest monstrosity of all and through the opening first of four double-wide garage doors.
Inside the house, the detailed woodworking and moldings are magnificent. The marble staircase sweeps up and around, exits on each side floor of four stories. Lifesize statues of famous people, a dimly-lit chandelier the size of a blimp, and dual over-sized fireplaces set in an arching wall of stone that sparkles with specks of what looks like diamonds under revolving lights, and a bar sixty-feet, if it’s an inch, across that lies against the back wall, next to an almost hidden glass-cubicle elevator in the corner.
“Help yourself to the bar while I get comfortable.” Olivia, grins and blows him a kiss as she turns to walk away. “Oh, and on the second floor, first room on the left, you’ll find a sitting room with a closet of terrycloth robes and packages of warm-disposable slippers in assorted sizes beside the lavatory should you want to shed those tight-clothes for a little freedom, if you get my drift”
Brad pokes a couple notes on the lower register of the grand piano en route to the bar, the tones echo throughout the room. Bottles of Blanton’s bourbon stacked four deep cause an eerie feeling, as if she’s been expecting his company.
Brad sits on a stool facing the three huge big-screens midway up the wall, the largest he has ever seen. Within minutes Olivia slips up behind him, wraps her arms over his shoulders, squeezes his pectorals and pinches his areola peaks to bullets as she slides her tongue up his neck, slow and steady. Her warm breath and kitten’s purr prelude moist, strawberry-scented kisses behind and on his ear. His whole right-side spasms, head draws to his shoulder, vellus hair raises, and goosebumps run the length of his spine.
He spins the stool around as she eases in, stands between his legs and rubs up against his growing pulsations, already impossible to hide. The original worries subside, he’s now simply elated to be there. She snatches his head with two hands full of hair and kisses him passionately. Then, takes his hand, as her smoking, firm body and all its naughty intentions lead him down the hall. To where . . . he doesn't have a care.
<><><>
Then, two-days and three-nights later, battered, beaten, and worn to a frazzle from the marathon-sex-fest of bonking bliss, Brad collapsed at home in his own bed on Monday morning.
He had never experienced anything so intense or physically demanding, yet so exhilarating. The Badwater Ultramarathon, 135 grueling miles, including a jaunt through Death Valley . . . in July, hyped and celebrated as “The world’s toughest race, couldn’t possibly compare to the feat he had just accomplished. No matter how hard he tried to drive her wild, Olivia could never get enough.
At first, he questioned his own performance, wondering if his own inadequacies failed to meet her needs. But soon he realized, only a freak of nature could summon the stamina to keep such frenetic pace, and for so long.
She kept him to task nonstop; besides, pee breaks and a few quick-snack energy boosts throughout the whole three-day adventure. His incompetence of little to no factor in keeping the bionic libido of the pretty belle primed.
Then, after quick rejuvenation breaks, her relentless hunger would resume, him the perpetual-puppet plaything at her mercy, her the scorching-hot, attention-starved, animalistic nymphet with a definite agenda.
Brad slept from Monday morning through midday on Tuesday. Then, he roused every raging-sore muscle to slowly hobble for the lavatory, dreading the sight or touch of damaged goods. He almost screams at first glance in the mirror and realizes his body or mind may never be the same.
Too embarrassed to call, he hasn’t talked with Leslie since their tiff. What would be the reason to call? How could he ever explain the unexplainable? And, who would want anything to do with such a filthy, disgusting weakling with the morals of an alley cat? A lot of questions without answers.
Never the one-nighter type, much-less the one-nighter turns into three-nights type, his moments of weakness for Olivia had surely destroyed any chance with Leslie and would haunt him for a long-time to come.
<><><>
Tuesday evening, Brad calls Leslie. She answers politely; although, somewhat expectedly, she doesn’t seem overly excited to get his call. Brad and Aaron are supposed to meet at Malone’s for dinner the next day and he needs a date to take along, so Aaron won’t tease him for eternity. Plus, a prime, aged steak and a bottle of wine might loosen Leslie up enough to put last week's fiasco behind them.
“Leslie, would you be free for dinner tomorrow night? I apologize for such late request, but the way we left things the other night, it’s taken me a while to get up my nerve to call.”
“I don’t know, Brad. Maybe we should just keep our distance and move on.” Silence for the longest time, Leslie continues. “I mean, you waited all this time. So apparently, I wasn’t on your priority list.”
Mind boggled, and at a loss for words, Brad finally says, “You were and are important to me, but I must have confused lopsided-interest for mutual attraction.”
