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I’d call myself pathetic, but hey, I’m reacting to things as we do. I’m not gonna feel shame for having the hots over a woman and wanting to fuck her. She’s not a family member. She’s not a forbidden person. I don’t even hate her, although sometimes she looks at me with such disdain that… shit, that turns me on too. I want her to beg for me, but I’m cool with the idea of her warring with her own mind. Fuck. Now I’m imagining her spread before me on my desk, her body begging for me while she cries out in pleasure and frustration. The frustration is because she knows we shouldn’t be doing this, but she can’t help herself.

I know what I would do. I’d have her eat me out while I pull that blond hair. It’s been causing me so much trouble lately. Even though lots of people with long hair say it kinda hurts when I do that. I don’t care. It’s my goddamn fantasy!

And in this fantasy, she’s eating me out until I hit the point of no return. I’m gonna come. I smother her with my cunt and grab a handful of that blond mane, watching her eyes widen in surprise.

In reality, my body finds solace in my hand. My climax forces my forehead against my desk, my groans suddenly loud enough to echo in my condo. It’s a hard orgasm. One of the hardest I’ve had on my own in a long time. Even after I finish, I still feel my whole body shudder, and I remain against the desk, shoulders slumping and breath easing out of me.

Just another testament to what that woman does to me.

You know what? I can’t live like this. I can’t spend every day thinking of her, having her infiltrate my love life and turn everything upside down. I can’t deal with Kathleen Allen sitting there, not knowing what she’s doing to me.

I’m almost ready again when I accept the cold truth. I want… no, I need… to fuck her.

Seventeen-year-old me wants a mulligan. Only thing? For the first time in my life, I have no idea how I’m going to seduce a woman. She won’t respond to my usual come-ons. She won’t respond to what I like in bed.

And I really don’t care. I’ll give her whatever she wants. I only need to know how she feels wrapped around me, her body rippling with pleasure as I bring her to her own brink. I want to know what sexual ecstasy feels like with Kathleen.

The rest I can deal with later. Baby steps, Ira, you desperate beast.

Chapter 9

Kathleen

“Fuck, Kathleen….”

That echo in my head has been tearing me apart since Friday. At first, I ignored it. Now it’s Wednesday night, and I’ve given up. Her voice is in my head, whispering, groaning my name as I imagine her rocking on top of me.

My bed creaks beneath me as I go for it. My vibrator is inside me, and of course, I imagine it’s Ira, raw, strong, and pleasuring me until I can barely take it anymore. My hand grabs my comforter and squeezes it half to death. My chest constricts. I’m having an orgasm, but I feel so detached from it all that I might as well be watching someone else.

Then it hits me. Gently, at first, and then I’m struck by a fucking truck.

It’s just a little shriek purging the thoughts from my head. All from a stupid vibrator.

I don’t care. I’m propped up on one arm, shoving that thing deep inside and wishing it was Ira grabbing my hips and holding me close to her as she bites my flesh, pinches my nipple, and fucks me harder than I knew anyone could.

It’s over. I collapse. Right away, my fantasy is replaced with overbearing disgrace.

“I can’t believe I jilled off to that woman.” There’s no way. I have a hard time believing that Ira would be anything like in my fantasy. I know her too well. Know of her too well. Absolutely nothing would play out like I wanted it to in my head.

It would be the Ira Mathison show from beginning to end. Some find that hot… but I’m not interested. I want to feel like a queen, not a servant. Man, woman, genderless… I am not your breathing Fleshlight, whatever you’ve got in your pants.

Ten minutes later, I convince myself to get up and shower. Afterward, I towel off in my bedroom, sexually sated, but still frustrated for other reasons. The pressure of the presentation next Friday. How I feel every time I’m around Ira. The fact that I’ve called Eve to bitch at her, but she’s drowning in schoolwork and keeps texting that she’ll “get back to me” and never does.

My dad calls when I’m halfway into bed.

“How’s the project coming?” he asks, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming “I’m the one not coming and that’s a problem!” I mean, if it were anyone else… but it’s my dad. “I hear from Donovan that you and his kid are hitting the office every day. Any snags?”

He has no idea.

Of course, I don’t share that. Besides, my dad and I don’t have that kind of relationship. He was never a man I went to when I had romance problems. Neither was my mom. Hell, she was worse! My mom was as interested in me as I was in getting spanked by someone else.

I tell him my plans to keep another fuck up from happening. I have the first draft of my presentation finished and would like him to take a look at it this weekend – oh, and I have an idea regarding the museum part of the project.

When he hangs up, I’m too awake to go to bed. I sit in front of my vanity and start brushing my hair for the second time tonight. Somehow, more snarls have crept in. This is why I wear it up when I can. I am a master of the French twist. Works great in the summer when it’s five hundred degrees.

Except it’s about seventy in here, so I wear it down, covering my shoulders and framing my face. The mirror says that I’m not wearing any makeup, but I pretend that I am so I don’t shriek in horror. Okay, I’m pretty average-looking. But if someone like Ira saw me without makeup, she’d probably laugh. I don’t know why I assume that.

You know what happened after that incident when we were teens? I never heard from her for years. When we reconnected, we never brought it up. Pretended it didn’t happen. It was a ten-minute event in our lives. We had kissed. We had made out. She had squeezed my breasts and I had brushed my hand against her crotch. For fuck’s sake, I felt her menstrual blood on my hand. There’s almost nothing sacred between us, and yet it’s like we’re strangers.