“Bradley, I’ve never been more interested in anyone so early on, until the other night. But, I’m not the jealous type, and I refuse to deal with jealousy or fuss and argue.”
“Well, good, then we agree on a few things at least.” Brad waits for Leslie’s reaction, but when none comes, he continues with a bold move. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow night and I won’t be late. We are meeting my friend Aaron and his fiancé at Malone’s.”
“Brad, wouldn’t you rather us have our first real date alone?”
“Sure, I would, Les. But it’s you I want to have dinner with and the only person I would like to show off to my friend.”
Leslie laughs. “You really are crazy. And I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this on such late notice; especially, after the way you acted. But I’ll be ready.”
“Thanks for making me happy, Leslie. I can hardly wait for tomorrow evening. Until tomorrow.” He blows her a kiss through the phone.
Olivia races out of the Radisson parking structure and turns smack-dab in front of a speeding vehicle on Vine Street. The oncoming car swerves as the driver leans on the horn and narrowly avoids a serious accident.
Olivia laughs hysterically, like a thrill-seeking teenager on an amusement park ride. Brad’s knees knock, teeth chatter, and he hangs onto the seat with both hands. Leaving little doubt his clenched butt squeezes the seat tighter than a suction cup.
Olivia then cuts across four-lanes of traffic to make a right-hand turn at the next intersection. Brad hides his eyes, afraid to look. Probably wishing the cops would pull them over long enough for him to escape the runaway Audi R8 GT in one piece. A $400,000 matchbox-sized sports car he’s squeezed into tighter than a canned Vienna sausage. The question we’ve all asked, where are all the police when you need them?
“Do you always drive so fast and reckless?” Brad, a bundle of nerves, tries to make conversation, and keep from puking in her floorboard.
“Oh, sweetheart, have I scared you? Poor baby . . . you must have lived such a sheltered life.” In the middle of downtown traffic, she whips out and passes two cars on a double-yellow line in a 25 mile-an-hour speed zone. Her speedometer climbs to a tick off 70 mph. Should either of the cars in front of them turn, the Sunday front-page headline will likely read “Mangled and Dead at the Scene.”
“So, what’s the big hurry . . . and, where are we heading anyway?” Brad asks, again only trying to get her attention and divert her aggressive driving.
“How about we just go to my place?” She gives him that dreamy look and flicks her tongue. “I have plenty of booze, luxurious bubbles for the hot-tub, bacon and eggs, and a bed in case you’re too wiped-out to drive home. Oh, I almost forgot . . . you don’t have a car.” She giggles and winks.
The thought of being stranded, along with her throaty, wicked-witch laugh sends chills all over his body. She hasn’t forgotten a thing and knows exactly what her intentions are. Which makes Brad begin to feel more like a shoulder roast lost in a lioness’s den. Her tongue swishes, he waits to see the drool.
They drive about fifteen-miles outside of town on a narrow, two-lane, curvy road until they turn sharply past Champion’s clubhouse and into the highfaluting subdivision of multi-million-dollar homes. Olivia pulls into the driveway of the biggest monstrosity of all and through the opening first of four double-wide garage doors.
Inside the house, the detailed woodworking and moldings are magnificent. The marble staircase sweeps up and around, exits on each side floor of four stories. Lifesize statues of famous people, a dimly-lit chandelier the size of a blimp, and dual over-sized fireplaces set in an arching wall of stone that sparkles with specks of what looks like diamonds under revolving lights, and a bar sixty-feet, if it’s an inch, across that lies against the back wall, next to an almost hidden glass-cubicle elevator in the corner.
“Help yourself to the bar while I get comfortable.” Olivia, grins and blows him a kiss as she turns to walk away. “Oh, and on the second floor, first room on the left, you’ll find a sitting room with a closet of terrycloth robes and packages of warm-disposable slippers in assorted sizes beside the lavatory should you want to shed those tight-clothes for a little freedom, if you get my drift”
Brad pokes a couple notes on the lower register of the grand piano en route to the bar, the tones echo throughout the room. Bottles of Blanton’s bourbon stacked four deep cause an eerie feeling, as if she’s been expecting his company.
Brad sits on a stool facing the three huge big-screens midway up the wall, the largest he has ever seen. Within minutes Olivia slips up behind him, wraps her arms over his shoulders, squeezes his pectorals and pinches his areola peaks to bullets as she slides her tongue up his neck, slow and steady. Her warm breath and kitten’s purr prelude moist, strawberry-scented kisses behind and on his ear. His whole right-side spasms, head draws to his shoulder, vellus hair raises, and goosebumps run the length of his spine.
He spins the stool around as she eases in, stands between his legs and rubs up against his growing pulsations, already impossible to hide. The original worries subside, he’s now simply elated to be there. She snatches his head with two hands full of hair and kisses him passionately. Then, takes his hand, as her smoking, firm body and all its naughty intentions lead him down the hall. To where . . . he doesn't have a care.
<><><>
Then, two-days and three-nights later, battered, beaten, and worn to a frazzle from the marathon-sex-fest of bonking bliss, Brad collapsed at home in his own bed on Monday morning.
He had never experienced anything so intense or physically demanding, yet so exhilarating. The Badwater Ultramarathon, 135 grueling miles, including a jaunt through Death Valley . . . in July, hyped and celebrated as “The world’s toughest race, couldn’t possibly compare to the feat he had just accomplished. No matter how hard he tried to drive her wild, Olivia could never get enough.
At first, he questioned his own performance, wondering if his own inadequacies failed to meet her needs. But soon he realized, only a freak of nature could summon the stamina to keep such frenetic pace, and for so long.
She kept him to task nonstop; besides, pee breaks and a few quick-snack energy boosts throughout the whole three-day adventure. His incompetence of little to no factor in keeping the bionic libido of the pretty belle primed.
Then, after quick rejuvenation breaks, her relentless hunger would resume, him the perpetual-puppet plaything at her mercy, her the scorching-hot, attention-starved, animalistic nymphet with a definite agenda.
Brad slept from Monday morning through midday on Tuesday. Then, he roused every raging-sore muscle to slowly hobble for the lavatory, dreading the sight or touch of damaged goods. He almost screams at first glance in the mirror and realizes his body or mind may never be the same.
Too embarrassed to call, he hasn’t talked with Leslie since their tiff. What would be the reason to call? How could he ever explain the unexplainable? And, who would want anything to do with such a filthy, disgusting weakling with the morals of an alley cat? A lot of questions without answers.
Never the one-nighter type, much-less the one-nighter turns into three-nights type, his moments of weakness for Olivia had surely destroyed any chance with Leslie and would haunt him for a long-time to come.
<><><>
Tuesday evening, Brad calls Leslie. She answers politely; although, somewhat expectedly, she doesn’t seem overly excited to get his call. Brad and Aaron are supposed to meet at Malone’s for dinner the next day and he needs a date to take along, so Aaron won’t tease him for eternity. Plus, a prime, aged steak and a bottle of wine might loosen Leslie up enough to put last week's fiasco behind them.
“Leslie, would you be free for dinner tomorrow night? I apologize for such late request, but the way we left things the other night, it’s taken me a while to get up my nerve to call.”
“I don’t know, Brad. Maybe we should just keep our distance and move on.” Silence for the longest time, Leslie continues. “I mean, you waited all this time. So apparently, I wasn’t on your priority list.”
Mind boggled, and at a loss for words, Brad finally says, “You were and are important to me, but I must have confused lopsided-interest for mutual attraction.”
“Bradley, I’ve never been more interested in anyone so early on, until the other night. But, I’m not the jealous type, and I refuse to deal with jealousy or fuss and argue.”
“Well, good, then we agree on a few things at least.” Brad waits for Leslie’s reaction, but when none comes, he continues with a bold move. “I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow night and I won’t be late. We are meeting my friend Aaron and his fiancé at Malone’s.”
“Brad, wouldn’t you rather us have our first real date alone?”
“Sure, I would, Les. But it’s you I want to have dinner with and the only person I would like to show off to my friend.”
Leslie laughs. “You really are crazy. And I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this on such late notice; especially, after the way you acted. But I’ll be ready.”
“Thanks for making me happy, Leslie. I can hardly wait for tomorrow evening. Until tomorrow.” He blows her a kiss through the phone.
 Recognized |
|
I intentionally left out any sexually graphic or highly erotic content, but flirted around the edges enough that readers would get the jest there was more than a handshake. I don't personally feel like it needs a warning, and hope readers will agree.
Characters:
Brad - Aaron's lifetime friend.
Aaron - Brad's lifetime friend.
Olivia - girl Brad picks up in a bar.
Leslie - girl Brad meets in a bar.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Characters:
Brad - Aaron's lifetime friend.
Aaron - Brad's lifetime friend.
Olivia - girl Brad picks up in a bar.
Leslie - girl Brad meets in a bar.
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